|
Chickens have forever had a place in
our hearts and on our tables. Why is that? Well … why not?
And so I’d like you to come with me back to the summer of 1970, ‘way
up north of Fairbanks, Alaska, to what was once the thriving gold
mining village of Chicken, Alaska. I was on my way, hitchhiking with
a canoe, to paddle down a stretch of the Yukon River and to see the
cabin where Jack London spent the winter once upon a time.
Just as an aside here, hitchhiking with a canoe, or with a sled and
11 dogs, would make a lengthy how-to book all by themselves. It
doesn’t sound easy, does it? It isn’t.
So what I would do on these “adventures” of mine, (my boss, Larry
Fanning, referred to them as Slim’s tin-cup trips because of all the
scrounging I had to do) is go to neat places and interview great
people, and write stuff. My column in the Anchorage Daily News was
called … brace yourself … “Slim’s Column.”
Truth in advertising.
So I arrived in Chicken, Alaska, only to find I’d nearly doubled the
local population. In the far-distant past, Chicken was a ghost town.
When the gold gave out, so did Chicken.
So what was left was “the business” consisting of a gas pump, a
coffee pot, some postage stamps and a couple of nice folks. But
there was something else, too.
[to top of second
column] |
There was not only an outhouse there,
but it was electrically lighted. So where should I write my column?
In an electrically lighted outhouse in Chicken, Alaska.
Naturally.
The raising of poultry this far north is uncommon; too many local
varmints, including any resident sled dogs, eat them. So how did
this gold camp get its name? Ahh … the very reason for that column
typed on the wooden “desk” beneath that 20-watt bulb.
Chicken, Alaska, got its name because none of the miners there knew
how to spell ptarmigan.
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
Beat the holiday rush!
“Strange Tales of Alaska” by Slim Randles now available on
Amazon.com.
|
