Joe May

How do I introduce  Joe? What little I know of his early years was he grew up on the Great. Lakes starting on the Wisconsin shore in the 1940s. He worked on Great Lakes tugs and ships and held several licenses. He served in the Korean war as a young Marine. I first met him during the 1979 Iditarod. I was gathering material for a book and he was patiently waiting in the dark with his team to leave McGrath about a third of the way in the race. I introduced myself and told him what I was doing. He very politely said something like, "Tim, I am trying run a race here. Catch me in Nome and we can spend some time" And with that he disappeared into the darkness down the bank onto the Kuskokwim River and was gone.

Reading and listening to Joe May's stories over the years I'm sure people wished he'd write a book. I encouraged him a couple of times and even offered to help but he would have none of it. However,  he did write shorter pieces at times and posted them on Facebook. Always with his permission I published several of them on my blog. Several of them are below and more I haven't posted yet are listed below as links to the ones I could locate in case anyone would like to spend a little more time with Joe. He did write a major piece about the history of sled dogs, published in the book, "Iditarod The first 10 years." It was scholarly. Joe died in September 2023 at the age of 88. Oh, and yes, he did meet me in Nome after that '79 race and we spent several hours. He was very honest and open with me, which put some life into my recount of the race. He won it a year later.

He really knocked me down with this post on facebook: 

Smacked in the face and I choked up seeing this today: Joe May, who died in September, 2023, commenting on a Steinbeck quote I posted 7 years ago: "Joe May: My favorite writer (after Tim). I want to be buried with a copy each of "Cannery Row" and "The Last Great Race." I have to smile now, wondering if he was.

 

About the photo: Sandra and Charlie on steering watch somewhere in SE, Alaska probably Lisianski Strait, around 1990...in the rain. We traveled for ten years in an open cockpit boat with no overhead protection (because I didn't think it belonged on a Redningskoit , (a traditional Atkin pilot cutter) and my thought was "if you can't celebrate tradition honestly you might as well stay home". My oft declared contention was that boaters in stuffy cabins and beneath canvas covers suffered from severe environmental deprivation. Over parts of two oceans, the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Lakes, the Mississippi, Illinois, Tennessee Rivers, and the Erie Canal we never once suffered the effects of that defect. Rain, wind, sun, and even snow were daily companions. I thought I had gotten it right...some days or nights more right than others.

Until recently, upon returning jubilantly from an oncologists appointment to announce the latest scans pronounced the cancer dragon dead, dead, dead. The good news was accompanied by, "Gonna go out and find another old wooden boat...missed Galapagos and Cape Horn on the last trip...whopeee!!!".

A pregnant silence followed, "you will need to find a new cook and boat dog, Joe. You're 88, I'm 81. and Charlie died 15 years ago".

Maybe Cape Horn was asking too much.

Reality is sometimes hard.

Maybe Cape Horn was a stretch.

 

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 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

 

Memo from the creek, Christmas 1972.

People often ask what is the appeal of living this way even for short amounts of time. Here my friend Joe May explains it as well as any I have ever seen. It is 10 below at the East Pole and snowing small flakes that I estimate on average are 3 feet apart. For the past two mornings when I have stepped outside in the morning darkness I have heard an owl call. "Who, who" he asks, and I respond softly, "Me, me," and I step out into his world. That's part of "why" too -- Tim

Memo from the creek, Christmas 1972

Here lives a quitter

a non-go-getter
who disenfranchised the world,
by shirking the pace
and blowing the race
into which we're collectively hurled.

Now forests and streams
provide the means
for adequate existence,
with crystal air
providing fare
for breath without assistance.

Telephone rings
and electrical things
are sacrificially nil,
commiserated
but consecrated
by lack of a monthly bill.

Garbage disposers
and pneumatic closers
are subject to cynical mirth,
as social symbols
suspended in gimbals
to minimize human worth.

Through winter's night
and summer light
I've racked my mind in vain,
to comprehend
the insidious trend
toward self destructive gain.

From here it seems
society teems
with astigmatic goats,
whose principle aim
is to eat the frame
and bottom out of their boats.

So guard my friends
until the end
your civilized possessions,
your ulcers and smogs
and traffic clogs
and psychiatric sessions.

And tally time
I'll stake my dime
against your fated liver,
you buy salmon
by the can.....
I own the river.

– Joe May 

 Storms at sea: This isn't a post from Joe, rather it's a couple of comments he had about something I wrote and I cherish them: 

A couple of comments from my friend Joe May who spent the better part of a decade sailing the oceans and the waters of Southeastern Alaska,:

"Really nicely written, Tim. Almost lost my breakfast just reading it.
Put me into a very similar situation sailing through a tropical depression in the Gulf of Mexico on my own boat many years ago. Most lasting memory of that night: My wife Sandra sat on the opposite side of the open cockpit of our 35 foot Colin Archer helping me hold the 8 foot monster tiller against the force of a quartering sea. A breaking wave reared up behind her and crashed on her head filling her boots and pockets. We were making for a lee behind an island as you were. Out of the froth and darkness came her normally understated English drawl, "if there's a G.. D..... ferry from this island to the mainland, I'M on it". Thanks for posting this, Tim. Made the day for this old sailor."

 

And this: I've read about everything by Hiscock, Tristan Jones, et al and I've never read anything better about the last place I wish to be on a dark and stormy night.
I had loran C and the first comment on it was right on. Especially in Alaskan waters. Uptown in Ketchikan or on a mountain top.
In the Gulf of Mexico storm a white egret landed on deck and stayed with us all night. I guess he was just tired of flying in the wind. When daylight came left us. He even hopped over the hatch splash sill and went below for awhile. We were strapped in and unable to stop him.
When I got a clean cancer report recently I told San I was going to look for another old wooden boat. She said, "you will need a new deckhand, Joe".  

My story:  Singin' them songs about them storms at sea

A baby named Israel

Warning, childhood memories ahead  Bear with me on this one, you have to wade through my memory before you get to Joe's.

Ramblings in a mental wilderness   This is another one where you have to wade through my stuff (or you can just scroll down a ways)

Up a creek

We will rebuild  we shared an earthquake in 2018

Conversations with Joe

In recent years since his death I have found reading our conversations on Facebook so pleasant I nave occasionally posted one. Those I posted follow here:

Here's one of those conversations with Joe:

Tim Jones I want to see the Southern Cross under sail.

Kitty Delorey Fleischman

That would be something!

Joe May

I think my old boat is in NZ. Last I heard it was there and for sale. Might need to pump her off the bottom of the Bay of Plenty but probably a good price. Wouldn't that be a dream summer...

Tim Jones

Two grumpy old men in search of the Southern Cross. Not only a dream but it sounds like a good movie.

Joe May

The boat sleeps four, Tim.

Tim Jones

From a noisy bar in Wellington I'll try to call you …

Kitty Delorey Fleischman: ...and a good song! Maybe four grumpy old men?

Joe May

Taking applications....need cook with a good singing voice and a larger than average lady with good disposition for windward side ballast.

 

Poetry

May 14, 2018  ·

Truck gassing up at an adjacent pump today was pulling a boat named "Alice May". I called over and asked, who was "Alice May"? He said, "Service...in Sam McGee", and the lights went on.

So long ago I had forgotten the line...and (Robert) Service one of my heroes. I was embarrassed.

"Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Re-read it and still smiling tonight.

 

2 Marines took first Korean conflict to a whole new level

Epic latrine

      While a real and a wannabe dictator hurl childish, but nuclear, taunts at each other these days, a friend who was there recalled an event that took the first Korean conflict down to a human level.  After all who better to describe war instead of the people at the podiums than a grunt who was there getting shot at and digging holes? My friend Joe May posted this on facebook Aug. 11. You see, he was a kid Marine on the 38th Parallel when the cease-fire was signed ending the last "war" with North Korea, July 27, 1953. His recollection of that episode puts a human face on that situation along with putting a human butt on it as well.

By Joe May
Used by permission
Copyright © Joe May

     This outhouse sits/sat atop a hill almost exactly on the 38th parallel, the dividing line between North and South Korea. It's/was located on the DMZ south of Panmunjom, the place where the armistice that ended hostilities was signed. Part of my regiment, the 1st Marines, was camped there awaiting a home bound troop ship

     Bored, antsy, and untethered, a buddy and I got into some alcohol fueled trouble, were hauled before the Colonel, and rather than chance a court martial accepted an alternative “hard” duty assignment ... to dig a much needed outhouse. Five feet by five feet by thirty five feet deep ... took thirty days ... exactly the length of the punishment detail and the arrival of our ship. It turned out to reputedly be the deepest outhouse in all Korea.
     We took turns up and down, Ski and me, one of us at the bottom of the hole with a short-handled pick and shovel, the other on top with a rope and bucket to haul up the rocks and dirt ... from sun-up until sundown ... every day ... all day. We actually hit water at 35 feet. The result was the finest outhouse in the 1st Marine Division sector, if not the entire United Nations Forces group (Aussies, Kiwis, Turks, French Foreign Legion, UK (Limey), Canadians, et al).

     Our original altercation was over a drunken dispute with the company commander over "democracy & freedom." We were supposedly in a quarantined position with a prohibition against alcohol. Buddy and I got our hands on a couple cases of beer from a motor pool outfit in the rear, and on a nice sunny day got roaring drunk and had the misfortune to be sitting in the middle of a rice paddy road when the Captain came along in his jeep. He asked us to move  and we refused (we were really smashed).  Needless to say, he and his driver took our rifles away from us and "locked" us up in a tent (can you believe that) overnight and hauled us to regiment in the morning. Colonel gave us a choice of a pro-forma summary court martial for "gross" insubordination or 30 days off the record hard labor with nothing going into our record. Ski already had 2 Summaries on his record and stood to end up in Leavenworth or somewhere like it with one more. We took the 30 and thanked the Colonel. I think he was smiling when we left his tent.

   The upside was that the division commander got wind of it, and because hostilities had ended, decided to lift the alcohol ban. A few days later the entire division was given a 2-can per day beer ration. For a few days Skoloski and May were heroes to the entire 1st Marine Division. After the ration went into effect the company supply grunt would bring a can for each of us up the hill to the dig every afternoon. The hauler guy on top would let a can down in the bucket to the digger guy at the bottom. We were literal heroes within the company. 

     Ski was nearly at his discharge date and to complete the 30 day work detail .... last night when we finished work I poured buckets of water over him for a clean-up. A jeep was waiting and took him to the airstrip where he caught a lift  to Seoul and the main air base where he caught a cargo flight to Hawaii and a commercial flight to San Francisco where his discharge was waiting for him when he landed. I had a month to wait for a regular troop movement with a ship. 

     Ski enlisted as a private and was discharged a private after four years of service ... with Bronze Star and Purple Heart. His proudest moment was receipt of a handwritten letter from the Regimental Commander stating that he, the Colonel, would personally like to see Pvt. Skolosky promoted to Private First Class upon discharge “in recognition of valor in combat," however, Pvt. Skolosky's “disciplinary record," regrettably,  prevented any possibility of that ... he said. We opened some beers.

     I had one letter from Ski when he got back to the States....said he had his feet up on a  beer case with a  pretty girl opening cans for him. These things sometimes have happy endings.
     Whether our outhouse is still standing is unknowable, but if it is, I fear it may become a casualty of President Trump's ongoing dither with Kim Jong Un. It lays heavy on my mind tonight.
     Unheard from in years, my digging partner, Pvt. Skoloski, above or below ground in Upper Darby, PA, probably shares that same apprehension. We can only hope.
     Ski was my hero .... in the fullest tradition of Chesty Puller ... loyal as they come and profane to a fault.
     Semper Fi old friend, wherever you are, and don't worry about our outhouse. It's history either way.