A Glennallen Elder
My attempt to profile Lee Adler.
“Let me live to be so old that there won’t be much meat left to pick from my bones.”
- From the pipeline, October 26, 2018
Lee Adler, age eighty-two and a half, drives a 1990 Chevy pickup for everything he needs. He bought it new, and he knows was built in 89. It’s all he needed at the time. He bought a new Subaru in 2010 and a 2011 Chevy pickup off the lot as well, but he hardly drives either of them. He misses his airplanes, has little use for a four-wheeler or a UTV, and still hunts and fishes nearly every week he can. He built the house he lives in in 1976, raised a family, lost a wife, and found another who he lost to lung cancer. She never smoked a cigarette in her life. He still calls her his sweet little wife.
Today we went out caribou hunting, we saw three, but didn’t manage a shot. It’s OK, they’ll be there next year. He talks in stories, the time the grizzly bears took over his block. The time the neighborhood thief’s dogs ran the street in a pack and Lee had to kill one. He talks about the history of mankind and our struggle as a species. He was a wildlife biologist for the BLM, a bush pilot for nearly 40 years, a rifleman for longer, and a hunter for his whole life. Today we went out caribou hunting and saw three. They were all within range, but it took a little longer to get the rifle in position than either of us wanted.
We drove up the road to mile marker 163 to 168 on the Richardson Highway. Everyone knows that’s where the caribou cross. They might not know why though. Lee does. There’s a series of lakes in the area and the Gulkana River creates a perimeter on the northeast side of the road. The caribou come for the Talkeetna Mountains and head for the Nabesna Mountains – a huge migration, and one of their pinch points is the river and lakes combo. They’re funneled into the flats when the lakes aren’t frozen, which means they can only cross at certain points along the highway. It seems a bit unfair, the animals are driven by instinct to go to the Nabesna Mountains, they have for millennia, and they have to cross the Richardson highway. They must.
Most people were dressed in camouflage, driving an ATV and acted stiff and mighty. No one really wanted to face the reality of the farce they called hunting. Except Lee. “This is nothing other than meat procurement,” he said as the fifth ATV drove by. This isn’t hunting. One man sped by the lid of his donut box flapping in the wind. Lee and I were the only people walking. He laughed, “well, at least they’re having a good time!” He seemed to be enjoying himself too. It was cold, but not overly and we seemed to be the only people to be seeing caribou.
I couldn’t believe the amount of people and vehicles on the road, there was no solitude, no peace, there was no sense of being a predator after prey. People drove up to the high spots along the Aleyeska Pipeline and sentry-sat ready to bang away with their newly sighted in rifles at the first white-coated animal they saw. Sportsmanship be damned. Lee carried his handmade rifle with the bullets he loaded at home. He was shooting a .338-06, and he knew where his bullet would land when he pulled the trigger.
I met him while I was on a run. He had fallen over on a locked-gate dirt road where he was cutting firewood earlier in the season. His chainsaw was dull, and he had twisted his leg up pretty good and I came along and lent a hand. He had cut down and old standing-dead spruce for winter firewood. He said he had been watching that tree for years and came along to get it. Unfortunately, the only way to drop the tree was across the road he had to drive on to get out. A small mistake that might’ve been costly.
He bought me lunch after we got the tree in his truck and were on our way. I thought, well – kind of a crazy old codger, but was glad I happened along, moving firewood was good exercise.
The second time I ran into him was in the same place but he was in a slightly different condition. He was smiling when he saw me running. He had dropped a nice-sized spruce, maybe a 20’’ diameter tree and he was hoping that I might be coming along. This time he had a new chainsaw blade and I was impressed with the lay of his fell. The tree went right where you’d want it to go. I helped him load up and went in for coffee. He told me about the places I was going to be headed in the Wrangell St. Elias National Park and how I needed to look for Dall Sheep here and there, and told me a little about the history of the place.
We talked about other things, deeper things. Love and faith, family and country. He didn’t seem all that different than me in most ways. I felt like I was looking at my future often times when I talked with him. I felt that I knew where he stood, and that some of the pains and losses he’s suffered. I felt like I could ask him about those losses and ask him for guidance. He’d lived the life. He’s hunted every big-game animal I had ever thought about chasing and got them. He’s flown in the wildest mountains in America, staked a gold claim, and caught the biggest fish. He’s dealt with adultery, which wounds him till today, he lost his son and outlived his Labradors.
Lee always knows the date and the time. He’s not sure when the second coming will happen, but he’s waiting expectantly. He’s no fool and hasn’t lost a bit of his mind. His banana bread is good, his chili is better, and his smoked trout is the best I’ve ever had. No mothballs, no hairs, but good clean food.
