Being an anthropologist, Jed was aware that native Americans did not have a 2,000 year history developing a tolerance towards alcohol. And that booze was the number one problem for some of the "people" caught up in the pressures of making a rapid change from the "old ways," into the dawning of a new age brought by the discovery of oil on the North Slope.

Jed wasn't sure his one-man temperance crusade would bring any results, but having made the effort, he enjoyed sitting on the curb, leaning back upon a parking meter post, to hear that in the bush villages offering a guest pilot bread was a social custom at least equivalent to a high tea in England. And that, as with most experienced outdoorsmen, this fellow's accounts of encounters with bears featured funny anecdotes instead of horror stories.

It wasn't until takeoff from the busy international airport, on a flight following the old gold rush era Iditirod Trail, that Alaska began to live up to the translation of its native Aleut name -the great land. Anchorage was a stop for jet traffic on a great circle route to Japan, or a flight over the top of the world to Sweden; it also happened to be home base for the largest fleet of single engine bush planes in the world.

As their noisy transport climbed to the headwaters of the Skwentna River basin, the scene below was a mosaic of muskeg swamp, ox-bow lakes, and braided streams flowing from the seemingly endless Alaska Range. Jenny mentioned that several of the unnamed snowcapped peaks below were as high as Mt. Cascade. And, she pointed upward, through the clouds, to a white mass that wasn't a cloud -the 20,320 foot summit of Mt. McKinley, tallest point in North America. Jed's awe at this sight was punctuated by Jenny's statement that Denali — to use the native name— that with a base near sea level, rather than starting on a plateau of 20,000 feet like Mt. Everest, this mass of mountain could be classified as the single highest peak in the world.

Landing at McGrath, Jed found a curious mix of minds that appeared to predominate the life style of the Alaskan Bush. It seemed a cross between happy-go-lucky, and a sense of practicality needed to survive.

For example, the runway of this village was limited in length by the broad Kuskokwim River making a horseshoe bend so that both landing and departure thresholds were lapped by wind whipped waves. It took three attempts, and great skill, for the Wien pilot to set the transport down among the ubiquitous Super Cubs that bordered the runway. Yet, once the twice weekly link with the outside world taxied to a stop on a taxiway, which doubled as the main street of the community, the scene was filled with barking dogs, Indians, prospectors, hunting guides, and the storekeeper —all of whom ignored the fact that the propellers were still turning, or that anywhere else only authorized airline personnel would have been allowed to unload the cargo.

"Hey, Googe," Jed heard one fellow yell to another, "toss down a case of beer. We're thirsty."