"Postcard From the Yard" is a series from Prison Journalism Project that presents brief but rich descriptions of a single scene intended to invite the outside reader into the space or moment occupied by the writer. Collectively, these stories build an immersive portrait of prisons across America.
“Please throw another log on the fire!” I holler to a passing guard. It is winter in Alaska, and the temperature outside is well below freezing.
The guard just chuckles. “We ran out of firewood a week ago,” he says. “And besides, the transport snowmobile is still broken down.” He continues on his rounds, keys jangling as he walks.
Serving time in an Alaskan prison is unique. I’m not sure how many other state facilities employ incarcerated firewood gatherers, seal and moose butchers, and icicle knockers. But at least fresh muktuk, or Beluga whale fat, never stops being delicious. Mmm, blubber.
So what is a day like in an Alaska prison in the dead of winter? For me, the best part of waking up is Folgers in my cup — thankfully we do have hot water.
”Morning, Ben,” says Mike, my buddy, as I pass his table to make my first cup of coffee. After light chitchat, we gear up for a 7:50 a.m. work call. It’s still dark.
We bundle up in preparation to run the 100-yard freezing gauntlet from our housing unit to the main building. There, educators, kitchen crew members, maintenance workers, and laundry and gym cleaners toil for an average of 40 cents per hour. The yard crew workers are armed with shovels to move thousands of pounds of snow and ice from our pathway to the main building.
A lifer, pushing 70 years old, slips on the unintended ice rink that is the path. His feet fly in the air above him like a cartoon character. Thwack! Old man Roger smacks the ground and ends up with a vicious fracture in his left shoulder. He is carted off to outside medical care for X-rays.
Roger receives a layoff with no pay. I make a mental note: I better scrounge up some extra coffee for old Roger. I feel for him because he’s been staying busy in the hobby shop and now he’s out of commission.
At 4 p.m., I stare out of my cell’s 4-inch window slat. An endless void of pitch black is all that greets my eyes. The sun set an hour ago. Outside, the temperature is 5 degrees Fahrenheit. Inside, our concrete igloo holds the glacial cold in a tight grip.
The winter months are relentless. Frost covers our unit. Sometimes we get an extra thin blanket when the last frontier succumbs to sub-zero temperatures. Other times we shiver.
Alaskans are resilient folk by nature. We share stories of fortitude with one another and, on occasion, noteworthy tips surface like seal heads bobbing in the Bering Sea. Hot drinks, showers and meals keep us warm when we’re blessed enough to have them. But other days the icy wind bites so hard you don’t even want to leave your bunk, let alone venture outside for fresh air.
