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After the attack on Pearl Harbor, and the capture of two Alaskan islands, our military had good reason to believe the Japanese would attempt to conquer and control Alaska. However, no one could easily transport heavy machinery or weapons into mainland Alaska, such as Fairbanks. It became paramount that a highway be built for faster transport. Over 11,000 soldiers in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers took part in the effort, and the completion of its early gravel roads were (rightfully) considered a major triumph. Nearly 18 years after its completion, our family was driving on the ALCAN. We’d passed the Alaskan border about 50 miles back when we had a mechanical breakdown. We were pulling a small trailer behind us, and one of the wheels was giving us problems. Thankfully, my parents understood the dangers of driving into Alaska. They had prepared two spare tires as well as plenty of extra food and supplies that’d become extremely important for the entire trip. We stopped in an area called Scotty’s Creek. It had a very large American- Canadian army depo and base where a lot of equipment and men were once stationed. But when we arrived, not much else was there. A trailer on a hill looked like it might serve food and had a couple living there, but that was it. Parking on the land cost money, and we had no choice but to pay. However, as a bonus, many other families had stopped because their vehicles were broken. It became an oasis for anyone that needed car assistance, and everyone helped each other. My dad was pretty mechanically inclined, so he spent time assisting people while waiting on repairs. There was nothing boring about this for me. I was very happy to be a helper bee and doing any little task I was assigned. At some point, my dad needed water to put into a car’s radiator. He gathered instructions about where to find a swamp and small pond just over a nearby hill, then he gave me two 5-gallon pails. “Go over that hill,” he said, “and get some water for us.” Full of ambition and excitement, my 14-year-old self wasn’t scared to face new surroundings, or to be completely out of sight from the distracted adults. I had plenty of experience with camping, anyway. I kept a wary eye out for wooly mammoths, sabretooth tigers, maybe a grizzly bear, and whatever else my childlike imagination could conjure. I noticed the hillside was very grassy as I dashed down the hillside toward the swamp. I suddenly encountered a thick carpet of green mold. I slowed down, since I didn’t want to fall, but as I traversed, the mold broke. Adrenaline kicked in almost immediately. I fell into thick, muddy quicksand, and I was sinking. Without any branches or proper leverage nearby, it could’ve been seconds before I’d sink far enough to suffocate and disappear. As if my mind had pushed an emergency button, I’d suddenly remembered advice my father had given years ago. He once said, “If you ever fall into quicksand, don’t start struggling. You need to get as much of your back on top of it as you can. Shift your weight so you can support your back.” So, I quickly threw myself on my back.
It saved my life, but it didn’t make the situation less grave. About 80 to 85% of my body was submerged at an angle, and even the back of my head was covered. Anytime I shifted my head a little bit, I could feel myself sinking deeper. I knew I had to paddle somehow, so, as an adept swimmer, I kept doing a backstroke without lifting my hands too far. I’d passed a tree at one point, so I thought I might be able to grab one of its branches and pull myself out — even though I couldn’t lift my head at all to judge the distance or my course. I became extremely focused on moving as slowly as possible. My dad and the other men were engaged and preoccupied with work, so my absence wasn’t thought of as unusual. It took a long time, but eventually, I was able to pull myself out of the bog. No one noticed when I came back over the hill without my pails. I began walking toward my father and the crowd of chatting adults. By the time I was 30 feet from them, suddenly everyone stopped working and looked at me. Nobody even spoke. Some stood and tucked in their heads as they stared at me. I was very confused! The best way to explain it is that they looked at me — not trying to decipher who I was, but what I was. It was as if I’d walked there from another planet.
Then my dad, realizing it was me, called out, “What happened?”
“I fell into quicksand,” I said. Suddenly, all of the men started talking at the same time, crying out in disbelief and at the horrible smell. I became even more confused. I had no indication that the mud wasn’t quicksand. My adrenaline-driven instincts must’ve told me, “You just survived a life- threatening situation. You’re lucky to be breathing, so there’s no need to worry about having a sense of smell.” But, at that moment, I began to smell again — and I smelled quite putrid. As it turned out, I hadn’t fallen into quicksand. I’d fallen into a giant latrine that’d been used during the war by all the soldiers building the ALCAN Highway. There was simply no structure built over the latrine anymore, and there were no markings either. With some assistance in finding the actual swamp, I was quickly (and safely) bathed. That memory eventually helped me set swimming records in my college years, but I think my mother also used that story to chase off my then-girlfriends! And the tale continues in infamy within the family today — my son, Drew, insisted that I share it in the newsletter. Although this may sound like a traumatic memory, for me, it was extremely educational, and I was happy to come out of it alive. Still, to this day, there’s no words in the English language that could accurately describe the smell. (I asked our newsletter team if we could include a scratch-n-sniff but was politely declined. Go figure.)
–Captain Lance
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LANCE: 716-912-9939
DREW: 716-946-3598
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