The ghosts of Candle's Fairhaven

Fairhaven Hospital in Candle, Alaska. Copyright ©Joe May

I'm trying something new for this blog, a guest post. I have known Joe May for 35 years. I first met him when I was working on my first book, The Last Great Race, and his candor with me was a big part of what made that book much better than it might have been. That was during the 1979 race and the next year he won. Later on he officiated in several races. Most of us who have followed the sled dog race trails and spent time in one of the historic buildings along the way have felt something like this. What follows here is Joe's experience during the All-Alaska Sweepstakes, the 100^th anniversary of the Nome-to-Candle race in 2008. – Tim

By Joe May

I worked as Race Judge at Candle on the 2008 centennial running of the All Alaska Sweepstakes ...  the most enjoyable race I've ever been involved with. Rummaging through old notebooks tonight I came upon a photo and caption that I wrote but never used. Belated as it is, it seemed too good not to share.

Candle, Alaska, 2008

Built at the beginning of the 20th century, it stands resolute, square, and unadorned–like the miners who built it. Constructed of salvaged barge timbers, it stands apart from a gaggle of crumbling cabins on a hillside above the Kiwalik River – as if in quarantine. The linoleum in the pantry is stamped 1902 – as would be the cornerstone of any important building in New York, Paris, or London.

Much of the history in its walls is as lost to time as is the gold from the nearby creeks and the men who dug it. Left behind is an aura, a vacuum, that susceptible minds easily fill with ghosts and shades from Candle's past – the moilers and mushers of Jack London and Robert Service.

Race officials, vets, checkers, timekeepers, and a cook used the old hospital as a bunkhouse and HQ for the half-way checkpoint of the 2008 All Alaska Sweepstakes centennial race. The Fagerstrom and Sherman families, owners of the property and seasonal residents of Candle, had volunteered to help with the race. Peggy Fagerstrom and Mike Sherman, siblings and Alaska Natives with roots in Candle, had been born in nearby Kiwalik and wove the past into the present. Dorothy Sherman cooked caribou ribs and moose stew for the crew. Mike did “water, wood, and turned frozen sheefish into sushi." Peggy Fagerstrom was "house mother" and her husband, Chuck, a man of infinite calm, was keeper of the official time sheet and general custodian of the bubble of time that engulfed us all.

Of an evening, supper done, stories told, sleeping bags unrolled, a single lantern hissed and wrestled shadows in the far corners of the lower room. An unseen presence stirred and claimed the attic spaces for its own in spite of murmurs from downstairs watch-keepers. Rafters shifted, floorboards creaked, and vagrant williwaws whispered a cryptic refrain in the eaves, “time to go ... time to go ... time to go."

A plaintive dog wail from the river – or perhaps an errant echo returned from the hills, a hundred years lost, seemed to say, “we're ready – get your ass down here."

It was no stretch to imagine John “Iron Man” Johnson, Scotty Allen and Leonhard Seppala padding about an upper room in stockinged feet – careful not to wake the competition – gathering up dried harness, parka and mitts, in preparation for another go at the trail – with always a notion to steal a march .... it was a game of “winner take all. "

Listening intently, one could easily imagine a footfall in the dark stairwell – the muted squeak of a rusty hinge–as the outer door closed – ever so softly – and the receding crunch of mukluks on the midnight snow – hurrying away, down the hill – down the hill to the waiting dogs ...

Wavery windows, weathered doors

Papered walls and slanted floors.

Ugruk soles upon the stair,

Sepp's a-stealin

light as air.

John and Scotty—
Unaware.

Entire article and photograph copyright © Joe May, 2015