Ig-luk-um

John Runyon ran films as “instructive guides,” he claimed, for surviving in the Yukon wilderness. He presented them in his small cabin at the edge of the town of Ig-luk-um which, he proudly reminded his guests, he had built with his own hands, using native materials.

Since most of the guests who came to his soirees were Eskimos, this was not unduly impressive, nor were the films, as a rule, which included Jack London’s “To Build a Fire” and “White Fang,” and “Silence of the North.”

As the Eskimos politely watched the films they made no comment, although Runyon frequently interrupted to point out this or that which he thought needed emphasis or clarification, and to these explanations the guests gave the same polite gravity they gave the films themselves, though they spoke no English and understood nothing but Runyon’s apparent sincerity. But since the Runyon Wilderness Survival series, as his handbills advertised all over Ig-luk-um’s seventeen inhabitants’ dwellings and environs, was the high point of social interaction during the six-month-long northern night, Runyon’s cabin was always filled to capacity.

It didn’t matter if they didn’t quite get it all, he told his Melba, so long as they had been exposed to some of the more instructive scenes. If his films, brought all the way from Seattle at no small inconvenience, began the instruction—planted the seeds, as it were—his readings from the Boy Scout Official Guide after each film “really brought the point home,” he rapped the table.

So to John Runyon the instruction in wilderness survival to his fellow inhabitants of the village was nothing short of the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. If it resulted in only one life saved, he told Melba, it would be worthwhile. If not, well, he had tried.