Page 1 of Sawyer

Chapter 1

Sawyer

Off-season in Skagway, Alaska, is my favorite time of year.

Why? Easy.

It’s all about the people.

Listen, Skagway hosts 1.7 million tourists from May to September, and during that time, over one thousand seasonal workers flood our little town to make big bucks with summer jobs. It’s a massive infusion of strangers into our hometown.

But by mid-October, the population has shrunk back to the 1,200 people who call Skagway—or, in my case, nearby Dyea—their permanent home…and it stays that way (thank Christ) until the cruise ships start arriving again in the spring.

Now, don’t get me wrong…Ilovethe tourists.

I love their enthusiasm.

(Yes, sir, I agree. Alaskaisthe last American frontier!)

I love their stupid questions.

(No, ma’am, I’m sorry, but we don’t have polar bears or penguins in Skagway.)

And I absolutely, positively love their money. I mean, where else can you work a full-time job for four months and make a comfortableannualincome?

But by October, I’m exhausted.

Mywhole familyis exhausted.

And we’re ready for anextremechange of pace.

I start noticing the population change in mid-September: fewer tourist buses and vans pass me as I drive to Skagway on the Dyea Road. I see fewer and fewer backpackers walking from the ferry terminal up to the Chilkoot Trail head. I feel it in myworkload, too. No one wants to go to Whitehorse or Dawson City in September when it won’t clear fifty degrees on an average day.

With no more overnights booked, I start helping Paw-Paw and Dad with improvements around the campground, or even—blech—lead a few Skagway city tours like (the dreaded)Beers, Brawls, and Brothels.

By the end of September, “The Days of ’98” musical on stage at the Fraternal Order of Eagles, which is a cruiser favorite, offers a last performance, and most of the Skagway restaurants, bars, boutiques, and museums wrap things up for the season.

By the month of October, when the seasonal help is long gone and during which only ten cruise ships will dock (as opposed to July when there are more than 115 ships!), Skagway starts feeling more and more like any other small American town.

Yoga starts up at the Rec Center, and book clubs get going at the library. They show Saturday matinees at the Presbyterian church, and Ms. Donovan, my seventh and eighth grade teacher, starts getting her famous Halloween decorations ready. (Last year, her front yard was Harry Potter-themed.) And then comes Yuletide, one of the biggest celebrations of the year in Skagway, just around the corner in December.

Contrary to popular belief—mostly held by the folks asking to see polar bears and penguins—Skagway isn’t covered in a blanket of white from Halloween until St. Patrick’s Day. From November to March, we only get about thirty days of snow, resulting in a grand total of forty-five inches. More than Seattle? Sure. More than upstate New York? Not even close. (I don’t know how those poor bastards do it.)

But nowhere is the change from summer to fall more stark and obvious than in the town of Skagway itself, where I recognizeeveryoneI see as I drive to the local IGA market on a sunny Saturday afternoon to pick up groceries for Gran.

Bruce Franks, owner of the Purple Parsnip, stands on the boardwalk in front of his famous restaurant instructing the painters who are giving his storefront a fresh coat of lavender.

Across the street, my brother-in-law, Joe Raven, leans against a post in front of the True Value, chatting with the proprietor, Jasper Fullerton.

A few doors down, Joe’s cousin, Sandra Clearwater, is having a late lunchalfrescowith Andi Jones, who runs the Kozy Kone, and Avery Wells, the Borough Clerk for Skagway.

Next door to them, I see my best friend’s dad, Skip Morgan, hosing down the e-bikes he’s been renting to tourists all summer. No doubt they’re about to go into storage for the next six or seven months. I think I heard that his son Quinn’s coming back to town soon. I should shoot him a text and see if he wants to tie one on, off-season style.

I turn onto State Street, waving at Aaron Adams, who works with Joe, and slide into an open parking spot right out in front of the IGA. I cut the engine and grab Gran’s list off the dashboard…

…catching a glimpse of someone that knocks the actual wind from my chest.

Red hair. Green eyes. Tight bod. About five-foot-four.

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