From: Richard A. Fineberg (Aug. 28, 2008; Page 1 of 1)
To: Dan, Nancy, the Five Musketeers and Everyone Else in the Dryden Network


(1) 1976

The beginning. Comes to mind and heart a lovely song:

When the deer has bedded down and the bear has gone to ground,
And the northern goose has wandered off to warmer gays and sounds,
It’s so easy in your heart to feel the darkness all around,
But the world is always turning toward the morning.

Decades ago, Gordon Bok, sea-faring Maine baritone balladeer, wrote this for a
friend in need of solace. For months he was unable to respond to her letter. He
wanted to tell her to look to the hills for comfort, but it was November in Maine,
and he could find no warmth that month in the bleak landscape. And so he wrote
this song:

Oh, my Nancy, don’t you know, that the stars are swinging slow?
And the seas are rolling easy, as they did so long ago;
If I had a thing to give you, I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning toward the morning.

Like others who have shared on these pages their deep appreciation and
affection for Dan Dryden and their gratitude for the warm embrace of the Dryden
family, I feel honored and privileged to have been welcomed into the Dryden
household and fortunate that we have shared so many years together. But (like
Gordon Bok, who could not answer his grieving friend) Dan’s sudden departure
left me so bereft that I was unable to add my reflections. As the news flew round
the globe during the first 48 hours, my first thought was that I must offer comfort.
But when I spoke with Nancy (from her hospital bed in Morales) and Jessica
(who called when their flight was delayed at the Anchorage airport), both sought
to comfort me. Amazing. Who could ask for better friends?

(Did the sea-faring song writer know Nancy? Perhaps not, for he wrote this
song to Joannie. More on this mystery to come.)

When I met Nancy in 1975, she brightened a cold Fairbanks November. I was
playing music with friends in town; she had come to her neighbor’s house to
borrow some sugar for baking. We immediately became friends. But as our
friendship blossomed, there was one major kink: She was always talking about
this guy named Dan. I figured he must not have cared for her because he always
was off driving a truck between Fairbanks and the North Slope. I didn’t want to
hear about this stupid jerk, but she wanted me to meet him.

Oh, well.

But then, one evening when Dan was not driving the haul road we met. Despite
the fact that I was reporting on the pipeline and he was part of the project,
hauling equipment and materials north, we immediately became fast friends. I
think we were equally intrigued by the striking similarities in our rational and
cognitive pursuit of empirical realities, as well as the equally extraordinary
differences between Dan’s cosmic approach to the universe (which I observed
with interest but did not share). The connections were so deep that, looking
back, I find it hard to picture my life without the Drydens.
Dan told me later that although he had driven smaller trucks and farm equipment
prior to the pipeline, he had never driven an 18-wheeler. He was looking for a
pipeline job when a truck driver offered him a ride to Anchorage; he took it,
hoping that he might get a chance to take the wheel and learn to drive a big rig; it
happened just that way. He came back to Fairbanks, ready for the Teamster test
drive. Fortunately, the Teamster test truck had the same gear box he had driven
(I forget whether it was 12-speed or 15-speed) and he passed the test. Over the
next two years, he made 92 trips north on the new, unpaved 415-mile road from
Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay. With 150 trucks shuttling back and forth between
Prudhoe Bay and Fairbanks daily, it was called the Kamikaze Trail. Worst of all
was the 60 miles of old mining road between Fairbanks and Livengood. The new
road was rough-hewn, but at least it was built for big trucks. Not so for the grades
and curves on the he stretch from Fairbanks to Livengood, which was an old
mining trail.

Dan loved it.

On one northern trip, Dan paused on the Haul Road near Sukakpak Mountain to
enjoy the view when a voice came in on his CB. A miner in a nearby cabin, just
off the road, wanted to know what this truck was doing when Dan stopped there
and Dan immediately made friends with the old miner. In the spring of 1976 he
persuaded his to write me a note granting me permission to come and visit. With
that note, Dan could get me past the checkpoint at the Yukon River. Once across
the river, I could visit the old miner (I did a piece for the News-Miner’s week-
ender on the old miner, “The View from Linda Creek.” Better yet, I could walk
straight into the pipeline camps with Dan, sit down to a free meal, finagle a free
trucker’s bunk and – most importantly – talk to pipeline workers, free from the
company press chaperones that turned journalistic trips north into a dog and
pony show. But that is another story. This is about our first adventure.

After chaining up in a snowstorm near Livengood, Dan mounted the cab and
went on the CB: “18 wheeler at the foot of Livengood Hill; anyone on the grade?”

A crackling voice came back, something like: “Hey, good buddy, empty flatbed
coming down. I’m halfway down and it’s slippery as hell right
here. I’m swinging all over the place. Wouldn’t want to meet anybody coming
up.”

We waited until the empty semi, on the back haul from a pipeline camp or the
Slope, passed us south bound and then ground our way up the steep hill, Dan
straining to find the road through a caked windshield in near white-out conditions.

Dan left me at Galbraith Lake and continued north. My pipeline camp visits were
adventures of another sort; For example, at Galbraith I met laborer friends and
spent the night; we partied, drank and played square dance tunes. The next day,
I hitch-hiked south, blissfully ignorant that my mother had died in the Lower-48.
When I arrived back in Fairbanks and received the news, I called Dan and
Nancy, who prepared a ceremonial dinner, lit candles and introduced me to the
notion that death may not be the end. Dan escorted me to the airport. Who
could ask for better friends?

Dan and Nancy left for England to sail Janetta back. Steve and June have
described the friends they made. I would have little contact with the Drydens for
the next 13 years.

Dan later said he made 92 trips on the Haul Road. Near the end of his Haul Road
run, he landed in the ditch once – if I remember correctly – ruining an otherwise
perfect record. The rookie trucker on the pipeline became the veteran whose CB
handle was “The Professor.”


(2) 1989 - 2008

San Francisco, August 27. Elided remeniscenses on the fly.

The driveway on the eastbound ascent just past Mile 56 on the Rich gives little
hint of the beauty of that windswept bluff and not a clue of the warmth of that
barnlike house, with its dining room and kitchen on the second story. How clearly
I remember the summer day, thirteen years later, when, driving from Valdez and
Prince William Sound to Homer (it was the summer of the Exxon Valdez spill
and clean-up), I stopped to see if I could find my old friends the Drydens. Had
they built at Mile 56? Were they still there? At Sheep Creek Lodge I found them
in the phone book. Two hours later, driving west near mile 56, a little girl got out
of a car to check the mail, skipped back in. A woman who looked like Nancy was
driving. I followed them back to that unspectacular driveway and up the long
drive from the highway. I still recall sensing no anxiety on their part that a
stranger was following them as I jumped out of my truck to say hello. Nancy
calmly and happily greeted me and introduced me to Jessica, as if we had seen
each other yesterday; Daniel, 11, and Dan would be home shortly. As if a13-year
was nothing, I was welcomed into the Dryden family.

And so began 18 years of great experiences. The memories flow together.

I remember with joy how many times I drove up that driveway to find welcoming
smiles, a warm hug, a good meal. To l to look at the panaroma of the
surrounding mountains from a kitchen where I was always welcome, always at
home. A universe so different from the world of politics and current events I
inhabited.

The memories come flooding back. I never contemplated that they could ever
end. And I try to tell myself that they did not end.

Finding joy is so easy if you just let yourself. Grief? It is but a remembrance of
that joy, that potential. Focus on the beauty.

The outings. I came to think of Dan as the Tarp King. Always equipped, able to
devise a support system with ropes and skilful knotting, taking delight in sharing
the protected zone he had created.

And the places the tarps were pitched:

• Denali in a September snow storm, camping with the Woods, with Jessica
and Daniel home from college.

• The Kobuk River on big rafts we ran down from Walker Lake.

• The Copper River. Where Grizzlies watched us from across Abercrombie
Falls.

• The Turner River in the Arctic Refuge where we stood silent as thousands
of caribou appeared over the brow of a ridge, pouring for hours out of a
valley that appeared to be empty.

• Hawkins Island in Prince William Sound, where salmon sharks streaked
under our kayaks one day.


The memories flow together. Enjoyment of great experiences was the primary
goal, to which Dan contributed so much. And, seemingly, so effortlessly. Not
because all things came easily to Dan, but because he wanted to share.
However tired Dan might have been, however anxious about worldly problems,
he was always at his best on an expedition. Seeking adventure, and relishing it
when he found it.

The memories come flooding back. I never contemplated that they could ever
end. And Dan would assure me, I suspect, that they did not end.

Focus on the beauty.

Over the years, the kitchen became a clubhouse for Dan and me. Not a secret
club, but a place where we would bring back and exchange information,
understandings gained about the mysterious universe. A place where we would
ponder questions concerning whatever subject about which we had we gained
understanding since last we met, or whatever it was that we did not understand.

Grief is but a remembrance of that joy, that potential.

Finding joy can be easy if you just let yourself.


(3) Messages from a Far-Flung Network

In this time, the messages being passed around the world have meant so much
to so many. I cherish each as a blessing or candle for Dan. Here are a select
few.

The message from Riki Ott’s sister Lisi was simple and direct:

Subject: A Great Man

What a loss. We feel so blessed to have shared . . . quality time together. .
. . Peace be upon their family, they are in our thoughts.

Lisi Ott and Jeff Johnson

Years before, they had been welcomed into the Dryden world.

That was Monday, August 11. Much earlier that morning (2-1/2 hours after
Jessica called from the Anchorage airport), I had two wonderful and nourishing
calls from the Bay Area. One from my daughter Renata in Oakland and one from
my niece Julia in San Francisco. In these wonderful years, they both had the
opportunity to meet the Drydens and share their universe: My daughter
and my niece Julia, both checking in to acknowledge Dan’s departure.

The common denominator: All had been welcomed into the Dryden world and
are part of this wonderful, far-flung network.

Comes to mind now a verse from a Gordon Bok sea shanty, one I have carried
for decades.

Nancy, Oh my Nancy,
(Clear away in the morning)
She never played it fancy.
(Oh, bring her round).

It pleases me to speculate that Gordon Bok did meet Nancy:

Later that day (August 11), Dee Woods returned my voice mail message. He
said, very simply,

“We’re not doing any better than you are.”

I wasn’t home, but there was no need to talk; all said and done.

With Dan’s help, I know that in time we will all be doing better. And as we come
around, Dan’s memory is – will be – right there with us, smiling and proud.

Get out Old Dan's records
Bring out Old Dan's records
High above the fireplace
There's a smile on Old Dan's face
If Old Dan could see us now
I know he'd be so proud
If Old Dan were with us still
I know he'd come around

How did Gordon Lightfoot know? If only Dan were here, we could ask him: How
did both Gordons know? Can the network really be so expansive, penetrating
and knowing? Or did these two Gordons just happened to get it right by chance?

Dan would have loved debating this. And if he could see the outpouring of love,
affection and energy on these pages, I know he’d be so proud.

Thank you, everyone.

Thank you, Dan.