In the staff lounge of Providence Kodiak Island Medical Center, Dr. Steve Smith (B.S. microbiology '82) cradles a pint of gleaming strawberries in his hand. "Do you know how valuable these are up here?" he asks me, as he bites into the biggest one and hands me the basket. "Fish we've got, but fruit and vegetables are nonexistent. I can trade a pound of tomatoes for 10 pounds of halibut."

So coveted is fresh produce that Steve won't let his dad, Max, and mother, Rosa, Payette County extension educator, visit until late August, when Idaho tomatoes are ripe.

"Up here" is Kodiak, Alaska, (population 6,300) approximately 2,000 miles north by northwest of Grangeville, Steve's hometown in the lower forty-eight. Bald eaglesÑas plentiful as Idaho magpiesÑcircle and dive over the large commercial fishing harbor and bustling canneries, scavenging for leftover cod, halibut, or salmon.

The landscape is Alaska at its wildest: wide rivers that crash into a raucous sea ringed by massive mountains. The two main roads out of town dead end at the edge of wilderness, home to Kodiak's 3,000 brown bears.

An emergency room nurse interrupts Steve's snack. A couple from the nearby Coast Guard station has brought their 3-year-old daughter, Katelyn, in with abdominal pains and an ear infection. Steve is quickly at the little girl's side, checking her ears, gently pressing on her stomach, and calmly reassuring her parents. Soon, with Steve's assistance, Katelyn playfully listens to her own heartbeat through a stethoscope.

Stomach aches, chest pains, and sprained fingers will be among the cases on Steve's docket this weekend at the small 25-bed hospital. But these gentle ministrations contrast with the life-and-death traumas that showcase the darker side of Alaskan living.

Among the emergencies Steve has attended to are bear attacks, frostbitten extremities, snowmobile and automobile crashes, embedded halibut hooks, and the aftermaths of yearly fishing disasters. Steve is one of only 14 physicians in Kodiak, and that makes each case personal.

"We're a small community. You know all the people, their backgrounds, and what they go through in their daily lives. This makes it easier to treat the whole person."

"A fishing death has ramifications that resonate throughout the village," he says. "It also brings home the fact to everyone that Ôthis could happen to one of my loved ones.'"

At high school in Grangeville, Steve excelled in science and worked as an emergency medical technician (EMT). Because of his activity in 4-H, Steve chose the UI College of Agriculture in 1977, enrolling as an agricultural economics major. In less than a year, however, at the advice of his adviser, he changed his major to microbiology, and medicine became his passion.

"Vet medicine was always in the back of my mind, but the EMT experience pushed me toward the people aspect." During his college years, Steve lived in Gault Hall, was president of the Block and Bridle Club, and tried his hand at bronc riding in the Rodeo Club.

Fridays, when classes ended, Steve would drive the 100 miles home to exchange his backpack of textbooks for rasps, pincers, and nippersÑthe tools of a farrier. "I could get five horses shod on Friday, and another 20 by the end of the weekend. I paid for my college tuition one foot at a time."

Steve thrived in UI's WWAMI program, a cooperative premedical program with Washington, Wyoming, Alaska, and Montana, whose goal is to train more primary care physicians to work in the underserved rural areas of the West. When Steve graduated in 1982, he attended the highly competitive University of Washington Medical School. "With the UI kids, the question was always ÔCould we compete at UW?' The answer was ÔYes, and even better.'"

He credits his success in medical school to his well-rounded undergraduate education and the quality of his instructors. "We succeeded because we were given good tools at UI. There was never a professor that was not approachable. They were always available to help and I never felt like just a face in the crowd."

College of Agriculture professors Steve remembers fondly include Dick Heimsch, Al Lingg, and Maurice Johnson, all of whom "interacted with us on a regular basis and made their classes exciting."

After a three-year residency in family practice in Pueblo, Colorado, and a job in Hamilton, Montana, Steve worked summers in Kodiak filling in for vacationing physicians starting in 1990, until a permanent job opened in 1995. His first home was a rental cabin in the woods that featured "walking water," a fancy term that meant Steve had to walk and haul his own water from a nearby spring.

In the front yard of Steve's current home, sea kayaks and a fishing skiff compete for space alongside the detritus of a remodeling job. Inside, evidence of his curiosity spills from one room to the next: a moose rack from a hunt up near Dillingham, a banjo and guitar, bird books, and a large gun safe. Weekends, he might be shooting trap, fly-fishing, country-western dancing, or photographing brown bears close up and personal.

"Photography is as close as I can get to being an artist," he says later over a bowl of soup at Henry's restaurant, a meal constantly interrupted by the greetings of friends. Seems everyone knows and respects Steve, who doesn't allow anyone to call him "Dr. Smith."

Tomorrow is a day off for Steve, a chance to call his parents in Idaho, maybe ski in the mountains, or chip away at his ongoing home remodel. One thing he won't do is sleep in. In Alaska, you take advantage of daylight, and after being inside for an entire day, Steve is ready for an adventure. Then it's back to the hospital for a 24-hour shift and a chance to finish those strawberriesÑif the nurses have left any.

-Stephen Lyons