Author Scott Ransom with his younger brother, Jeff. |
A
TALE WORTH THE TELLING
FEBRUARY 2010
Author’s note: In a slight departure, I offer a book review, but a book about an important
local history, a history that needs telling, and one that goes beyond what the
author himself calls “a tale of a young man who went to Alaska, met some
amazing people, and had a crazy adventure.”
As Scott Ransom indicates in the epilogue of his recently
published memoir, the community about which he wrote, the types of people he
portrayed, and the way of life he depicted are all still there—but much
changed. What an accomplishment, then, to capture these moments in time and to
leave them to posterity, frozen word-bound in 515 pages.
Clam Gulch is an
engaging, well-paced narrative that illustrates the life of the Cook Inlet commercial
fisherman pursuing various creatures of the sea—salmon, halibut, shrimp, crab, and
herring—and does so with good humor, an occasional bluntness or shocking
episode, and a voice that the reader can trust through the best and worst of
times.
One of the major triumphs of the work is that Ransom so
carefully characterizes the main cast that the reader is able to feel a certain
kinship with these characters and share in the smiles of their successes and
the tears of their tragedies. Even if Ransom misses an occasional minor fact (the
exact location of Soldotna’s old Little Ski-Mo’s restaurant) or misspells an
occasional name (Ray LaFrenere of the Corea Bar), he misses very little of the
spirit of the community and its denizens.
Borough Assembly President Pete Sprague, who was Ransom’s
college roommate and came to Alaska a year after Ransom did, said that his old
friend “did a heck of a job” re-creating those times, noting that the book was
remarkably accurate considering that more than 35 years had passed since the
earliest events portrayed.
Dean Osmar, whose extended family is at the epicenter of
this story, said, “I think (Scott) got most of it accurate. I mean, you can
pick a few things out here and there that are wrong, but anybody that writes a
book that complex and about that long ago, you can’t get it all right. Scott,
he knows that it’s not a hundred percent accurate, but that’s his remembrance
of it.”
Ransom himself admits as much in his preface: “Perspective
is important. This story is told from the author’s point of view. Others may be
of the opinion that events occurred differently or that their participation in
them is not properly represented. Although I was always careful to entertain
another viewpoint, my memory was often the final arbiter.”
He said recently that he began writing the book “as a
catharsis” after a personal tragedy that occurred in 1994 and is central to the
story. Over the intervening years, he continued to labor at his writing,
constructing a detailed timeline of events, people and places to lay the
groundwork, and interviewing friends and family in an attempt to get his story
right.
As a result, the reader is treated to a slice of Kenai
Peninsula history and a cast of characters that includes Per Osmar, patriarch
of the Osmar clan; Seth Wright, a hard-smoking, hard-working, tale-telling
commercial fisherman; Kevin Duffy, another commercial-fishing buddy whose good
fortune seemed almost guaranteed; Jeff Ransom, Scott’s kid brother who became
jokingly known as “Rico”; and Marcia Ransom, Scott’s wife, to whom the book is
dedicated, and whom Scott married inauspiciously on a Friday the 13th.
Ransom first ventured to Alaska in 1972 when he hitchhiked all
the way from upstate New York, ostensibly to spend the summer fighting forest
fires in the Interior. As fate would have it, he couldn’t find work in the
fire-fighting business, and so he kept accepting rides until the last one
dropped him off at a Clam Gulch fish-processing plant known as Osmar’s Ocean
Specialties. From that moment, he became a part of the Clam Gulch story, bunking
in one of the battered trailers at the Osmar complex, working with Wright on
the deceptively dependable Tanner,
learning to long-line for halibut, and spending a considerable portion of his
free time and some of his money swilling Olys at the Clam Shell bar with the
usual crowd.
It was at the Clam Shell that Ransom listened to deal-making
and fishery lore, that he expanded his circle of friends and acquaintances, and
that he proposed to Marcia. It was also where he and Marcia held a raucous
wedding reception that roared on in various intensities for more than 24 hours.
“The Clam Shell was the center of the universe,” said Sprague
recently. “The cannery was up on the hill, and the Clam Shell and the grocery
store, and they had the gas station, and that was kind of the center of it
all.”
Ransom spent so much time there because almost all of them
back then spent so much time there. “You know, we were all 25 then, and
bullet-proof,” Sprague said. They worked hard and played hard. Sometimes they
took chances, and usually they got away with them.
Meanwhile, some of the faces changed, but a core of them
returned year after year throughout the 1970s and much of the ’80s and ’90s.
“For the most part, we were all very well educated and were out for a sense of
adventure,” Sprague said. “And no one was saying you have to go live in the subarctic with very little money and do a
lot of hard work but you didn’t have a dollar in your pocket. People come and
go, and we just chose to stay.”
The memoir detours on occasion into smaller chapters on
hunting, on working on the North Slope, on Dean Osmar’s involvement with the
Iditarod, and on the Exxon Valdez oil spill, but always Ransom returns—in his
writing, as he did in his life—to the sea. He fishes off Humpy Point and out of
Ninilchik, across Kachemak Bay and deep in Bear Cove, across the inlet in
Chinitna Bay and around the horn in Resurrection Bay and even Prince William
Sound. The lure of another harvest calls him again and again.
Pete Sprague at Clam Gulch in 1979. |
And it is this detailed recollection of the way it used to
be—in the days before east-side set-netters were pushed into narrower and
narrower openings, before the rules and regulations changed the industry, and
before the “old guard” was replaced by the succeeding generation—that Ransom
offers his best gift to the reader: the
rollicking, difficult lifestyle that the fishermen loved, and that the tourists
never saw.
Ransom builds his story slowly, beginning with a brief but
interesting scene-setting history of how Per and Fran Osmar homesteaded in Clam
Gulch in 1948. Most of the longer chapters occur in the first two-thirds of the
book, wherein the majority of the main characters are introduced and Ransom’s
eyes are widest open, taking in new environments and fresh experiences,
learning one new aspect after another of the craft of commercial fishing.
Scott Ransom on a steamer to Alaska, early 1970s. |
After that point, the years speed by more quickly and the
chapters appear more staccato, until the multiple resolutions in the
thoughtful, often touching epilogue.
Precisely halfway through the book are 25 pages of
black-and-white photographs, many of them excellent, and the majority of them
taken by Kevin Duffy. The only color photographs occur on the front and back
covers—the back photo showing Scott and Jeff Ransom in 1979 on their way to
Chinitna Bay, and the front photo, incongruous under the large letters of the
title, showing Snug Harbor in Tuxedni Bay.
Ransom said he struggled with his choice of front-cover
photo. “A cover needs to attract attention,” he said. “None of the Clam
Gulch/Redoubt photos that I ran by my editors and a small focus-group of
friends raised much enthusiasm. They all picked the Snug Harbor photo. Also,
the picture was taken by my friend Kevin Duffy, so it was a bit of a
sentimental choice, also.”
As he memorialized the contribution of his friend, he also
memorialized a time and a place, and the inhabitants of that place. His book is
well worth the time and energy necessary to journey through the colorful
chapters occupying its many pages.
Clam Gulch: A Memoir,
by Scott Ransom, was self-published. It is available locally at River City
Books in Soldotna.
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