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We can start with a little chat and see how it goes. I am x ', black hair, green eyes, x lbs. I am open to race, and age. Please put 'SCV Adults' in the subject line. A pic is always appreciated. It was one of those rare evenings in Wales when the midnight sun shines in all its glory, the sea aglow in blues and greens and purples, the sky flaming yellow and orange. The wind was like a pendulum just beginning to swing east, barely a breeze. I asked Mike what the wind was doing.

If the wind kicked up in earnest tonight, he told me, it meant a storm was brewing over Siberia and it would be raining sideways in Wales in a day. Mike invited me into his house for coffee. We walked up the front steps and through an Arctic entryway, a shed attached to most village homes where families store hunting gear and freezers filled with game. You can tell how much somebody hunts by the pungent, marine mammal scent of their shed. It wasn't very strong in Mike's, but inside the house it felt like a hunting cabin. Dishrags and towels dangled from clotheslines crisscrossing the kitchen. The counters were cluttered with flashlights, dirty dishes, a maple syrup bottle, Styrofoam plates, pickle jars, and a box of oatmeal.

A metal trash can held drinking water collected from creeks. On the door was a Brandon Lee poster, on the wall a tribute to Mike's grandfather: Winton was born November 16,in Wales He grew up dependent on the traditional subsistence lifestyle. When Winton's parents died in an influenza epidemic, he became the main provider for his family by hunting and trapping. Mike handed me a mug and motioned me to his bedroom. It was not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with a hanging Garfield bed sheet as a door. It overflowed with Mountain Dew bottles, twisted guitar strings, music magazines, and crumpled paper. Mike's stereo played Hendrix's melodic album "Axis: We strummed along to "Castles Made of Sand" as we studied his window as if it was an aquarium: I'd come to Wales because of a story I chanced upon in an anthropology course during my last semester of college.

The tale was of a strange virus traveling aboard dogsleds across Alaska's hinterlands, leaving thousands of bodies in its wake. When it reached Wales, the virus killed almost people, more than half the population, and orphaned several dozen children. The disease was the influenza, a virus that killed an estimated 50 million people worldwide. It killed at a higher rate in western Alaska than anywhere else in the United States.

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What most interested me about Wales was what happened in the months after the epidemic. A government superintendent came to the village to resolve the orphan crisis that had ensued. He brought along a sheaf of marriage licenses, called the adult survivors to the schoolhouse, and told them that the government was planning to take the orphans away. He did not want to see this happen, so he offered the people an alternative: The official then instructed the men to line up on one side of the room, the women on the other.

The men were told to select wives. Those who didn't were paired up. The superintendent conducted a mass wedding, and the orphans were doled out to the new couples. To live and die in Wales, Alaska The flu explains much about the village today. The population never recovered, sitting between and people. The flu killed so many elders -- the walking encyclopedias of the Old World -- that it shattered the village's sense of its history. And it killed so many hunters that the ancient art of whaling all but ceased for the next half-century. White teachers and missionaries returned to Wales after the epidemic, encouraging the people to abandon their language and shamanistic beliefs. In the s, a pastor told villagers to stop dancing like devils, and they did for the next half-century.

Modern technology flooded the village -- radios, airplanes, snowmobiles, and televisions. Much of the culture died off.

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Then a new epidemic hit western Alaska. People started to kill themselves at a rate seven times the U. One suicide led to another, spreading from village to village. To this day, the epidemic rages on. Eskimos called it Kingigin, or "high bluff," and called themselves Kingikmiut, "people of the high place. It starts as a rocky outcropping known as Razorback Mountain and gently bends to 2,foot-high Cape Mountain, which dives into the Bering Strait -- the terminus of the Continental Divide. At the base of the mountain, the sea laps at a giant slab of granite shaped like an axe blade. Some villagers say this is where Paul Bunyan left his axe after chopping down all the trees in the Arctic.

When gazing up the mountainside and along the ridge, it feels as if people are perched up there looking back at you. In ancient times, the Kingikmiut stacked rocks to look like sentries to scare off enemies coming across the strait. Granite boulders dot the hillside, the biggest of which is painted white. The Kingikmiut called it The Door. They believed a spirit lived behind it; when he was hungry, he would cast a beam of light into the sea and snag a seal. There once was a pit near The Door, an underground altar to appease the spirit.

When a Kingikmiut boy was old enough to hunt, he carried a stone up the hillside and dropped it in the pit, telling the spirit, "Here is seal meat. They were allied in trade and hunting, reigning over a territory stretching dozens of miles. Seven hundred people lived in Kingigin, one of the largest Native settlements in Alaska. Other tribes in northern Alaska were small and nomadic, living at fishing or winter camps in a constant quest to find food. In Kingigin, animals regularly passed by the Kingikmiut's doorstep. The people lived off the sea, hunting bowhead whales, seals, and walruses as they swarmed the ice-clogged Bering Strait.

A whale could feed hundreds of people for months. Seal blubber heated and lit their houses -- dark, subterranean mounds molded from the tundra. The skins were used to make clothes, boats, and tents. After a successful whaling season, there were big dance festivals, called messenger feasts. Young men traveled to neighboring villages, carrying poles festooned with the skins of wolverines, caribou, and bearded seal, and invited others to come and share in their fortune. Gifts were exchanged, and people danced to the beat of drummers. The Kingikmiut were great traders, moving goods between continents and villages hundreds of miles apart. Eskimos from other villages came to Wales to swap deerskins and sealskins, jade and flint, ivory and beads.

Bands of Siberian Eskimos would paddle across the strait and trade with the Kingikmiut. Other times they attacked the Kingikmiut, plundering the village for food and taking women and children as prisoners. Timeless and spiritual In the spring ofa propeller plane rounded Cape Mountain, banked a hard right over the Bering Strait, and swooshed down upon the village like an Arctic tern diving for a salmon. Walter and Florence Weyapuk had brought home a baby boy. He was Eskimo, even had some Kingikmiut blood flowing through his veins. They'd adopted him in Fairbanks at 6 months old. The couple named him Michael Deland Weyapuk. Seelkoke was his Eskimo name, passed down from Buster Seelkoke, an elder who died three months before Mike was born.

Mike arrived in Wales at the time of year when people emerge from their houses squinting like moles. The sun hung in the sky longer with each passing day. The ice broke apart. Spouts from whales puffed like smoke as they swam north into the Arctic Ocean. Men got their crews together and spotted positions out on the shore ice to launch their boats. After the whales passed, walruses and seals appeared, like black ants floating on water. Mike's father, Walter, prepared to go after the walruses. His mother cleaned the storm shed, praying for a freezer full of game. Sister Leah watched over her little brother. Mike belonged to an extended family of Inupiat Eskimos, the orphaned descendants of the flu epidemic.

They spoke in thick, slow, choppy English, which had largely replaced their native language. Women wore traditional parkas, but often dressed in blue jeans and snow-suits. The men had long hair and wispy beards and smoked cigarettes. They looked like truck drivers, sporting big sunglasses and ball caps. Villagers had turned in their dogsleds for snowmobiles by the time Mike showed up. No roads connected Wales to the rest of Alaska, its only link being small propeller planes packed with food, mail, and passengers flying to and from Nome, a hardscrabble town of churches and taverns miles southeast of Wales. Wales was poor and relied heavily on government subsidies.

People didn't have running water. They paid with tokens to shower at the washeteria and used 5-gallon containers, called honeybuckets, for toilets. A city employee, riding on a four-wheeler in summer or a snowmobile in winter, drove around like a garbage man, picking up the waste and hauling it to a sewage lagoon. A string of ramshackle homes built of weathered planks and tarpaper lined a sandy path running along the coastline. Mike's grandparents lived in one, surrounded by dilapidated shacks and old wooden meat racks. Across the road and along the beach was another row of homes, each with three small bedrooms and a kitchen opening up to a small living room.

Mike's family home had been shipped to Wales in the s on a barge. Beyond the houses were the Wales Native Store, the Lutheran church, the school, a few boats lying perpendicular to the sea, and then several more houses and shacks crawling up the hillside. On the north side of the village, there was an abandoned Navy submarine research station and a gravel airstrip. A shaman was buried at the end of the runway. Pilots sometimes got frightened before they touched down, when they saw the shaman's ghost standing in the runway. Beyond the airstrip was Lopp Lagoon, a lengthy stretch of water named after one of the white men who introduced Siberian reindeer to Alaska in the s.

A cemetery rolled out over dunes along the Bering Strait. The burial ground was the scene of one of Mike's first memories. Inwhen Mike was almost 3, an elder died. It was a summer burial. Villagers huddled around a white pastor. As Mike listened to the prayers, he stared at the sea, Razorback, and the casket. It was as though he saw the air, land, and water all together. Timeless and spiritual, he remembered years later. Mike walked the ridge above Wales, inspecting old bones, tin cans, and rusted gun barrels -- the Kingikmiut's ancient burial ground. At one grave was a pile of polar bear skulls, the mark of a great hunter. Family and close friends had carried the warrior's body and his possessions up the hill and laid them on a plank, covering them with boards and rocks.

Jn Mike climbed walfs the south hillside, he passed a white marble headstone with the inscription: The grave belonged to Harrison Thornton, one of the first white teachers in Arctic Alaska. InThornton answered an advertisement seeking "volunteer teachers to go to the barbarous Eskimo Arctic Alaska. But in the late s, New Englanders and Europeans invaded the strait, seeking the world's last untouched whaling grounds. White hunters killed up to 20, walruses a year. Eskimos across the Alaska Arctic began to starve. In Wales, desperate villagers in some instances ate decomposing whale carcasses that washed up on the beach.

Alcohol was introduced to the region as trading ships from as far away as Hong Kong swapped rum and whisky for ivory and skins. In the white man's Arctic, Wales became known as a village of violent drunkards. Ina shipboard fight broke out over rum between the Kingikmiut and a crew of Hawaiians whom white traders had hired as deckhands. The Hawaiians attacked the Eskimos with gaff hooks and pikes. Thirteen Kingikmiut men were killed.


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