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With quiet eloquence, Katie Eberhart delicately teases away
layers of the natural world and human history to explore how
people adapt to landscapes and landscapes to people. The
homestead at the heart of this story is a time portal that invites
her to excavate the mysteries and meanings embedded within
its log walls—sometimes literally. Her keen attention to the
surrounding environment unveils the intricate connections
between slugs and glaciers, wells and rivers, gardens
and forests, settlement and abandonment, timelessness
and transformation. The result is a compelling mosaic of
meditations that illuminates the extraordinary within the
commonplace.
—Sherry Simpson, author of Dominion of Bears

Katie Eberhart’s well-constructed memoir reminds me of

my favorite kind of house, an old house that’s been added
onto over the years, a bedroom here, a family room there,
each addition reflecting the style and available materials of
the period as well as the eccentricities of the owners, while
maintaining an overall harmony. A house still cared-for, still
full of life. As with this lovely book, when you step inside, you
feel immediately at home.
—Charles Goodrich, writer, poet. Former director of the
Oregon State University’s Spring Creek Project
C A B I N 1 3 5
University of Alaska Press, Fairbanks
Text © 2020 Katie Eberhart

Published by
University of Alaska Press
P.O. Box 756240
Fairbanks, AK 99775-6240

Cover, interior, and map art by Ruth Hulbert.

Interior design by 590 Design.
Photos by Katie Eberhart.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Eberhart, Katie, author.

Title: Cabin 135 : A Memoir of Alaska / Katie Eberhart.
Description: Fairbanks : University of Alaska Press, 2020. | Summary:
“Cabin 135 was built near Palmer, Alaska in 1935 for the Matanuska Colony, a New
Deal resettlement project. The author and her husband took possession of the
house many years later and went to work tearing out and digging around the
aged structure, discovering evidence of changes made by prior residents and
layering their own adaptations. Through the lens of these activities—uncovering
the past and modifying the future—the author muses on questions of the nat-
ural world, migration, and settlement, the connections forged and abandoned
between people and places. Cabin 135, A Memoir of Alaska offers a journey of
wonder and curiosity through the renovations of an old house, looking to the
garden and greenhouse, the forest, and beyond to grapple with persistent worries
regarding habitation, nature, and the planet. It is a story of life.”—Provided by
publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019058777 (print) | LCCN 2019058778 (ebook) | ISBN
9781602234208 (paperback) | ISBN 9781602234215 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Eberhart, Katie. | Matanuska River Valley
(Alaska)—Biography. | Farm life—Alaska—Matanuska River Valley.
Classification: LCC F912.M3 E34 2020 (print) | LCC F912.M3 (ebook) | DDC
979.8/3—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058777
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058778
for Chuck
 1 B E G I N N I N G S

107 E C O L O G I E S

217 M O D U L A T I O N S

331 C O D A

337 Reflections on Writing This Book

341 Acknowledgments

345 References and Notes

B E G I N N I N G S
C A B I N   •   If you had come to visit us that evening, you
couldn’t have discerned from outside the ambience inside our
house, what with the windows steamed up and the aromas of
cooking trapped behind them.
A pan of caraway seeds, toasting on the stove, released
the scent of licorice, reminding me of a trip with my parents
to Alsace, where my father had fought in World War II and
where I first remember tasting anise. The seeds were for a vin-
aigrette. For the hot-and-sour soup, I peeled the papery skin
from a couple of Oregon garlic cloves. The onion was an Ailsa
Craig that Chuck started from seed nine months earlier, on
Super Bowl Sunday. It surrendered to the knife in thin, glassily
translucent rings. No tears. I poured a thin pool of oil into the
pan and added the diced onions, garlic, and dried hot pepper.
They sizzled in the hot oil.
I peeled and sliced a carrot, thick and dark orange, from
our garden. Even with an end broken off, the carrot weighed
nearly a pound. I tossed the carrots and a few mushroom
slices into the pot with the frying vegetables, then poured in
chicken broth. Ten minutes later, after a few more additions,
the soup simmered, clear and thick.
That summer collards had grown large because the moose
favored brussels sprouts and russian kale. Before the first frost,
I picked and stored armfuls of collards, the leaves like ele-
phant ears threaded with heavy white veins. One of those
ears, sliced into shreds, was enough for the chiffonade the
soup needed. The shredded collards floated in the pot, turning
 4

bright green, then dark as seaweed, but simmering into a

sweet-tasting tenderness. Perhaps the sweetness came from
soil accumulated from eons of glacial silt—loess—depos-
ited by the Knik and Matanuska winds, or from the abun-
dant subarctic daylight, or because we shunned chemicals, or
because rainfall watered the plants. Or maybe all these con-
ditions contributed to the delectable nature of the vegetables
that grew in our garden plot, a rectangle of land that had been
a garden when we arrived in 1983, and probably for decades
before that.

T I M E   •  It was the end of the 1970s when Chuck and I

met while studying at Washington State University. A year
later we married and moved to Alaska. In Anchorage our first
residence was a small unremarkable apartment, our second
home a flat-roofed house better suited to California.

Having lived in that house for not quite a year, one morning,
still half asleep, I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of
the bed. My feet plunged into icy water. I yanked my feet up,
hoping I was dreaming but I wasn’t. The carpet was underwater.
“Chuck! Wake up. We’re flooded!”
We sloshed across the bedroom to our shoes and pieced
together what had happened. While we slept, a Chinook
wind had arisen, bringing warm temperatures and rain—and,
like a giant anvil, the accumulation of soggy snow pressed
meltwater through the roofing and into the house.
 5

Over the following weeks, we dealt with the insurance

company and hired a contractor to repair the roof of a house
we couldn’t love. Some months later, we started looking for
a house outside Anchorage, in the Matanuska Valley. We val-
ued a view and good water as well as space for a garden and
a horse. We weren’t daunted by the idea of an old house or
acreage without fences or a barn.
During the first few weeks, our house-hunting pilgrimages
produced no results. The places we looked at felt hemmed
in by neighbors or the land was too steep or the house oddly
remodeled.
 6

C A B I N •   One day, rather than driving west, we motored

north, eventually ending up on Farm Loop Road, where we
noticed a faded For Sale sign. At the end of a long driveway, a
house with a steeply pitched roof and a wide dormer resem-
bled a quaint cottage. The exterior was painted red, accented
with white trim and narrow shutters. That afternoon, when
we got home, I called the realtor who had the listing for our
Anchorage house. She called back with more information and
an appointment to view the property. The next weekend, with
considerable anticipation, we returned to the valley, this time
turning into the driveway with the weathered For Sale sign.
The owner, Mrs. Webb, tall and attractive, met us at the
door. She and her husband had lived there for twenty years,
raising their children but, she explained, since retiring, they
had decided to move to Oregon. A truck-sized shipping con-
tainer beside the house was being loaded with furniture.
Mrs. Webb led us through the front door into her cozy
rooms. Perhaps she was seeing the house through our eyes—
us the age of her children, her children grown and gone. She
seemed reconciled, if a little wistful. When you prepare to
leave a place you’ve lived in for many years, memories and
routines, once snug and secure, become unhinged.
Inside the living room, picture windows to the south
framed Pioneer Peak and to the east, Lazy Mountain and
Matanuska Peak.
Pointing to the wide windowsills, Mrs. Webb commented,
“The walls are log and sturdy. The house was built for the
colony.”
 7

T I M E •  During the Great Depression, the federal govern-

ment created new agricultural settlements in a number of
states, including Alaska. Farmers who had run out of other
options applied for the chance to start over in one of these
government-sponsored colonies. In 1935 over two hundred
families were accepted for the Matanuska Colony. They trav-
eled by train from Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan to
Seattle or San Francisco, where they boarded ships bound for
Seward. The last leg of their journey, from Seward to Palmer,
was by train.

C A B I N •   The compact kitchen, dining area, living room,

and bathroom were on the main floor. In the hallway past
the kitchen, we tromped downstairs into the basement. The
ceiling was low, and only two tiny windows, the edges tightly
sealed, let in daylight. Sheetrocked walls, painted a crisp
white, would have been unremarkable except, in a niche
behind the furnace, the concrete block foundation was visi-
ble—painted an unsettling minty green. With furniture moved
out, the basement appeared quite spacious.
I asked about the washing machine and dryer.
“We’re taking those,” Mrs. Webb said as she pulled open
a door, revealing a closet-sized room. Shelves lining the walls
would hold many jars of home-canned jelly and jam, fruit,
and pickles. I would call this the cold room because that’s
what my mom called the unheated room lined with shelves
where she stored her home-canned produce.
The floor in the cold room was cement except for a patch
of earth in one corner where a pipe protruded. Plastic tubing
 8

snaked from the pipe to a squat metal pump that sat on the
floor. An electrical cord connected the pump to an outlet near
the ceiling.
“That’s the well,” Mrs. Webb said. “It’s just over thirty feet
deep and the water tastes good.”
Exiting the small room, Mrs. Webb pulled open another
door, revealing plank steps hitched between concrete walls
and leading up to an exterior door. Daylight streamed through
windows and translucent roof panels.
“In the spring, I start plants here. It’s my second green-
house,” Mrs. Webb said, indicating a wide ledge and shelves
within reach of the steps.
Chuck and I both wanted to garden. Another ledge suit-
able for starting seeds and hardening off vegetables would be
advantageous. During the quick tour, we were already falling
in love with the house, or at least with how we imagined it.
We traipsed after Mrs. Webb, returning through the base-
ment and climbing the stairs.
“Watch your step,” she said as she turned along the back
hallway and started up the stairs to the second floor. Semi-
triangular bottom steps required a quick turn like the start of a
spiral staircase. Mrs. Webb paused, as if sinking into a distant
memory.
“There used to be a landing here,” she mused. “The stairs
went into the living room, but I didn’t want them there. One
day, I tore out the lowest steps. When my husband came
home from work, before he could go to bed that night, he
had to build new stairs.”
 9

Balanced on a narrow step, I imagined walking through the

front door and seeing a staircase, not a wall. The bedrooms
were upstairs, the bathroom downstairs. Anyone getting up in
the night would trek down the stairs and through the living
room, dining area, and kitchen to reach the bathroom. The
rebuilt stairs were not rectangular, nor were they strictly tri-
angular. The bottom steps formed a curve that intersected the
rectangular upper stairs.
Touring the house that day, the story of the stairs was inter-
esting but not gravely important. Chuck and I also didn’t take
much notice of the dark paneling, worn appliances, or flat-
tened carpet. Nor did we care about the inconvenience of
having a bathroom downstairs and bedrooms upstairs. What
attracted us was the house’s location atop a small hill with a
grand view of fields, forests, and mountains.
On the west side of the house, we walked across a wooden
deck that had a birch tree growing through a cut-out hole
and a planter whimsically shaped like a wishing well. A small
greenhouse, painted dark red with white trim like the house,
crouched between the deck and the steeply sloped lawn.
“The vegetable garden,” Mrs. Webb indicated, pointing
expansively toward a broad square of soggy soil surrounded
by winter-parched lawn.
She might as well have said, you know you’re going to
make an offer. How can you not? A unique house. Acreage for
your horse. Exquisite views. A ready-made vegetable garden.
A separate plot for potatoes and a raspberry patch in a swale
north of the house. Chuck and I glanced at each other with a
look that said “this is it.” We didn’t consider there might have
been reasons that the place hadn’t sold during a year on the
market.
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