An old-timer's standard response to complaints about the food is: "You guys act like you think I give a damn if you like my cooking or not," or "You guys know I can't cook."
This shuts the crew up for days while they plan new strategy. No fun riding a cook who doesn't give a damn.
Bob Hooker, the camp supervisor, emerged from the geologists' shack and tramped up to me. He was a short, dark-faced man with stringy black hair over his eyes and a habit of blinking furiously when he talked.
"Guess you're the cook, huh. Well, you don't look too dangerous," he said, blinking rapidly and offering his hand. He switched a cold cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "I'm Hooker, the supe. Glad to see you. I hope you're the man we've been looking for. The crew's been in such a bad mood I can't hardly get any work out of them." He sighed. "We've had one big problem nobody's been able to handle. If you can't solve it, no hard feelings but I'll just have to call into Anchorage for another cook."
"Well," I said, "I guess it all depends. If you guys want everything cooked underground I'll do the best I can, but in all this frozen tundra out here . . . Where's the firewood?"
"Underground? Firewood? What in blazes are you talking about?" He clamped down on the cold cigar and blinked even more rapidly, then seemed to decide he hadn't heard me right. He motioned with his hand. "Come on, let's go in the cookshack and get you squared away."
The Handy Target identified!
The door to the cookshack was frozen shut and we had to put our shoulders to it. Inside, Hooker said, "Look, Cookie, let me give you a tip . . . These guys are basically okay, but let me tell you, in the morning they're always in a bad mood. Most of "em have smuggled hooch into camp and they play poker and drink whiskey all night, then they"ve got a rough day's work ahead of them and they're in a rotten mood and they'll be looking for a handy target. That's you."
At my nervous nod, he continued, "You've got to keep your oven on all night or your supplies will freeze." He looked at me expectantly. "Course you know all that."
I nodded vaguely. "Oh, of course." Just like in southern California.”
The cookshack had a propane stove with an oven and four burners. The crew's long wooden dining table ran down the center of the building. Against the wall were shelves with canned goods On the floor were large cans with powdered milk, flour, salt and sugar. A case of eggs sat on a top shelf where they wouldn't freeze.
I looked over the rest of the supplies: peaches, tomato sauce, canned soups (canned soups?), pancake mix, blueberries, canned vegetables, canned pork and beans (canned beans?). Well, at least there was one thing I could cook above ground. Maybe I could handle this job after all - until somebody dragged in a grizzly, that is.
Why so many coffee pots?
Then I noticed the coffee percolators; ten of them scattered around the cookshack.
I indicated them to Hooker and asked him why so many. He took the cigar out of his mouth, scratched a match on the stove, blew out a cloud of smoke. "Oh, yeah, that's why they ran off the last cook. Poor devil." He shook his head sadly. "That cook never could make enough coffee or have it ready on time. I don't know what you're gonna do about it, but everything kinda hinges on what you do about the coffee problem."
He stared at me mournfully, blinking and chewing the cigar. "I don't even think they'll care if you can cook or not, but if you can't make enough coffee . . ." He sighed again. "A supe's job is hard."
Well," he said as he went out the door, "your quarters are next door. I think you'll find it comfortable. Good luck and see you in the morning."
When he left I checked the oven to see if it was burning properly, then went outside to my shack. All it had was a bed with a big red sleeping bag on it and that was it - except for a Big Ben alarm clock. I lay there thinking about rivers of coffee and planning the best way to make enough so I wouldn't get run out of camp.
At six I woke up and pulled on my clothes, ready for my first trial by fire. I darted out of my little log shack and around the corner into the cookshack. I got the burners going and looked around for the sink. Found it after a short search. No faucets. Therefore no water. How was I to make coffee without faucets? I panicked.
