For about three years I traveled eight times a year between Craig and small communities in Southwestern Alaska. First, I would take the ferry (45-minute drive plus three hours on the boat) or a small plane (30 minutes total but expensive) to Ketchikan. Then, I would sometimes spend the night at my mother-in-law’s house. I would leave Ketchikan on the Alaska Airlines “milk run” to Anchorage, with either two (Sitka and Juneau) or three (Wrangell, Petersburg, Juneau) stops on the way. Once in Anchorage, due to incompatible flight schedules, I would be obliged to stay in a hotel. The next morning I would catch a commuter jet to Dillingham (sometimes stopping in King Salmon first). Once in Dillingham I would then go to the small plane office to check in.

For the first two years I went only to Togiak, about a 45-minute flight from Dillingham. The airline I used did not keep a regular schedule; they would go when they had enough passengers. My modus operandi was to call them a week or so in advance and get on the list, and then let them know when I arrived in Dillingham. I would wait in their small office building, sometimes not for long, and sometimes for many hours.

During the third year I traveled to two communities, Ekwok and Twin Hills. On alternate months I would go to Twin Hills first, which would entail pretty much the same process as getting to Togiak. To get to Ekwok I would come back to Dillingham and catch yet another airline to Ekwok. Sometimes I could get back to Dillingham and on to Ekwok in one day, other times I had to stay over in Dillingham. From Ekwok I could take still another airline directly to Anchorage, and get back on the milk run the following day.

On the other alternate months, I went to Ekwok first. Naturally, this meant doing everything in reverse.

I have many anecdotes, some charming, some exasperating. Here’s an exasperating one: I stayed one time in a new hotel chain in Anchorage. When I checked in I filled out a form for my complimentary breakfast. I chose raisin bran and orange juice. The next morning the clerk handed me exactly that and no more. I asked about milk. The poor little soul stared at me and said, “but you chose orange juice for your beverage.” Eventually I was able to walk away with both orange juice AND milk, feeling only a little bit like I had been repeatedly kicking a rescue puppy.

Another time, I will share one of the charming anecdotes.