Gambell, Alaska

From the window of my wood-panel lined room I see a house, a rectangular one story box surrounded by snow. It is like all of the houses in Gambell. Only this one has two small windows when most of the houses have windows boarded over with plywood. There's a snowmobile marooned on a patch of snow. And a satellite dish attached to the porch of the house. The stream of ATVs outside my window never stops, giving this remote place a sense of busyness. And I wonder what people are busy doing.
I have a lot of time to look at this view and think about this place as I'm sick. I'm in Gambell, a place I have dreamed of for months now, and I'm sick.
Gambell is on St. Lawrence Island, in the Bering Sea, closer to Russia than it is to Alaska. This small town is a mecca for birders, as sea birds funnel up the coastline to this point of land that sticks out. So birders fly in, to get a view of birds they might never see, or ones they know but that will be in breeding plumage. And I wonder what the Native people make of us with our binoculars and scopes, chasing birds that they shoot and eat. Gambell remains a subsistence village--there is seal hanging to dry and the boys who sat next to Peter last night told him that Auklet is good to eat. But there are also empty boxes of macaroni littering the gravel (along with a lot of other garbage). And, as far as I can tell, almost everyone smokes. Tobacco grows nowhere in this rocky landscape.
Before leaving on this trip, one person from the group asked me: what bird do you most want to see? I did not have a target bird. More than anything, I wanted to see this remote landscape; I wanted to toe this edge of the world.
This morning I felt strong enough to head out with the group to the sea to watch the masses of birds flying by. We walked across the packed gravel toward the ocean under a gray sky. The temperature was in the low forties, wind mild. Right away, we saw Snow Bunting in breeding plumage--a stunning white bird we often see in New York State in our winter. We walked past remains of whales--large jaw bones stuck in the gravel--and a "bone yard" where hundreds of years of animal bones decay, or fossilize. The Eskimos dig out these petrified bones and carve them. Peter bought me a sea lion jaw, carved with a seal as a get-well gift. It sits here keeping me company.
At the water front, we watched flocks of birds moving about. Nearest to shore were the Least Auklets, which make a charming chirping sound. They fly like little bullets then land with a kerplash. Puffins, horned or tufted, often will lead a flock of Murres--mostly thick-billed--as they make their way north and south. Far out on a floating iceberg were some King Eider, barely recognizable at such a distance. Glaucus Gull and Kittiwakes soared by. We had surprise visits from a Yellow-billed Loon and a Fulmar. An Emperor Goose sped by. Our guides told us the Emperor is seen here less and less.
After an hour and a half of standing, watching and adoring those Least Auklets, I was sufficiently frozen. On my wandering way home, one of the many dogs that roam the town came over to greet me. "You friendly?" I asked. He leaned his head against my thigh while I rubbed his ears. Then he trotted off.