Life Briefly Without Internet

Winter 2024-25, FORUM Magazine

AS I SAT ACROSS from Haida Elder Ed Peele and his long hair, both of us covered in sweat, taking a break from the steam, he broke the silence: “People call this my sweat, which is fine that they view it that way. But to me, it’s a sauna.” I knew what he was saying, as it isn’t a full-out sweat lodge or purely recreational. After a pause, I said, “A place that’s serious enough to practice Spirituality but not too serious to tell a fart joke.” Without skipping a beat, replying with calm, wry humor, or simple honesty, I couldn’t tell the difference. He said, “Just the perfect amount.”

Although Ed holds it open for the community, the majority of regulars are Native men who quit drinking. It is a place to gather, pray, laugh, talk story, sing, and support each other in our healing and sober journeys. In early August, amongst the cracks of dim light and vapor, I made a new friend named Yuki. She told me her family would dip net in Kenai, adding, “It’s my favorite.” She says that her friends and partner snagged some earlier in the summer, but she hasn’t dip-netted the falls at Redoubt Bay yet. I said I hadn’t made a trip down for sockeye this year and asked if she wanted to come along and help.

Early in the morning, about a week later, we pass sein boats scattered amongst forested islands and trollers slowly bobbing on the horizon as we zip past the rocky shores of low tide. Steep mountain ridges greet us as we push into the narrow bay, and the cliffy peaks stretch towards the rising sun and a vast blue sky. An eerie tranquility welcomes us as we slowly motor toward the falls. An occasional bird squawks and a salmon breaches out of the water sideways, splashing with a “slap,” a school of sleek, slender bodies flutters away from the boat. Two older guys anchored near the main falls use their dip net like a flyswatter as they bat at the water's surface. I said to Yuki, “I don't think they know what they are doing.” Stating factually with a slight smile and a whisk of humor, she replies, “It doesn’t look like it.” They wave enthusiastically. At least they are friendly.

We unload in peaceful silence. A grey daypack, a slender yellow one, a large blue drybag, a dip net, and an aluminum bat sit above the water line. It looks like we will be staying for a week. I’m anxious to get going in case, all of a sudden, the other fisherman figures out what they are doing and take the best spot before we arrive. There’s no need to hurry as we schlep over slippery rocks. Plopping down the gear, I wade straight into the water past my boots up to my waist. The gushing water draining from the lake isn’t too cold as it nudges me. I shuttle the handle of the dip net out as far as possible, stretching my arms and dropping the rim vertically into the cascading white caps. The net sinks and bounces off the rocky bottom as it sweeps with gurgles and the soothing murmur of surging water. The jolt of a fish hitting the net signals me to turn it horizontally and quickly drag it to shore to the sound of excitement.

Yuki is ready, bat in hand. I swing the long handle up high towards the line of barnacles. We thank the fish as we bend over them like hungry ravens and begin the untangling game—a prize for those who can decipher which side of the monofilament the fish is wrapped up in—vivid red oozes down, contrasting with fish scales as we slit the gills. Yuki grabs a stringer and goes to the water's edge as she guts them. I wade back into the water; we repeat this a few times. The other boat gets momentarily stuck on a rock. They shove off and return to trying to scare the fish to death, but it is not working. They head out.

The spot dries up. I try somewhere else, with an empty net and tired arms. We slink between evergreens and huckleberry bushes over scattered pine needles and a moss-covered slope. I pull out a few on each dip in a clear water pool until they figure it out and wiggle out of reach. The salmon on the stringer spreads out like a shimmering fan. We tried the rapids at the base of the falls again, and they have moved in. Yuki scoops in a few, then hands it back to me. We work primarily in silence, blanketed by the pounding falls. Communicating with the language and actions of knowing what must be done while fishing speaks clearer than our words can.

Our stringers are nearing twenty salmon. As I extend the heavy net with squirming fish up the bank, Yuki disentangles the silvery sockeye from the mesh, and then I repeat aloud what I thought I just saw. “Did that fish jump out of your hands, knock off your hat, then jump back into the net?” With a broad smile, a titled ball cap skewed sideways, halfway off her head. She looks towards me with extended gloved hands, elevating them toward the canopy of hemlock bows. In a partial shrug, she enthusiastically says, “Yes. It was like a cartoon!” We both let out a laugh.

The next evening, I texted Ed, “Two questions: 1) Is it cool if I use the smoker tomorrow? 2) do you have any lunch plans for tomorrow? If not, can I take you out? Don’t worry, it’s not a date.” He texted back, “You sure can use it and it is a date.” I replied, “OK, great I’ll make sure to comb my teeth and brush my hair.” No response. The following morning, I brined the salmon following Ed’s recipe of filling a five-gallon bucket halfway, then pouring salt in until it floats a medium-sized potato. Then, soak the fish for 20 seconds in the solution.

Setting the amber strips of salmon on racks to drip dry and become tacky to the touch, I went to my backyard to cut some green wood to smoke with. Placing the ladder against a thick alder, I climb up into the tree. A young raven sat above me and watched from eight feet away as I sawed a long branch until it cracked and fell. I dragged the big bushy branch as the glossy, vibrant green elliptical leaves shook as I cut it up. Shoving the short grey logs into my frame pack, I placed the salmon in a cooler strapping it to my bike trailer. The sunshine streak of late summer continues as I feel the warmth on my arms as I swing my leg across my bicycle.

Smoking fish has been something I have done since I was a kid at Dog Point fish camp - I would provide support and never take the lead. The same with canning - I took a class years ago, remembering the concept, and forgetting the crucial details. Songs from my high school days blast through my earbuds as I listen to Bush and Third Eye Blind pedaling through the luster of mid-August and a sleepy Sunday morning towards Ed’s and moving through my midlife crisis with a blend of nostalgia and new experiences in an effort to find myself, deciding to smoke and jar the salmon. It's more practical and fiscally responsible than a new red sports car.

On the weekend, Ed’s steam starts at 10 am. I planned to arrive early, start the smoker, and then sweat, but sawing wood by hand took longer than anticipated. Leaning my bike against shades of gray and brown rugged plates of the bark of a large spruce tree in the driveway. Nodding to people trickling in as I grab the fillet strips by the sides of the tail, dangling one half of the ruby red flesh side up over the dry fish scale-covered dowel rod—the other half acts as a counterbalance inside the smoker.

Mid-nineties alternative rock wails in my ears as I unload the cooler; beams of sunlight streak through the dense evergreen canopy as I hang the fish. Piling small twigs underneath thicker ones, I set them ablaze. During my breaks from the sweat, I walk out barefoot and check on the progress. It takes me a few starts and stops before I get a decent bed of coals rolling. A translucent, inky gray plume swirls and bellows out, filling the smokehouse. Ed checks on me and adjusts a sheet of metal covering the fire. More smoke streams out.

We go for lunch at his favorite restaurant. Faces light up with a smile when Ed walks in. “Háw'aa,” he says as someone hands him a menu, but he already knows what he wants. Songs drift out amongst dining chatter. I pound water to hydrate and Ed does the same but to cool off from the unexpectedly spicy heat of his meal. “I left my brains at home,” he says. I look up, and he continues, “I forgot my phone at home.” No to-go boxes even though there is some food left on his plate. “Don’t want to go through that again?” I say, referring to the spicy food. “Yeah,” he replies.

We shove off. When we got back the smoke went out, not sure for how long. I poke at the crisp, burnt wood and relight it. For the rest of the day, I sit in the shade reading Addressing Climate Change at the Community Level in the US while tending the fire, taking breaks to snack on the heaping bushes of sweet and tart red huckleberries lining Ed’s driveway. The sunlight deepens towards golden as magic hour approaches. I pull the strips of half-smoked fish out and place them back into the cooler. Pedaling home at sunset, winding, quiet, lethargic streets watched over by chiseled mountain tops, I put the salmon in the freezer.

----

Nearly two weeks later I was finishing speaking with a credit card company, removing a freeze they placed from my suspicious activity of purchasing website domain registrations and web hosting when the call dropped. I thought they hung up on me. Trying to go back online to complete the transactions, I realized there was no internet. I removed my router's black, rubbery plastic power cord, replaced it, and waited. Nothing happened. I texted my buddy, whose dog I was watching, “Has the apocalypse happened? I can’t get internet.” A red exclamation point beside the message indicates it can’t be delivered. Maybe that answered my question.

Discovering that I couldn’t make phone calls either, I turned on the community radio to get the breaking news. Someone who thought they were being cute was playing a song about cocaine, and as I turned it off in disappointment, the current state of humanity hit me. It's not that I’m trying to sound like Nancy Regan; I am just some guy in recovery who is getting a little more mature, whose cell phone and internet aren’t working, and trying to find some answers. The end of the world could be happening, and if it was, I oddly wanted to know cause it’s not like that information would stop it. But at least I would know.

Instead, the possible last communication I have with another human is through the so-called progressive waves of the local nonprofit community radio station of someone playing tongue-in-cheek music about a costly drug that not only ruins lives but takes them. As I get frantic, wanting to know why my cell and internet don’t work, what’s the real addiction going on here? I can’t work on the numerous deadlines approaching without connecting with cyberspace. Without being able to do work, this would be the perfect time to jar up the salmon. But I was waiting to go online and polish up on the details to do it safely. Tangled and bound up by the Net.

A few hours later, I turn the radio on again. Now, it’s broadcasting National news, still no mention of the outage which I find hilarious as one of the most significant events to impact the community is currently happening. The local news station is not using the only working technology form of instant mass communication to discuss it. I turn the radio off in bewilderment and frustration, desperately trying to feel like I have some kind of control over the situation. I realized that I needed to chill out and be around people. Packing water and a towel, I bike to Ed’s sweat, liberated by movement and the rhythmic motion of my legs propelling me through the air as I zip past tall grass, the smell of fresh air, and the whooshing noise of car tires rolling over the pavement. The aggravation sheds from my body.

Larry is already inside the sauna, sitting on a bench in his swim trunks. With a cryptic schedule, he often just appears. Then, he shares a surprising story, like traveling as a basketball referee to other small towns that take ball games too seriously. An on-duty State Trooper stayed with him in the hotel room because, after a recent match, someone discharged a rifle in the direction of the hotel where the refs were staying. The fire crackles inside the woodstove. We spark a conversation about the mysterious and paralyzing situation of having communications abruptly cut with no idea what is happening. And how it must affect almost all of society's systems, from emergency response schools to healthcare.

He says, “My daughter works in the pharmacy over at the hospital, and she said they can fill prescriptions, but they can’t make IV bags.” There was a heavy pause; our heads hung from the news, and the wave of heat picked up in the sweat. “They don’t have anyone who knows how to make them. The information is all online.” I reply, “I’m hoping we will learn from this, but I don’t think we will,” which draws a wry laugh.

I hear the front door to the entryway swing open with loud plops and heavy, shuffling footsteps. The hollow knock of wood thudding upon the firewood pile and the rhythmic unpacking of gear tells me Tom, the lead carpenter on building the sauna, is here. As I pour a scoop of water onto the hot rocks, it sizzles, pops, and hisses. A cloud of steam billows out towards the small window. Tom, looking decades younger than he is, walks into a warm welcome. Ed shuffles in shortly behind him in dark blue boardshorts and Birkenstocks. His head, covered in long grey hair, bent down from entering the short doorway. Ed’s face radiates joy, and he says with a twinkle in his eye, “Why the hell is everybody here so early!?” as he sits down. The room erupted with laughter.

“Well, Ed,” I chime in, “I wasn’t sure if we are being invaded or Artificial Intelligence took over?” Chuckles broke out, but I’m also serious. We go around the room as if we are in ceremony, offering prayers. Larry says, “I turned on the radio for over an hour, and they didn’t mention once what was happening. And I was like, ‘Okay, are we just pretending like this isn’t happening?’”The air bubbles with laughter and stories as we gather in the steamy warmth. This human connection, this shared space, builds understanding and trust. A collective sense of serenity washes over the group, exactly what I lacked and needed.

Like anticipating a drum beat, I time the rhythm of the conversation and jump in on a silent interval. Explaining the pickle I’m in with canning salmon and asking them for help. The energy shifts towards seriousness as the weight of knowledge from many generations tilts forward, spilling outward amongst the cedar-planked walls and swirling in the air, rising to meet the importance of the request to uphold tradition—relationship with food and place. My Elders speak with a calm reverence as they pass on the wisdom handed to them from their Elders. Three different threads of canning salmon recipes interweave, separate, and overlap as they stitch together the gaps in my knowledge.

As my bare feet carry me from the faint light, I emerge refreshed from the heat with hundreds of years of cumulative canning expertise not gained through a metaphoric and literal screen that turns digital code and electrical signals into pixels—creating a barrier from the very world information was born. Instead, I received it from the beating hearts and spirits of a lived experience of cherished devotion to the ecology of a breathing culture.

A transfer of energy through spoken word is now pulsating through my body. Drying my hands, I grab my phone. Perspiration slides down my arms and back. It sounds like raindrops as they drip onto the plywood floor. As I type what was shared, people drift out the door, flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. They ask eagerly, “Is it back on?” with a sheepish smile, I reply, “No. I’m just taking notes,” with a tone of bearing bad news that meets disappointed faces.

Sitting at my kitchen table the following day, I slice the curvy, glossy, red-plump sockeye strips into shorter lengths as my mouth waters. Packing freshly washed jars with half-smoked salmon, the irresistible smell wafts in the air and clings to my fingers, a scent I want to roll around in. Forever. I wipe the rims with a wet paper towel and run my thumbnail on top, just like Tom told me. It snags on one of the jar tops. I reclean the spot until it is smooth to ensure a proper seal, place the lids, and twist on the rings, not too tight.

Gently setting the jars into the pressure canner, it looks like a strange metallic machine that I am charging with cylindrical battery packs of raw fish. I estimated the amount of water to put in, as the Elders didn't have a consensus on an exact measurement. I recall reading somewhere about being careful that it’s not too much. The typical novice paranoia of creating some kind of mortifying explosion with the canner digs at the back of my skull. But I have used it for years to make falling-off-the-bone tender deer and moose ribs. So I’m comfortable not blowing a pressure cooker lid-shaped hole through my roof. I twist the black shiny hard plastic knobs. A few get caught with resistance on the clamp bolt, making it hard to tighten the lid entirely. After flicking the burner on high, I waited ten minutes, letting steam stream out to slowly warm everything up before placing the rattler on the vent pipe.

About two hours before the internet went out, the Cooperative Extension Services tested my pressure gauge, and it read about 2 lbs off—it was time for a new one. But with a batch ready to go, I decided to try to slide on by. The Cooperative Extension's parting advice was to cook the salmon for 110 minutes because it was smoked, which seems counterintuitive given that the smoker partly cooked it. Drum beats bump in the background as I listen to Pamyua, eagerly awaiting the dial gauge to hit 11 pounds and for my weighted one to start shaking at 10 pounds of pressure so I can begin my timer.

A sharp hiss accompanies the escaping steam as the thin pointer on the gauge creeps past the finish line. Since I can’t ask Siri, whose codependency is usually so eager to please, to set a timer, do the math for me, or look up which celebrity is dating whom, I do it manually on my phone, putting one on the stove clock and writing the time down on paper, just in case. The rumbling clatter grooves with the releasing pressure as steam screams out from the vent and bellows from the side of the lid. I adjust the burner setting as I struggle to maintain the correct pounds of pressure, as it seems to want to hover just under the target.

Over an hour and a half passes by. Feeling unsure about the process, I want to give it a little longer to cook, but the screeching sound of my smoke alarm brings my memory back to when water would run out when pressure-cooking moose ribs. The ghastly images of broken glass, sizzling chard salmon, or cans of undercooked fish race through my mind. Caught between a rock and a hard place, I switch off the burner. Letting it decompress, not moving the canner, I unscrew the lid's clamps—the pungent smell of cooked salmon crowds the air. There’s no water in the bottom, but a few puffs of steam snake their way out. The jars are intact.

I sigh in relief as I grab my jar lifter and play a modified version of the classic board game Operation. Ever so cautiously lifting out Cavity Sam’s broken heart and wishbone, being ever so careful not to bump against the metal sides, setting off a humiliating buzzer and lighting up his swollen red nose, or dropping a glass pint of scolding hot fish on my foot. I tenderly arrange them on the stretched-out towel lying on my table. Glancing at the time, it’s taken me a couple of hours longer than anticipated. I leave things in disarray and to cool as I scramble to gather stuff for Ed’s—the snugness of my bike helmet strap tugs under my chin as the plastic clasp snaps shut. I head out into the early evening air.

Arriving late, breezing through the changing room door, I lock eyes with a regular sitting on a bench. As we catch up and I explain my frazzled energy, she asks with disappointment why I didn't bring any to share. “I just finished the batch and they are cooling off.” She gave me a stare as if I was making up excuses. “I just took them out 25 minutes ago. They were still bubbling when I left.” She replied with a hint of authority, “You’ll have to bring some next time.” Nodding in agreement, I flash a smile.

Inside the sauna, I sit next to the stove and bucket of water, often receiving mixed reviews as I frequently pour water on the hot rocks. Ed responds with a playful, deadpan, “Yup’ik heat.” Others say they are going to sit in my seat next time. I speak nervously about how my first solo batch of canning went, worried that I didn't cook them long enough and under the correct pressure. The grounding presence of the Elders, rooted in a lifetime of experiences and wisdom, reassures me that everything will be okay. They say I just need to tap on the top of the lids and listen to ensure it is sealed properly. Tom sits, leaning to one side, demonstrating as if drumming with lengthy arms and hands conducting a symphony, and says, “Tink, tink, tonk!” Ed and I turn towards each other as we chuckle. With a scrunched forehead and a grin, he looks at me and asks, “Did you get that part?” I say, “Yes, I got the tonk part down.” Ed replies, “Good. That’s the one you eat for dinner or put in the fridge.”

The next day, the internet and cell phones were still not working, reflecting on my first batch's struggle to maintain the proper pounds of pressure and how the water evaporated quickly—with steam fleeing from the sides of the lid. I examine the clamp bolts that gave me sass, scrubbing ashy clumps of corroded gunk off the threads and rubbing olive oil on them. The glossy plastic handles now clamp smoothly down. Solving the previous issues. My home’s atmosphere is weighted by the humidity of three batches of canning. Foggy windows mirror the grey low-hanging clouds outside, swirling together in the obscure haze of being unable to call, text, or use the internet—unplugged from the rest of the world. Also, free from the relentless pressure of constant instant availability, I have been basking in peaceful isolation.

It has taken me a few days to get the drift that the public is using satellite internet at the city office to contact loved ones and conduct business. The Central Council of the Tlingit and Haida Indian Tribes of Alaska (the regional Tribal government for Southeast Alaska) loaned additional dishes to vital places in town, including the library, creating a patchwork of wireless internet around town. I have meant to check it out and am unsure why no one has called to tell me sooner. Something in the air feels different as I pedal down to the library, passing the calmness of trees stretching gracefully toward the sky.

I interweave with the morning traffic of metal cages transporting people to larger ones. The modern architecture of the remodeled library looks like a cracked open book resting on milk cartons. Its muted colors and large windows are closed. But the wireless signal permeates out onto the scattered crowd on cold cement benches and idling cars. An increasing number of older White folks in town who have known me for most of my life do not recognize me anymore. Even when I wave, so I stop trying and sit down quietly next to a couple who are friends of my family who bought my artwork that hangs on their wall—scrolling through my phone for the first time in what feels like months, overhearing them gossip about who and how many people have shown up to use the internet. Pigeons and tourists flutter through downtown.

In front of the dark, haunting windows and locked doors of the bank, I wonder how to pay for food and other essentials besides checks and cash, and more importantly, how can we make a run on the bank if it is closed? My bike wheels glide to the brightly lit grocery store. Inside the visceral warmth, grabbing a few items, the strangers standing in line do not feel distant. Word on the street is that for businesses with internet from the other provider in town, it trickles through their phone line enough to process cards.

A quick electronic tone beeps as the cashier scans the geometric shapes of packaged food. Although I have interacted with her numerous times before, I have never seen or felt her presence in this way. Recently, my interactions with people have been more patient, open, and fulfilling. It is as if some crusty layer that dims our light has been removed, and the divine essence of a living being now shines through, allowing it to be felt, exchanged, and celebrated.

Studies have shown that human empathy decreases with our use of electronic devices, a truth we all witness yet choose not to recognize. As the darkest parts of humanity fester in an avatar of anonymity, school kids bully their peers to the point where digital existence becomes so painful they take their own lives to escape. Two in the morning at the dawn of summer, a swarm of neon green aphids takes flight next to a salmon stream. They look like tiny, plump fairies.

In the void of that precious soul, online ridicule persists in step with a global trend among adults where the authoritarianism of tech and its disconnection with reality blur the lines of what is sincere and what is not. Provide escapism from our responsibility with the tangible into almost all aspects of society—results of an extractive economic platform disguised as community.

Somewhere, tears streak down someone's face as they cry in agony. Someone else tenderly holds space for them as the energy in the room shifts. A bee awkwardly hovers in front of the soft pink of a salmonberry flower. Next to glowing screens, computer chips, and wires, the sickness is packaged as the medicine for what we all crave: connection and belonging. The smooth curvature of a salmon’s back breaks the surface as it jumps the falls.

Although I let my friends from out of town know that I cannot receive cellular data, they still try to send me photos and voice messages because of how integrated we have become with technology. Even when someone tells you it no longer works, we are so dependent that we cannot imagine it not working until suddenly it no longer does. A dying salmon lying in the shallows flicks its tail in defiance as a seagull approaches its eyeball.

If I need medical care, how will I get to the hospital, as I can no longer call 911? I plan to stumble out of my house, knock on my neighbor’s door, and hope they are home and willing to give me a ride. A bear silently strolls in neighborhood shadows, carrying the forest floor in its matted fur towards a trash can careless people have left out. A thwack of a massive paw knocks the container over. Lights flicker on. Voices shout. It scampers off into the dark.

----

In the soft glow of late morning, dappled light filters through dense tree branches, creating patches of light and shadow inside the sauna. Ed sits patiently, waiting for the heat to chase him out. Hanging up my clothes in the changing area, I scan the menagerie of things people have forgotten and gifted. Sacred plants from around the world in the form of tea and smudge with other healing items lay amongst the quirky flock of scattered batteries, abandoned limp shorts, and brightly colored anonymous water bottles. The tales of how they found this place to be home remained unrevealed to me.

My arm stretches out as I reach for the eagle feather stored up high, almost out of reach. Fingers grasp the tight beaded handle set snuggly around the quill. Its sturdy, broad width pushes against the air as subtle iridescence shifts across deep browns and bright whites as the feather moves. Grabbing a lighter and the large oval-shaped abalone shell. Its coolness in my hand contrasts with the heat wave as I duck inside to smudge. “Hi, Ed!” I exclaimed, “Hey.” He responds. “Do you want to be smudged?” I ask. “Yeah,” he replies, sitting up straight and placing his palms facing up in receivership.

Ed began to teach me ceremonies and had me lead some this summer. An honor I do not take for granted. Standing before him in the diffused light, I ignite the tightly bound bundle of cedar. A plume of smoke drifts up as I say, “Agayun, ancestors bless this man’s mind so he may think good thoughts.” The feather feels ethereal as it soars thin tendrils of the smolder around his head. I lower the vibrant blue and green shimmering shell and continue, “Bless this man’s heart so that he may feel good things.” Smoke spirals towards his chest as the feather fans in circular motions.

I’m new to smudging with this cedar bundle; the deep orange ember has faded into the density. With ballooned cheeks, I blow into the concave of the shell. My eyes widen in a surreal moment of shock as sparks erupt all over Ed. The searing shame of almost setting my Elder on fire is quickly replaced by further embarrassment as I drop a curse word while trying to brush off the glowing cinders that are on his skin. He still sits and says, “You trying to burn me!?” Suppressed laughter occasionally chortles out as I continue smudging, trying to uphold the ceremony, collapsing around me with a straight face. When I finish, Ed takes over, thoroughly waving the feather and sending wisps of smoke toward me without speaking a prayer out loud.

When he is done, I say, “Got to smudge in silence after that, huh?” Ed replies, “Yeah,” passing me back the feather and the rough textured bottom of the shell. I place them near the bucket of water and sit down next to him, letting out a sigh. We hear Tom come into the entryway. Turning towards Ed, I plead in partial humiliation, “Don’t tell Tom what I did.” He replies, “Okay,” as he gets up and shuffles out the door. I hear them greet each other through the thin wall, and Ed says, “Stay away from Peter. I won’t tell you what he did, though.” After a momentary pause, Tom, who often talks about The Bhagavad Gita, philosophical enlightenment and is catching wind of something satirical, replies, “It’s better that way, so I can go in with an open mind and free from expectations.”

After being drug through exhausting rounds of heat, the three of us slouch in the entryway. The outside door is kicked open, and steam vapors drift off our bodies. In a state of physical release and emotional catharsis, we sit mostly in the silence of the duality of a sauna—exertion and rejuvenation. Lightheaded, I fumbled through my backpack, almost forgetting to break out the jar of salmon I had brought. Cracking the lid with a can opener lets out a low hiss of escaping air. Tom says, “That whoosh is a good sign that it was sealed correctly.” I hand the jar of darkened amber meat to Ed; its packed flakes look like grains of wood soaked in oil with small, white clouds of fat.

He breaks apart a forkful. I play it cool as he chews in delight and passes it to Tom, who takes a bite. “It’s good,” says Ed, “Good job,” Tom says as he hands me the jar and wooden fork. My heart beams as I skip this round, handing off the aroma of campfire smoke and cooked salmon to Ed. We cherish the rich, natural oiliness of smoked sockeye, balanced by a perfect touch of saltiness—the mouth-watering deliciousness the body craves as I watch the Elders consume the knowledge they gifted me inside these walls. The high-pitched chattering of a squirrel rings out from amongst the treetops.

Over the sixteen days, the internet service was out, and I started to use the publicly available satellite internet at the library as a tool for specific tasks, as I did as a kid when the internet first emerged. Picking it up and then setting it down. Less as the all-encompassing reality that I never leave. I created a list of what I needed to use it for before going to the library. This physical separation from it was liberating, combined with the communal aspects of flocking to a watering hole, helped it feel like a haunting I could finally shake.

Life without the internet has me confronting the shrill pain of loneliness that I was muffling through the escapism of tech but also by its power to connect with my friends across the world. Digital communication is more convenient, but it is not what I need. As a person. As a being. As a real human being. ■

Ilegvak is a Yup’ik artist and culture bearer who writes about art, politics, Native rights, traditional food systems, and environmental justice. His work is increasingly focused on climate change and its disproportionate effects on Indigenous peoples and how Native cultural knowledge systems have solutions to this global crisis. He received a Luce Indigenous Knowledge Fellowship, a United States Artists Fellowship, a Forge Project Fellowship, and an NDN Collective Radical Imagination Grant. Ilegvak is a 2024 Andy Warhol Foundation Arts Writers Grant recipient and a FORUM Writing Fellow.