Rie Muñoz, the well-known Alaskan artist, died on April 6, 2015. Although she’s gone, her experiences are not lost, from her first memories in Holland and assisting with the Allies’ WWII efforts, to journeying to the Last Frontier and blossoming into the beloved artist so many Alaskans have come to know. During the last five years of her life, Muñoz penned “Rie’s Memoirs” to relive all her old adventures and keep her memories sharp. Her son, Juan Muñoz, decided to share his mother’s memoir with the Empire so the public could read about her rich life experiences. This is an excerpt from “Rie’s Memoirs” from sections “March 5, 1954,” “King Island” and “Back to Juneau,” reprinted with permission. The full memoir is available in a PDF format at riemunoz.com.
March 5, 1951
Because it was a fairly mild winter, Juan and I decided to go on an overnight hike up Mount Jumbo. We thought we would ask Art Kimball along, so I called him on the phone. Our telephone was a large old fashioned wooden phone that you had to manually ring by turning a ringer four or five times.
When the operator answered, she asked, “Who can I ring for you?”
“Art Kimball,” I answered.
“Oh, Art is on a hike up Mount Juneau,”she explained. The operator continued, “He expects to be back about 4:30 p.m.”
I told Juan what the operator had heard. In those days, Douglas was still on party lines, so news and scandals spread around faster than in the present day. With our friend Art already gone on another adventure, we decided to go on our own.
Dusk came sooner than expected, and we started making camp by clinging onto a long pole under a spruce tree. We hoped the branches of the tree would protect us somewhat from the snow falling. Sleep did not come easy. It got darker and we got colder.
After a while, Juan piped up in a weak but hopeful voice: “I’ve heard tell that when you are freezing it helps tremendously if two people strip down to nothing in the same sleeping bag.”
I, practically in tears from the cold, said, “Let’s go home now while there’s still some light.”
By the time we packed up, it was totally dark. Luckily, Juan had a flashlight — but it only worked for two minutes at a time, since it was so cold the battery would die. We could get a little more light by putting the flashlight in our armpits. Finally, after a long, treacherous journey down the mountain, we made it back to our Quonset hut.
King Island
We went to the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) office in Juneau for an appointment with Hugh Wade, whom we both knew, to see if any such jobs existed. Hugh looked through some official looking papers in his file and said, “Yes, there are three schools that don’t have teachers yet for the 1950-51 school year. The villages are Sleetmute, King Island and Barrow.”
The only one we had heard of was Barrow. Where were Sleetmute and King Island? I asked if we could think it over and let him know the next day. “No problem,” he said. We scurried out of the BIA and over to the library to see what we could find out on either location. We found no information whatsoever on King Island save for a pin prick on the Northern Bering Sea. It was closer to Russia than Alaska. There was very little written material on the Kuskokwim River town of Sleetmute, as well. Barrow we knew was located at the northernmost tip of Alaska and was the largest Eskimo settlement in the Territory of Alaska. So Barrow was out, Sleetmute on the river was out, remote King Island was in!
When we told Hugh the next day of our choice, he advised (well, warned) us that 1) The King Islanders spoke their Eskimo language exclusively. They knew no English except for several who had been drafted during World War II and stationed “outside.” The school children spoke no English among themselves — only during English lesson in school, if they even had the class. 2) Once on King Island we were there to stay. In case of emergencies, there would be no way to do a Medivac to Nome once the winter set in. 3) Every bit of food, equipment, medical and whatever other supplies we might need for nine months had to be shipped on the BIA freighter, the SS Northstar on its annual King Island voyage in September — everything! 4) If a woman teacher was going over, she was cancelled out if she was pregnant. Nine months on the King Island meant any birth would take place on the island, which had no hospital, doctor, nurse (or even a store, for that matter).
Then Hugh told us of the previous teachers on King Island. They were a couple who were “free thinkers,” as it were. In any event, the woman teacher was indeed pregnant but denied it. The couple really wanted to teach on the remote island so they went anyway. They figured the father could deliver the child on King Island even though he had no experience doing so. When the birth came, it was turned around the wrong way in the mother’s womb. The midwives on the island offered to help but the father declined. The result was a still birth. The baby boy was buried in the King Island graveyard along the rugged trail to the summit of the island.
I was not pregnant and we signed up for the 1951-1952 school year. Our King Island experiences were later published in the book “King Island Journal.” The book consists of photos Juan took and letters we had written to our parents.
There were no doctors or dentists on King Island, so we had our check ups before we left. We were told not to worry if war broke out with Russia, which was visible from the island. If war did break out, we were told, the government would fly us out, presumably by helicopter.
There are many stories that we recounted in the King Island Journal, so I won’t repeat them here. One story that was not in the journal was about the litter of husky puppies we had on King Island. When we first arrived, we were greeted by all the dogs that had been left over the summer to fend for themselves while the villagers went to Nome. They would eat bird eggs and mice. As the boat approached you could hear the howls of delight almost a mile away! Once ashore, it was the wildest, happiest scene I have ever experienced — about 100 King Islanders being greeted by 150 dogs racing, wagging, sniffing, calling, finding, licking, hugging!
Two of the huskies came right over to us like they knew us. One of the villagers explained that they had belonged to the previous teachers, and they figured we were their new owners. They were right. The female, Pinocchio, was pregnant and soon gave birth to a litter of husky puppies. After a month or so, villagers came by to pick out puppies.
A fellow named Agapuk stopped by and chose two white huskies. As he was leaving, another fellow came in. He said, “I’ll bet Agapuk wanted those two white ones.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“He likes matching dogs because he makes mittens out of them.”
Needless to say, we made up some excuse not to give Agapuk those dogs.
Back to Juneau
Upon my return to Juneau from King Island, the editor of the Sunday Press, Dorothy Pegues, had died. I continued working at the Press for a short while and then was accepted for a reporting job on Juneau’s only daily paper, the Empire. As the “Women’s Page Editor,” I would report on the goings on around Southeast Alaska. I received other stories from columnists in Alaska also working for the paper. One columnist frequently reported from various events that “A good time was had by all!” It was so catchy that all of the staff at the paper would use that phrase for most any occasion.
The Women’s Page Editor was certainly not the most prestigious position in the newspaper. In the early 50s, a family going to Europe on vacation was newsworthy, perhaps a long article and a picture. The picture was always of the woman only. If there was a wedding, the picture would be of the bride only. “It’s the bride’s big day, not the grooms after all,” the editor would explain.
The first editor I worked with on the Empire was Elmer Friend. He was about 70-75 years old and a chain smoker. He would always drop his ashes in the tin waste basket full of paper. Frequently someone would detect a thin ribbon of blue smoke coming out of the waste basket. There would be some frantic stomping out of embers or dousing with water and then back to work, until the next time.
One time he took me aside when he heard I had moved in with my boyfriend in his Quonset hut in Douglas. “Cohabitation is illegal,” he warned. “You could go to jail!” My boyfriend Juan and I were married that January.
• Muñoz (Aug. 8, 1921- April 6, 2015) was a prominent artist and longtime resident of Alaska.
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