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REST IN PEACE, LEW BINFORD

Fri, 11 May 2012 03:06:29 +0100

I never met him, but I saw him give a paper at the SAA's. I was scared of him. I do not think he suffered fools easily, although I have been told he could be a great friend and mentor.I must have cited ten or fifteen of his books and articles in my dissertation. He loved data. he didn't pull stuff out of his ass. You could take an article of his and do a study of your own based on the information he'd provide. And he could write so you could understand a sentence! How rare is that in an academic? He was a brilliant star that will continue to guide generations of archaeologists to come.

New story, below!

Fri, 11 May 2012 02:18:58 +0100

I'd Rather Be an Archaeologist

Fri, 11 May 2012 01:41:59 +0100

When I was about six, my mom gave me the Golden Book of Archaeology. I loved it! The Golden Book of the Bible? Not so much. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered Richard Halliburton’s Complete Book of Marvels while enduring a boring evening at friends of my parents. I was immediately entranced.

“As the twig is bent, so grows the tree,” a wise person once said. My parents tried, in vain, to lure me away from a B.A. in anthropology. I would not be dissuaded, so we hit a compromise. I would keep studying Spanish AND anthropology. My parents rested a bit more easily because I could always “fall back on” teaching Spanish.

Of course, both departments at G. W. wanted me to focus on Mesoamerica. “But,” I said, “I hate the heat.” And so, I found myself on the North Slope of Alaska at the age of 25, never having been west of Pittsburgh.

Doing what, you may ask. I was looking for archaeological sites in the tundra way north of the Arctic Circle with a crew of people I had never met, about 200 miles southwest of the nearest human settlement. The lure of anthropology, especially its sub-discipline, archaeology, sustained me through many years of grad school punctuated by summers in Alaska. I finally got my Ph.D. in 1993.

So what? Here’s what. I look at things differently. Not only do people of my ilk have an inordinate love of the past and of spinning tales about it, we also view the world differently. It’s the social science thing, I think.

You meet someone from a far corner of the earth and ask yourself, “What can I learn from this person?” You don’t think, “Doesn’t he talk funny,” or, “Isn’t that a quaint belief?” Instead, you wonder, “Why are things that way where he’s from? “ “Maybe I should try eating lamprey or grasshoppers, just like they do.” “Maybe I should go there and check it out for myself.”

Archaeologists tend to love science fiction—“What would life be like if….?” Most of us still have an old trowel. The smaller it is after years of sharpening, the better. Most of us love/loved to drink, and also to imbibe in the drug of the particular decade in which we “came of age.” In a particular settlement in northern Alaska, I first came to experience hashish and moonshine made from raisins and canned fruit cocktail. It was our own version of “going native.” We tend to walk looking at the ground, even in cities—we are so used to looking for artifacts hidden in the grass that we search for them in the concrete, too.

Artifacts are one thing; living people are another. They talk; they yell; they get mad at you. I had worked several years in the wilderness before working “in town,” the town being Barrow, AK, the northernmost community in the United States.

The inhabitants hated us at first-we were evil scientists from the lower ’48. We were there to plunder their history and remove it for good. We were also the ethnic minority of choice to pick on. Luckily, people got used to us, and thanks to our project, there is a new museum in town that showcases all that we found.

The stuff I had to read in school, even the most boring of the 19^th century social anthropologists, has greatly influenced me. I’ve had a great education and have known many outstanding mentors.

But it’s the dirt under your finger nails, the conversation with an elder about the old ways, the joy of finding a 500-year old ivory comb, the spontaneous concerts (guitar, banjo, saw and harmonica), the familiar sound of sharpening your trowel, that have given me a breadth and depth of experience I would never have known.

If you’re lucky, you have found your passion or are searching for it. Perhaps it is part of everyone’s journey. Keep looking! When I lose my way, however briefly, I grab my copy of Halliburton (my Golden Book of Archaeology lost in the past) or I fondle my trowel. We all have talismans. What’s yours?

Flying in Alaska: A Thriller in Three Parts

Fri, 11 May 2012 02:00:02 +0100

See this new awe inspiring, terrifying, exciting and exhilarating tale, about the good, the bad and the ugly of fixed wings, float planes, and helicopters in Bush Alaska.

PILOT BREAD MAKES THE WORLD GO 'ROUND

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 02:45:20 +0100

Along with Spam, Sunny Jim preserves, Tillamook cheese, Dak bacon, Mountain House freeze dried food and gorp, Pilot Bread is the epitome of fine living in the Bush.

HYPOTHERMIA, A NEW STORY

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 02:33:13 +0100

What it's like to begin to lose your senses 2 miles from camp in howling wind....

ALASKA, THE GREAT LAND

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 03:57:28 +0100

OF COURSE, I'M PARTICULAR TO THE TUNDRA NORTH OF THE ARCTIC CIRCLE. TUNDRA IS GREEN, GRASSY, LOW. LIKE THE STEPPES OF SIBERIA. IT LOOKS LIKE A POSTCARD FROM THE PLEISTOCENE. YOU CAN ALMOST SENSE A HERD OF WOOLLY MAMMOTHS HUDDLING TOGETHER IN THE COLD, STEAM ESCAPING FROM THEIR TRUNKS....

FAIRBANKS: COLD HANDS, WARM HEART

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 03:49:53 +0100

This Thanksgiving, I was in Fbx (Square Banks, Bare Flanks), AK for the first time in decades. it was frigging -35 two days before hand and by the time I left on Friday it had risen to almost 2 above!! The excitement of being with Kathy, Jim, Frank, Marilyn and Mark was beyond description.

New Story

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 00:07:46 +0100

See my story on the first act of courage this tenderfoot/cheechako had in Fbx! June 1977

New story: "Simple Gifts"

Sat, 14 May 2011 20:09:55 +0100

see my new story about life in the tundra, ca. 1978