Crossing

The workers' orange baseball caps look from a distance like glowing orbs hovering just above the deck, weaving in and out of the few vehicles they can fit onto each crossing of the George Black ferry,.

***

Front Street passes through town from south to north, tracing the river and terminating at a gravel verge. In the winter an ice bridge does the duty of allowing travelers access to the Top of The World Highway and further on, Chicken, Alaska. But during the summer the George Black ferry acts as a bridge substitute. Watching these shuttle runs from the gravel dike the process is contemplatively mundane: Wait for vehicles, load the vehicles, cross the river, unload the vehicles. Wait for vehicles, load the vehicles, cross the river, unload the vehicles.

Walking along the 9^th Ave. trail and taking the fork up to the landslide north of town, you can pick your way across the scree and boulders, eventually clearing the debris. The second, older trail now works its way further north until interrupted by a smaller slide. From here the river crossing is laid out below to the South West and its story takes on a completely different tone.

Down at the crossing there seems equality to the dialogue between machine and nature. Perspective and scale make the river seem like a thin strip which the ferry slowly makes its way across as a negotiation. The current is strong with eddies swirling clockwise and counter-clockwise, but as it pulls out from the launch the ferry’s propellers kick up such a dervish of brown water as to give the sense of an even match.

Up here, below the peak of The Dome, looking down into the valley, the mass of water eclipses any question of negotiation. The Yukon River is a behemoth and can be nothing other than singular and irrevocable, doubtless and ruthless.

Pulling out from the Eastern shore the ferry briefly runs northwest with the current as it heads into the river’s centre. Having gained room and space it makes a hard left, turning south southwest – any attempt to go cross-current would land it half a kilometer downriver.

As it pivots, the George Black momentarily becomes still. Save for the sound of its engine echoing up the valley wall it seems to be held in a fleeting moment of stasis, a pocket of both water and time. Acknowledging the power and grace of this moment it pauses and then slowly creeps forward, making its way against the currents. It never regains the speed of its initial departure, but instead comes in slowly, carefully aligning itself with the verge on the western shore.

One can only assume the men working this ferry are aware of the river’s gift to them, its permission given. Maybe they are passive in their understanding; Workers doing a job and recognizing this river requires constant vigilance. Perhaps though, with each crossing from east to west and west to east they feel proud, even blessed, to be held firm by such power.

***

It's evening now. The birds continue to sing, as they will all night long, the wasps buzz at the window though will fall silent as the temperature dips. The town is quiet though there is an occasional howl from the drunks down at The Pit. But behind these noises I can hear the drumming of an engine idling in the water, waiting for late night passengers and another chance to turn upstream.