Between Marlene and Harvey Meganack was Herbie Topkok. Herbie ran Park Sled and ATV out of his garage, which was the local parts store for Honda, Kawasaki, Arctic Cat, Yamaha, Polaris, Suzuki, and whoever else made a snow machine or a four-wheeler. Kate was pretty sure that Herbie had a backdoor arrangement with Howie Katelnikof in the matter of spare parts, and she thought he might also have been the source of the four-wheelers the Suulutaq Mine workers were using to get back and forth into town. He was maybe five four, also in his midfifties, and a relatively new Park rat, as his parents had met at Chemawa in Oregon and had settled there to raise their family after graduation. Herbie, the eldest and a mechanic for a Ford dealership in Portland, had been the only regular visitor to the Park of the four children, traveling to Alaska every summer and working one log at a time on a cabin on the Kanuyaq just north of Niniltna on his parents‘ ANCSA land allotment. When his third and last child graduated from high school, he made the move permanent. His wife had lasted one winter before heading back to Oregon. Herbie made enough out of the business to support himself in the Park and his wife Outside, and other than nonconjugal visits over the holidays, also Outside and with the children and the growing brood of grandchildren in attendance, they both seemed content with the status quo.

Herbie, skin the color of toast, eyes black and a little protruding, stocky and taciturn, looked less than enthralled by the subject of the logo, too. On his right, Harvey Meganack glowered at Kate, but she was used to being glowered at by Harvey and it didn‘t bother her. She even carried the battle forward into the enemy‘s camp. Anything to add, Mr. Meganack?

He ground his teeth, and it was obvious that it pained him when he had to agree with the board‘s chair. No. Branding is important. We need a new logo. Harvey was as usual clad in neatly pressed charcoal gray slacks and a white, longsleeved, button-down Oxford shirt that looked lonely without the maroon silk tie that Harvey didn‘t quite dare wear with it, not in the Park. A commercial fisherman like many of the people seated at the table, a registered guide like Demetri, the proud holder of a two-year engineering degree from the University of Alaska, and the boon companion of State Senator Pete Heiman, Harvey was a boomer of the first water. He owed his mop of dark hair, his round cheeks, and his incipient second chin to his Aleut mother, and his medium height, his five o‘clock shadow, and his middle-aged spread to an Italian great-grandfather. Like many shareholders, he owed his Park rattery to a stampeder ancestor.