Vo l . 4 N o . 2 Lloyds of London, the Insurer. Joe put the Alyeska job on hold, hoping for something where he and I could work together. I left with Cecil the next day to fly into Deadhorse. Cecil was 60-something, a very compact and chipper little man who wore an Eddie Bauer tan plaid shirt with his beige khaki chinos and rubber-soled boots. He was a hunting guide, with insurance being his avocation. He proudly showed me the stuffed musk ox, Boone and Crockett certified World Class, at Fairbanks International Airport. It bore a brass plaque with “Cecil Kessick, Hunting Guide” engraved on it. A musk ox looks like a big ox with a prehistoric headpiece over it’s horns which looks like Jackie Gleason’s parted hair. We landed in Prudhoe Bay, where the ground was still frozen and the snow had not yet melted, despite the 90 degree weather in Fairbanks, 500 miles to the south. Driving over the gravel roads to Frontier Base Camp, Cecil acted as tour guide, pointing out the facilities that rose impressively on the gravel pads built on the frozen tundra. “We call this one “the Hilton,” he said, pointing to Sohio’s camp, an ultra-modern modular, two story structure, balanced on support beams. “It has an Olympicsize swimming pool, complete with sauna and steam rooms. And they’re no fools. The standing water of the swimming pools reduces their fire insurance.” We got to Frontier Base Camp. Like most smaller camps, it was a collection of ATCO trailer units, with a roof and a floor built over and under so residents walked down interior halls to get to their rooms, bathrooms, dining hall. The company was owned by John C. (“Tennessee”) Miller. He was one of that breed of men who don’t fit in, who went from rags to riches to rags to riches on a regular basis. Tennessee Miller was a brilliant “dirt man” and had brought his bulldozers and other equipment up from Fairbanks on a “cat train.” Which was: Some ATCO units and other equipment pulled along by D-8 Caterpillars over impossible terrain. This project was so dangerous that his progress was charted and reported daily in the Anchorage Daily News. He pioneered the building of the Dalton Highway, the 500-mile dirt road from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay, the lifeblood of the budding oilfield. But that came later. When I met him and complimented his on his Cat Train accomplishment, he said, “Oh, I had to keep that
45 equipment movin’. It was about to be re-possessed!” Mr. Miller had raised Tennessee Walking Horses down home in Tennessee. He hired scores of people to work in the oilfield. He had a union side: Frontier Rock and Sand. And a non-union side: Frontier Transportation. But there was a giant rift between Tennessee Miller and Jessie Carr, President of the Alaska Teamsters. Nobody knows what caused it. Tennessee hired every union worker for the union side of his company. The 302 Operators. Laborers. And he contacted the Teamster hall in Fairbanks every Monday with a list of workers needed. Jessie Carr never sent him any Teamsters so on Wednesday he would hire non-union “drivers” from the general population. I found out much later that it wasn’t my secretarial skills, my stellar resume, that caused Cecil Kessick to hire me. They were looking for the quintessential dumb blonde. Somebody naïve from out of state, for this insurance project. Somebody who had never heard that Tennessee Miller, owner of Frontier Companies, and Jessie Carr, president of the Alaska Teamsters, were sworn enemies. Why? Because if one breath, one hint of even slightly suspected arson were whispered, the insurance company wouldn’t have covered the shop fire loss. Cecil set me up in an office and had me interview man after man who came forward with a list of what they lost in the fire. Everybody had arctic gear, tools. A half dozen guys had large boom boxes, and some had Walkmans and a lot of cassettes. My only job was to neatly type up the contents, without judgment. I did secretly wonder how large that shop would have to have been, to accommodate six large boom boxes. The foremen came forward with theirs lists: giant pieces of equipment. D-8 Cats and Front End Loaders and a B-70 Belly Dump. One cabover PeterBilt 18-wheeler. All of these terms were foreign to me except for the Peterbilt: I had heard truckers guffawing with each other at their hangout, The Sunset Strip, in Fairbanks. “How’s YOUR Peter Built?” they would say, then roar with laughter. My temporary job would soon be over. I inquired who a girl had to hug to get a permanent office job at this company. Tim Tyler, the office manager, was known as The Round Mound of Sound. He commandeered a desk that had three telephones and two crackling CB radios, often all five squawking at once. He took me under his wing. Said to go see K. Freeny, the manager, up in the Crow’s Nest. Do not accept a drink, if one was offered, and do