Michelle Schuman

Michelle Schuman

MICHELLE WAS ALWAYS CONNECTED TO NATURE AND ITS HEALING POWER. IT WAS THE SOLITUDE AND CALMING AROMAS OF ALASKA THAT ALLOWED HER TO HEAL AFTER LOSING THE LOVE OF HER LIFE.

In the distance, the Bendeleben Mountains disappeared into a memory as the angry, black clouds bled rivers of rain while winds shook the small plane. Our pilot, struggling against the controls, was quiet and focused on his instruments as we bounced up and down and side to side. I dared to look at Pete, my coworker from Palmer, as he held my hand. He whispered, “It will be ok.”

This was not my first rodeo flying in bad weather while working as a range scientist for the USDA, but this storm blew up fast and strong. My brain would not quiet as the words screamed inside my head, “Rick this was why. This was why. I love you.”

For months I had this foreboding that shadowed my excitement to see my husband. Finally, when Rick stepped from the gateway into the Anchorage Airport terminal, in May of 1983, I felt nothing but pure joy. Dressed in hiking boots and jeans, his wavy brown hair streaked with blonde, the dimples of his smile calmed my anticipation. And when I saw that familiar twinkle in his gray eyes, I ran to him and held him tight.

It had been nearly a year since I, too, had stepped into that same gateway and terminal in the Anchorage Airport. My subconscious convinced me that the short separation would be worthwhile in pursuit of our long-term dreams. After 4 years and many sacrifices, we now had an opportunity to have our careers not only in the same state, but the same city. I was thrilled, and yet worried with my second field season soon approaching.

I remember that weekend in April of 1979 visiting a girlfriend in Spokane. I was full of doubts and misgivings when I nearly called off our wedding. Rick was my soul mate and yet, I had to choose. Why? Did I not earn my path to have the man I loved and the career I earned?

At the age of 4, I announced to my parents that I was going to be a big game veterinarian. For years, that dream never faltered, no matter the obstacles and challenges that stood in my way, including my parents. Throughout my childhood, they reminded me I was on my own after high school graduation. They had no inclination to help their oldest daughter go to college.

When I found my mother standing amongst the remains of my pink papier mâché “piggy bank” coins scattered on the floor, she declared, “Your father does not leave me enough money to feed you kids.” On her knees, she gathered the coins into her apron and left the bedroom I shared with my sister.

Standing there, fighting against the tears, I picked up a piece of the pink papier mâché with the letters C O L L in gold glitter. College was my dream and even by the age of 12, I was willing to sacrifice anything to accomplish that dream. It was unfortunate my mother, intelligent and witty, used alcohol to diminish her desires. As I looked at the broken pieces on the floor, it was not just the piggy bank she shattered; it was also my heart.

On the good days my mom was known among the neighborhood kids as the cool mom. Although our home was cramped and tiny as a matchbox, it did not matter to us kids. There were no walls outside and the changing seasons simply broadened our playground. As spring brought warmth, Mom would throw my older brother, me, and my younger sister into our old brown

Chevy station wagon and take us fishing. She could sit for hours along the shore, her line in the water, a cigarette hanging from her ruby red lips, with distant eyes in a faraway place. As I glanced at her, she looked content and at peace with her hauntings. It made me smile.

I inherited her love of nature but not her patience. Rather than fish, I would explore the basalt cliffs, climbing the fractured pillars splattered with yellow and orange algae. It was rare not to see a deer or a rabbit. If I was lucky, I would find a snake snoozing in the warmth of the sand.

During the bad days, when depression and alcohol weighed my mother down, it was the smell of sage and the calling of the meadowlark that brought me peace. I would grab my bike and Jingles, my dog and faithful companion, and ride as fast as I could to the vast open fields of sagebrush. There, safe with Jingles at my side, I spent hours in the solitude of nature.

In the summer night, to drown out the alcohol-fueled anger, I slept outside on the cool, green grass under the glittering stars, making a wish for every star that sliced through the dark night, only to be swallowed by the darkness.

My life changed when I met Rick in the summer of 1976. I was offered a work study job through Washington State University with the U.S. Forest Service, in the Blue Mountains of Oregon. Neither myself nor my new co-worker Jan, also in work study and going to WSU, had a vehicle. Although the nearest town was an hour away, we had no problem finding interesting things to do and see in this wonderland of forest, rivers, and mountains. As recreational technicians, it was our job to maintain the dozen or so remote campgrounds scattered throughout the Malheur Forest.

After a long day cleaning outhouses and picking up human trash–and diapers–in fire pits, in outhouses, stuffed in garbage cans, all I wanted was a long, hot shower. I exited the passenger side of our two-ton truck filled with garbage and walked to the rear to unload our stinky cargo. What happened to Jan? It was then that I noticed her leaning against the truck, a grin on her porcelain face, staring. I followed her gaze to the ranger station where a dozen or so smoke jumpers were doing calisthenics, sweat glistening on their shirtless bodies.

I only noticed one guy, lean and muscular with light brown hair and smiling. Jan looked at me, “What about your rule?” “What rule?” I answered. That night I found out his name was Rick.

Amongst the thousands of acres of wilderness, Rick and I found each other. He grew up 40 miles from my home town in Washington State and he was studying pre-med at WSU. He was 6 years older than me, loved the outdoors, was smart, funny, and athletic.

No, there was never any doubt of our love or marriage. But when I was offered a wildlife biologist position in Montana after I graduated, I saw no reason not to accept the job. Rick had changed his major for a third time and he insisted he could only get his PhD in engineering at WSU. Not Montana State University. I wanted to get married and I wanted the job, and Rick could still get his graduate degree in engineering. What was the problem?

After a weekend of soul searching and my mom’s admonishment of my selfishness, I gave in.

One question I am frequently asked: “Do I regret anything?”

The answer is always the same. I regret turning down the job in Montana. I am convinced if I had only insisted, maybe even demanded, that we move to Montana after we got married, our future would have been the one we planned: kids, grandkids, and traveling the world. Or would it? That is the problem with regrets. We do not really know.

We got married on May 26, 1979, and moved to Pullman, Washington. Rick had a research assistant position which helped supplement the income from my jobs. He decided against the Ph.D. a few months into the program, allowing his insecurities of not being perfect, get the better of him. I was pissed, not at him but at myself, because I did not stand up for myself. When Rick graduated from Washington State University with a Master’s in engineering in 1981, he accepted an engineering position with Chevron in Concord, California.

California, and the job offer, became a long and heated discussion. This time, I did stand up for myself as an equal partner in our marriage. Rick explained to Chevron the terms of our agreement in acceptance of his employment. Chevron agreed to find his wife a position in the environmental department.

While Rick went to work every day, I was left with the burden of taking care of the tasks required when moving to a new city. After months had passed, and no word about my career, my patience had reached the tipping point as my life became filled with the domestic chores of an urban wife in an urban environment. I became a nag, asking my husband when was my interview for this promised position!

Without any confirmation of this so-called job of mine, I did what I thought I should do: I showed up at his place of work asking to see my husband. I had no idea security would not allow that. A few minutes later Rick, embarrassed more than angered, after being summoned to see his wife in the waiting area, looked at me.

“Really, I need security clearance to bring my husband lunch?” I smiled as I held up a paper bag. He kissed my cheek and said he would talk to his boss.

As more months passed, fearing for my sanity in this noisy human-created cement ecosystem, I gave up on Chevron’s promises and excuses. Rick was extremely busy with his various projects, requiring travel to offshore oil platforms so he was rarely home. Although Rick was apologetic and sympathetic in my yearning to begin my career, I learned at a very young age to never depend on anyone for something I wanted.

I said yes to a temporary position in Carson City, Nevada, with the Bureau of Land Management tracking wild horses. The field position required me to work 4 ten-hour days, which meant I had long weekends. It allowed me to visit Rick in Concord and when Rick was not working in the field, an opportunity for a romantic rendezvous in Lake Tahoe or to explore the natural world of the Sierra Mountains. It was perfect and a financial boost. Rick found a smaller, less expensive apartment and I scored on a living arrangement in Carson City. I paid $5 a night for a room when I was there.

The job was heaven. During the day, I followed different herds of wild horses, recording the size of the herd and notes on each of the horses: gender, age, and behavior. Watching these magnificent free animals, I was drawn to this beautiful white stallion, his head high, running behind his herd. He gave me hope. I could not imagine what they endured, surviving in some of the harshest environments in the world.

Near the end of the day, I would throw my dinner wrapped in foil on the truck engine and by the time I would stop for the night, I had a hot meal. At first, I was nervous throwing my sleeping bag on the ground, but eventually that is where I slept, watching  sunsets melt into clear night skies while stars danced as if choreographed with the music of coyotes howling in the distance. In the morning, the luminous orange of the sunrise welcomed me to the new day.

One afternoon before leaving for the field, I received a call from the human resources assistant with USDA in Anchorage, Alaska. She was asking me if I was available for a temporary range scientist position. I vaguely remembered selecting Alaska, along with several other states, on my application with the federal job registrar before Rick accepted the position in California. That was how I got the job in Carson City, but federal jobs in 1982 in the natural resources field were scarce.

During the conversation, I got the distinct impression the HR assistant was holding something back, a feeling I could not quite explain. They wanted me to start July 1, which was only a month away. As Rick and I discussed the options, one fact stood out: Chevron had an office in Anchorage. Although a temporary position, it would allow us to check out Alaska, a place we had planned to visit. We felt the opportunity was our destiny, so we said yes.

After flying all night, I arrived in Anchorage with a backpack and a duffel bag. The government did not pay for travel relocation for temporary employees, one of the many disadvantages of seasonal and temporary positions.

That feeling and the hesitancy of the human resources woman became clear when I was introduced to my supervisor. A touch neurotic with a complete lack of common sense or empathy, he insisted I leave immediately for the field camp. Before I left, the HR assistant apologized to me, guilt obvious in her eyes. “It’s okay,” I lied.

Once I landed in Nome, I followed the directions given to me by someone other than my supervisor, to the plane charter, Bering Air. Thank the stars they knew where the field camp was, because I certainly did not. We landed in a snowstorm on a dirt road in the vastness of nowhere, my home for the next 8 weeks. When the guy I was replacing showed me my tent, I realized instantly, this would be one of the many challenges this position would present to me. There was no door and the olive-green mummy sleeping bag was older than me. The feathers sticking out of the worn seams blowing in the breeze. This was an all-male camp and they had made their first move.

“Boys, boys, I accept your challenge. Let the games begin,” I muttered as I found the foot path to the outhouse, the sun-bleached caribou antlers sitting upon the tripod of driftwood, easily marking the location.

Walking back to my tent I could feel my body awaken from the inside out. The cool, fresh breeze cleansed my lungs. I stood still and with closed eyes concentrated on the silence. As I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but the sheer beauty of nature. My soul had been touched. I remembered the defiance in the eyes of the white stallion as he refused to be corralled during a round up and now, I understood. His soul belonged to nature, not to man.

Summer was over as the colors of the tundra changed from green to brilliant reds and snow dusted the mountains. On our last night in Nome, we were celebrating the end of my first field season with beers at the Board of Trade, when my crewmate announced I had won the bet.

I took a sip of the cold beer and remembered how close it came for me to sweet-talk my helicopter pilot for a ride back to Nome. It would have been so much easier to walk away from the world of testosterone and go back to my husband. All hell broke loose in our camp less than a day after my supervisor showed up. The tension this man caused was mind-blowing.

The bet was not only if I could handle working and living in a field camp. The bet was whether I could put up with the man who was my supervisor. At the time, or maybe it was the beer, I replied, “Well hell, he’s not the first cowboy with insecurity issues. Bring it on and get me another beer.”

Holding hands, Rick and I walked to my car outside the Anchorage Airport. Rick stopped, “Wow, look at those Mountains.” He looked at me and winked before getting into the car.

Since Rick was on a temporary assignment, Chevron approved us to stay in the company’s two-bedroom apartment, a step up from mine and in a better location to both our offices. I was thrilled to find out his co-worker, and a friend of ours from the California office, would join us at the end of May. He was also on a short-term assignment and would provide Rick someone to do things with while I was in the field.

To celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary, we camped in Denali National Park. It was magical, eating s’mores and drinking champagne while enjoying the midnight sun. Spring in the Interior happens quickly as waterfowl streak across the sky and moose and grizzly gorge on the newly sprouted vegetation in the understory. It is a time of rebirth and replenishment in nature.

Our life became routine, as if the year we were apart never existed. We spent weekends exploring trails, and Rick joined a softball league. But when the ice disappeared from the lakes, Rick was ecstatic to find out that windsurfing was a very popular sport in the Anchorage area. He bought a used windsurfer and we spent nights and weekends at the nearby lakes as he patiently taught me how to windsurf. And then it happened. The day finally arrived for my departure for my second summer on the Seward Peninsula.

Rick soothed my fears and tried to ease my anxiety. He thought it was the pressure I put on myself, finalizing the details of managing a remote field camp for 8 weeks, not to mention, the implementation of a multi-million-acre vegetation and soil survey. But that feeling deep in my gut tugged at my heart. He made me laugh when he said, “If you are not home for a break in 4 weeks, I am chartering a plane to get you.”

He promised me he would be careful. I turned to look at him before walking down the gateway. With watery eyes and his hands in his jean pockets, he smiled.

As the small plane shook with each blast of the wind, I squeezed my eyes shut. Concentrating, I focused my thoughts on Rick, needing him to hear me, to know how much I loved and cherished him. I was so completely in my own thoughts I did not hear Pete screaming in my ear, “Michelle, Michelle, look–the Bering Sea. We made it!”

We didn’t crash. I beat it! We beat it! Rick was right. Everything will be okay. Well, except for Pete’s tent as it blew across the tarmac in a direct trajectory for the Bering Sea. I remarked, “Maybe a dome tent is not the best choice.”

Upon our arrival in Nome the week before, my supervisor informed us he had errands to do. My co-workers who were accustomed to his antics, in unison said to me, “It’s better he is not around.”

A week later, the day before our fixed-wing nearly dropped out of the sky, my supervisor arrived in a chartered aircraft with his young son. There was no explanation as to where he had been for the last 2 weeks, and he said nothing about our new guest, as if this was a normal occurrence.

As the soil scientists abandoned me for their week off, I had spent a frustrating day with my supervisor in hellacious weather. The pilot was losing his patience with this man’s lack of safety. My gut was on fire with anxiety. The next day, I informed my supervisor I had work to do in camp. I winked at the pilot and whispered, “Just remember you are in charge.”

Then the world that I knew ended.

A few hours later, Ruth, our cheerful Yupik cook, yelled that we had a visitor in camp. Standing next to her was an older man from the nearest village, his black hair covered with dust. He had ridden his three-wheeler from Elim. The sadness on Ruth’s face could not be masked. I didn’t even notice that the helicopter mechanic was frantically hooking up the battery for the radio phone. Our only communication to the outside world.

“What’s wrong?”

The small man, with the weathered brown face, explained there was an emergency for me. And then I heard chatter on the radio as our mechanic called me over, giving me the receiver. A man’s voice said my husband’s name followed by the word accident and then two words I could not comprehend.

I clicked the button, “This is Michelle, over.” Silence, then click, “Michelle your husband was in a car accident. I am sorry, but he died during surgery.” Click. I dropped the receiver as Ruth caught me and the mechanic caught the receiver.

I needed air and ran outside. The walls were closing in on me.

The sea was tumultuous, the color of deep sapphire fringed with brilliant white as the waves crashed against the sandy shore. The noise was deafening, but I welcomed it as I did not want to hear myself think. The salt spray lingered on my face as I got closer and closer. I knew I needed to breathe but how could I? Why would I?

I screamed at the stormy heavens above, “You fucked up! You were supposed to take me! Not him.”

Exhausted, I sat on the desolate strip of beach, shivering.

The mechanic sat next to me as he wrapped my coat around me.

I found out later from Ruth that the Agency refused to send a charter to pick me up even after the mechanic relayed to them that there was no response from the helicopter. He was screaming at them over the radio phone. Throughout this conversation, Bering Air made arrangements to divert a commercial commuter flight from a local village to pick me up.

The mechanic helped me back to camp where I packed and I waited with Ruth. When the thumping of the helicopter was heard, our mechanic rushed out to tell them what happened. I saw anger on my pilot’s face as he stormed into the kitchen. The scene in that small kitchen, surrounded by sea and mountains and tundra, is forever imprinted on my brain.

“I am taking you to Anchorage, Michelle,” my pilot commanded. My supervisor said he had no permission to take the helicopter to Anchorage.

Everything was in slow motion but I grasped how precarious this situation could be. As the mechanic held the pilot back from attacking my supervisor, the pilot looked at me. His anger was transformed into sadness. He walked over to where I was standing and hugged me. I whispered to him that I will be okay. This man was a survivor of Vietnam, as was my husband, and I felt his despair.

Three days later I carried my husband’s ashes onto an Alaska Airlines flight to Seattle and then a long drive to my parent’s house. I am not sure what I would have done without the help of my mother-in-law with the funeral arrangements. I felt suffocated, as my mom dictated orders to me. I had to buy a dress and shoes. I had to buy flowers for Rick. Why would I have to do that, I asked her? That was already being arranged at the funeral home in Wenatchee. She called me selfish.

When the cards started arriving, many with checks, I cried with gratitude and heartache. And then she told me I could not keep the money. It was not for me. It was meant for a charity of Rick’s.

I heard Rick’s words as I felt a slight touch on my cheek, “Go fish, Michie.” Three words he would use to settle me when disparaged by my mom.

Sage calmed my body as I breathed the rich aroma deep into my lungs. A red-tailed hawk screeched above as he caught the warm thermals from the basalt cliffs. Shadows were creeping across the dusty ground where I sat. I have no recollection of how long I sat in the sagebrush field, nor how I got there. What I do know was that I was not alone.

The power of nature has no boundaries or limits. It provides our soul sustenance without conditions, even during the gloomiest of days. Although lonely, we will never be alone, as the moon and the sun will always be there to guide us. Nature is a relationship that will last an eternity, if we allow it.

Michelle Schulman is a writer, adventurer, and environmentalist. “I was born in a small, rural town in eastern Washington, where I was free to explore the basalt cliffs and sagebrush fields. After receiving my undergraduate degree in wildlife biology, range management, and soil science, I married my soulmate, whom I met working in the Blue Mountains of Oregon. Our adventure took us to California, where my husband was a mechanical engineer; and Nevada, where I tracked wild horses. And then, I was offered a position in Alaska, working with reindeer and muskox. We thought it destiny, as his company also had a position in the same state and the same city, Anchorage. Early on in our Alaskan dream, Rick was tragically killed, propelling me on a tumultuous journey through a male-dominated culture that routinely diminished and disrespected the accomplishments and abilities of women. I experienced with great dismay the ways in which greed and ambition so easily place humanity and the environment in jeopardy. My memoir, The Understory, is the culmination of my efforts to control my own destiny, through the healing lessons of nature, and my love of writing. Currently, while in Florida, I am writing and wandering, as I ponder new beginnings, while looking for a community to call home.” Michelle’s book” The Understory: A Female Environmentalist in the Land of the Midnight Sun” can be found on Amazon.