Screw Those Shoes

Screw those shoes

     I decided today that I want to run on the lakes.  My running courses have run-their-course and I’m getting a little bored.  Due to the extremely icy conditions this fall, my routes have been limited.  The side roads have been scraped and offer the best footing but who wants to run on a road?  Trails and bike paths right now are downright slippery and not ideal for running.  I have always had what I consider to be above average balance and pride myself on my ability to negotiate ice without falling.  But what I’ve found is that if I want to run a bunch of miles on the stuff my gait becomes careful and guarded and not very fun.  
     I like to run.  Aside from the great workout and sense of accomplishment I get when I’m done, running is when I feel like my most athletic self.  Running is one of our most fundamental movements as humans and I like to pay attention to how I do it so that I can make adjustments and hopefully become a better runner, be more efficient, and maybe even a little faster. 
     Last week I ran home from work and quickly discovered that the bike path was extremely slick so I decided to run down the shoulder of the Talkeetna Spur road.  I usually quietly despise bikers and runners who forgo the bike path like I was doing but I figured that in this case I would be forgiven.  It was easy to figure out why I was on the road.  The bike path running adjacent to the highway, was shimmering like a playground slide.  
     Running on the side of the road sucked;  I stopped counting vehicles after 100.  “I’ve got to come up with something else.” I told myself.  
      As it turned out, I didn’t have to come up with anything.  My good buddy Mr. Inter-webs did all the work for me and I quickly found what I was looking for.  Check it out for yourself http://skyrunner.com/screwshoe.htm So with Hazelee looking over my shoulder snapping pics and asking questions, I set up shop and went to work.  Five minute job; Not bad!
     Only time will tell if this was a genius move or whether I just destroyed a hundred dollar pair of running shoes.  

Screw this job!

Screwed.

Note to self: Don't walk on Mama's floors.

   

Riding Ice

Riding Ice

     The driveway was glare ice.  Recent rains had flash frozen to the ground like a glazed donut.  As to be expected school was canceled, I had a day off! All of the side roads were slick as snot.
     I had put my studded tires on my fat bike a couple of days ago and I figured that today would be the perfect opportunity to ride the ice.  A few years ago I invested in a fat tire bike.  My thinking at the time was that winters in Talkeetna have been getting milder and I didn’t want to limit myself to recreating outside for just part of the year.  A fat tire bike is a perfect vehicle for in-between days of slop or ice.  Although it was expensive at the time, I have no regrets and my bike gets a lot of use.  
    Carefully I pushed off in the driveway and peddled around in circles to get the feel.  The metal studs dug into the ice making considerable crunching noise as I cruised along.  It sounded as if I were riding over a path of Captain Crunch breakfast cereal.  
     I tested my rear brakes on a flat section of the driveway.  The bike skidded to a stop creating three parallel lines carved in the ice. Not bad.   Next I tried using both front and rear brakes and although I stopped even quicker I didn’t like it.  It was not as stable and I didn’t like both tires locking up as I was sliding.
     “See you in a while”, I said as I set off down the driveway on my bike.  The plan was to meet at the Denali Brewing tasting room in about an hour. 
     “Okay" she said,"have fun.” 
     I made my way onto the four wheeler trail on Yoder and then turned down Winterset towards Benka lake.  The Benka Loop, as I call it is my go-to four miler from the house.  Today it was a luge course.  The crux move was a downhill chute that pinched into a big puddle at the bottom.  Was the puddle frozen?  I wasn’t sure.  Slowly I crunched my way down the hill braking and scraping my way to the puddle.  I was able to carefully break through the partially frozen puddle. I focused on good balance and before long I was safely on the other side. 

The Crux move.

     I met up with Tamra soon afterwords at the brewery and we had a good time with our friends Tracy and Mike.  Tracy and Tamra are big volunteers of the Talkeetna Bachelor’s auction each year and this year Tracy's husband Mike was sweet-talked into making a huge boom box playing to the 80’s theme.  Mike is a super-smart guy and managed to wire it up so that the lights would bump along with the music.  No doubt the ladies will go crazy for it on Bachelor’s auction night hopefully translating into more money spent/ donated to our local charities.  Click here to find out more
     As the light began to fade, I climbed aboard my bike, buckled my helmet and peddled my way across the street to the bike path that was, as you might have guessed, glare ice.  
     The studded tires made easy work of the smooth icy surface.  For about a half of a mile I wheeled over the top of some ice skate marks.  Cool. Someone else was making lemonade out of lemons and I hoped to run into them further down the bike path to see who it was but it didn’t materialize.  I turned down my road and then onto our back drive as the light dwindled.
     As I neared the house a familiar silhouette stood before me blocking the path.  I stopped.  The shadowy figure walked slowly out of my way and into the bushes.  Not wanting to miss an opportunity such as this, I peddled to the house and returned a few minutes later with just the right tool.  
     “Did you get one?” she asked.  Without speaking I closed the front door and showed her the dressed out breast meat of a fresh ruffed grouse. “Awesome!”  

Ho rs Devours night.  Tender Cutlets of Ruff Grouse seasoned with Alder smoked sea salt and black pepper
sauteed in coconut oil with a splash of soy sauce to finish. Mexican flag toothpicks are optional but encouraged.

       

Discovering Portland

Discovering Portland

 

The Stone House in Portland a.k.a. The Witch's Castle
is located about a mile up the lower Macleay trail

     “What are the chances that I’ll see a Sasquatch today?” I said. 
     “Come again?” He was cupping his ear as I repeated my question.  He laughed.  My Uber driver was Eric and according to his profile online he was hard of hearing and friendly.  Okay.
     “Over here on the right is the historic Montgomery Ward building,” he offered as we drove by.  “At one time it was the largest building in Portland.”
     I found out after a little research that the massive warehouse was built in 1919.  Montgomery Ward at the time was expanding its operations in the West and hoped to open up new markets in Alaska, Hawaii, and the Pacific Rim.  It was almost 900,000 square feet much of which was dedicated to filling mail orders. Three rail spurs served the facility extending into the ground floor moving goods in and out.  I thought about the prevalence of the thick catalogs adorning the outhouses and bathrooms of my childhood in Alaska. 
      My friend Arthur told me a story this summer about an old-timer Talkeetnan that had passed away recently. “Johnny Baker bought the first snowmobile in Talkeetna,” he said.  I was all ears. “He ordered it from Montgomery Ward and it came up on the train along with several cans of gas.”  The Talkeetna Spur road didn’t exist yet and the only hardpack around was Mainstreet.  As the story goes, he uncrated his shiny new snowmobile, poured some gas in the tank and fired it up.  He scooted down Main Street swifty, smiling ear-to-ear but when he continued-on to where the packed road ended and the untouched snow began his luck came to an abrupt halt.  He immediately got stuck in the deep snow burying the thing up to the cowling.  It wasn’t long after that that he traded it for a Jon boat owned by the owner of the Fairview bar. 

This is an example of an early 60's Ward's snowmachine.
It's been a few years since this sweet ride was
sitting in a crate at Montgomery Wards in Portland.

      The Catalogs of Montgomery Ward were the source of many Alaskans hopes and dreams and there is no doubt that they played a major role in connecting Alaska to a modernized America.
     Eric delivered me to the Lower Macleay trailhead and it was 7:00 A.M.  I bid him farewell as I shut the door of his blue Honda Camry.  I took a moment to stretch my calves, look around and then ran off down the trail with a hop in my step and enough caffeine pulsing in my veins to wake a small army. 
       As I ran down the trail I quickly became overwhelmed by my surroundings and then it hit me.  I felt as if I was running on the forested moon of Endor (you know Return of the Jedi, Ewoks, ect.) and it was glorious!  Who knew the Ewoks maintained such incredible trails? Well placed bridges, railings, and wooden walkways punctuated the trail as I moved along. 

Speederbikes and other motorized vehicles
are not allowed on the lower MaCleay trail

The giant Douglas fir trees towered above me as I wound my way alongside a small creek and up a ravine.  I found out later that somewhere along the line I passed the tallest tree in Portland, a Doug fir standing at 242 feet!  How did I miss that one?

      My Star Wars imagination was exacerbated when I passed a huge tree that had fallen across the trail.  It was no problem because a trail crew had already been through with a massive chain saw and the trail continued uninterrupted. The two rounded tree butts displayed their rings as I passed between them.   I couldn’t help but think of the infamous Ewok log trap as I passed between the log ends, each of which was over five feet in diameter.   Finally, I made my way up several switchbacks taking me out of the ravine, across a road and finally up to the famed Pittock Mansion.

     Henry Lewis Pittock might have been the first to summit Mount Hood, the tallest mountain in Oregon.  His boss at the Oregonian newspaper at the time claimed to have done it first but the account of his details were sketchy.  I’m siding with Henry and his four buddies who apparently had fun throwing rocks off the summit over a 3,000 foot cliff.  Before they descended they bellowed out nine exuberant cheers (Hip Hip, Hurray! )
     Henry Pittock, aside from his potentially prodigious mountaineering feat, made quite a name for himself in the Portland area as a businessman, family man and community advocate.  His life's work with the Oregonian gained him fame, fortune and social status. Henry and his Wife, Giorgianna, had five children and had the mansion built by local artisans on a high spot overlooking the city.  As lore would have it, the day before he died,  having been stricken by influenza had himself carried to one of the east facing windows of the mansion so he could gaze once more upon the vista of Portland of which he had influenced so greatly. 

     I took my time to admire the garden and the stonework of the mansion.  A paved walkway passed under an arch between living quarters and the main house leading to the same view Pittock must have gazed upon in his dying hours. Near the garden was a water fountain.  I made my way over to the fountain and gratefully drank from it as I thought about the life and times of Henry Pittock.
      Before long I was back on the trail passing back down the lovely path that was bespeckled with giant yellow leaves falling from tall trees.  The Endor sentiment was still strong with me and for a moment I was sure that I heard a Wookie call in the far distance.  I quickly realized how ridiculous that was; It couldn’t be a Wookie, this is the Northwest,  It was probably just a sasquatch.

                                       Push play below

   

Ke'sugi Ken and Beyond

Ke’sugi Ken and Beyond

“Not all who wander are lost.”-  J.R.R. Tolkien

     “Wow, look at that,” I thought.  We had just topped out on the new Ke’sugi Ken trail and the view was incredible.  A few friends from work had joined me for a run and it was glorious.  To our west was the expanse of the Alaska Range.  Hemmed-in by the Chulitna River, the panorama of mountains before us wore its definitive snowline like a skirt. Denali was hiding in the clouds today and was graciously allowing some of the less prominent peaks a bit of the limelight.   

     But my attention was drawn to the east where the rolling hills of the southern Ke’sugi Ridge beckoned.  Sparse pockets of spruce and willow ran in bands hither and yon.  Trees hardy enough to endure life on the ridges and hilltops were stunted and weather beaten.  White lichens brightened the highest hilltops and ridges marbling itself with the purples and oranges of other unknown species lower down.  It was a classic example of sub-alpine terrain; a hikers dream.  I was drawn to this landscape and I marveled at its splendor.  “How far is it to the Susitna?” I wondered. “How far can it possibly be?”  I had questions. 

     That week at home I spent time pouring over Google Earth and was astonished to discover that the Susitna River was only five more miles from our furthest point (roughly).  Further investigation revealed that the route should be mostly straight forward.  The term bushwhacking came to mind as I examined the terrain closest to the river. “It doesn’t look too bad,” I thought as I chuckled to myself.  Experience has taught me that some of the most difficult terrain in Alaska looks pretty tame on a map.  It didn’t matter, I was committed to this one.

   The plan was to hike up and over to the Susitna River, puff up my packraft and float back to Talkeetna in time for a beer at the Fairview!  A day trip by anyone’s standards. 

                       ..................................................................................

      “Can I trouble you guys for a selfie?” Our group gathered as I awkwardly clawed at my phone with an outstretched arm. Karen and Stacy would return back down the trail.  They had agreed to drive us to the trail head, hike with us on the Ke'sugi Ken trail then return with my truck as we continued on.  I was lucky to be joined by Arthur and Mikko for the rest of the packraft adventure.  

    Mikko was raised in Puerto Rico, is a resident of Kauai and is a die hard surfer.  He was in Talkeetna visiting and somehow Arthur sweet talked him into working for him on a building project.  

     Last year he surfed 300 days and enjoys partaking in various surfing contests that he almost always wins.  “I have wet dreams,” he said. His play-on-words refers to his recurring dreams of surfing.  In these dreams he can never quite catch the wave he is looking for; It is always just out of reach. He smiles when he tells me that the dreams always go away when he is back in surfing country and can get out and do his thing.

     The hike to the river was nothing less than wonderful. We had a general idea of route but we allowed ourselves to pick and choose our way up and over the ridge.  There were several drainages with deep cuts that we had to negotiate but each time we were rewarded with fantastic views.  At one rest break I saw a wolverine dart between spruce trees below us.  We watched for several minutes hoping to see him again but he was gone.

Artie and Mikko ponder our route to the Su.

     The descent to the river was about a thousand vertical feet of mixed terrain. We made our way through a maze of alder patches, grassy meadows and mossy ridges until finally we stumbled out of a patch of alders onto a gravel beach of the mighty Susitna River!

    It was 3:15 PM.  I produced three beers from my pack and we toasted and carried on as if we had just summited Denali.  We took our time inflating our rafts and gearing up for the float home.  The wind was gusting down river, we bundled up and pushed off. 

     The week before when I was scouting this trip from the comforts of my couch with my laptop in hand, I neglected to figure out exactly how many river miles would be involved in the float out.  It turns out that it was a bit further than I imagined (18 miles), and since it was late October and the sun sets at 6:02 PM things turned out different than I thought; We ended up floating home in the dark.  

     So with only a smattering of twilight glowing from the West and a few unknown lights twinkling from town, we floated around the corner joining forces with the Chulitna until we scratched our way ashore near the railroad trestle at 7:30PM.  

    I dragged my boat up onto the gravel bar and fished my headlamp out of my pack with cold hands.  I clicked on my light to discover ice encrusting my boat.   

     As I reflect on this trip I realize how grateful I am to live in such a wild place.  Although I have lived and explored in the Talkeetna area for the last 22 years I realize that I have barely scratched the surface of untouched wilderness in this area.  To discover a new patch above treeline so close to home was a treat.  Unlike Mikko’s dreams of surfing, I dream of hiking in the high country and when my dreams become reality I experience a deep sense of fulfillment. 

There was talk about barging into the Fairview
with our boats but as it turned out we were
pretty tired, cold, and hungry; must be getting old.

Selfie nation. Me, Artie, Karen, Mikko, Stacie.

Running crew.  Dan, Tracy, Jen, Lisa, and me.

Establishing Camp

      

    Establishing Camp

“There is no success without hardship”-Sophocles

    The creek before us split into three.  The majority of the water disappeared to the right as it filtered itself through the bushes. Weird. The middle fork was clear from obstruction but wasn’t enough water for our rafts. “We go left here.” I said.  

   “Okay.” said my partner and we pushed and pulled and dragged the raft over a formidable blockade of beaver chewed branches.  The narrow and very shallow channel led to a beaver pond. I pulled on the bow as he pushed and pulled on the the stern. Although much smaller than myself, my partner was strong enough to pull his weight and wasn’t much for complaining. Perfect. Soon enough we made it to the pond.  

    The work today was easier than the two days prior.  Dragging a raft over miles of shallow and skinny water is tough but not nearly as tough as ferrying 400 pounds of gear on your back several miles and certainly not as tough as pushing a loaded cart 500 vertical feet up a steep trail.

    “I’ll paddle over to the dam.  You go back up and help your dad.”  My partner agreed and disappeared back upstream.  My nephew Keaton was not only my raft partner. He was also my cart pushing partner and tent mate.  Keaton is thirteen.

    As he disappeared back upstream, I paddled across the beaver pond until I reached the dam.  Since this was not my first rodeo, I have learned how to negotiate the dam. There is a solid eight foot drop to the creek below the dam and I knew just what to do.  After removing a few sticks the water started to flow. After several more sticks I was ready to pull the raft over the dam. There was enough water flushing over the “chute” that I’d created  allowing the raft to slide over and down to the skinny creek below. With one last pull the raft came sliding down the dam, into the creek. Pete and his two boys were halfway across the pond by now and would perform the same slide into the creek below.

    Over the years, we have established various campsites along our route that we look forward to.  Each camp is considered for it’s strategic benefits and drawbacks and although we like to have an open mind about trying new spots we usually settle on the same ol’ campsites; they are like old friends.  

   Our first camp spot is usually only a couple of bends further downstream and we were looking forward to using it again but this year would be different.  As I rounded the last corner leading to camp motion caught my eye. There, not fifty feet from me was a bear standing on his hind legs looking at me over the top of some bushes.  The snapshot image I still have in my brain from that moment resembles a lifesize honey bear; It was honey color, had rounded ears and beady eyes, and was motionless.

    I scrambled to the raft and was able to gather my .45 magnum pistol posthaste.  I turned and honey bear was gone. I would soon find out that there was a dead moose there that the bear was feeding on.  It was a scene that we have observed before. The moose carcass, barely visible now, was almost completely buried. Nearby bushes were ripped out of the ground and freshly exposed soil was piled on top of the moose.  Only the bony lower jaw was visible as we quickly escorted our rafts past the scene. I could imagine the bear aggressively scooping through its hind legs, dirt flying.

    After that I was on high-alert and felt a bit like Tom Cruise in Mission impossible, gun drawn, head on a swivel;  I joked with whole crew later at camp that I thought about doing a dive-roll into some nearby bushes for cover. Brenton, Pete’s younger son, who is eleven believed me if only for a moment; that was good enough for me.

    We continued downriver for about another mile until we felt good about our distance from the moose carcass.  This would turn-out to be a good basecamp for us and we began the process of setting up. The camp worked well and I wonder if next year we will be inclined to use it again.

Keaton took this beautiful interior grizzly.
It could be Honey Bear!?!?

      

Brenton and Keaton: Just two Alaskan boys doing Alaskan things.

    

Methodology of a Moose Hunter

Methodology of a Moose Hunter

Idiom:“Strike while the iron is hot”- To act on an opportunity while favorable conditions exist; to avoid waiting.

    7:32 A.M.  I was trying to be quiet but slogging through a swamp riddled with tussocks and muddy troughs can make for a noisy affair.  The maze of bushy tussocks pretended to offer good footing but once committed to the step, the tangle of snaggletooth bushes would give-way or trip me up. Fun.  Stepping in the troughs wasn’t any better; they were water logged and muddy sometimes testing the upper limits of my Muck boots.

    My “shortcut” through the swamp was anything but and I was beginning to doubt my decision. I stopped for a breather.  To my right, not 75 yards away was what I was looking for...or so I thought. After shouldering my 30.06 and looking through the scope I could see that it was not a bull moose staring straight at me like I was hoping.  In fact it was a dark stump with a curved antler shaped branch completing the outline....darn.  

     Almost all of my success as a moose and caribou hunter has been realized by using an entirely different method fittingly called the “spot and stalk”.  Unfortunately this particular hunting area is not above treeline where binoculars and spotting scopes can be effectively used to spot and identify legal game.  On this hunt I was hoping to fine-tune my calling technique and bring a bull out from hiding. Thus far in the last few days it was not working. It was too early in September.

     Calling moose is a fine art.  By imitating the nasally whine of a cow moose or the aggressive short grunt of a bull, it’s possible to lure bulls to close enough range for a shot.  Late in September bull moose go into rut and compete for mating rights. I have had the privilege over the years of observing many herds of over 40 moose who all show up for “the dance”.  Young bulls posture and practice fight, cows mingle and even attack each other with their front hooves, and the big bulls save their energy until a worthy opponent challenges them. Bull fights are violent affairs that are incredible to witness.  The tougher stronger bull with the right growth of antlers used as a weapon wins the fight and spends the rest of the fall rut mating with each of the cows in his “harem”. This process ensures that herd stays strong by passing along only the genes of the bull who has grown big and strong, adapted the best and prospered well through several tough winters; Survival of the fittest.

     There was a light frost on all of the grass and willow bushes this morning.  I was excited because I know that moose start to move around when it’s cold. In the two days  prior we had only seen one other moose. I saw it fleetingly and I could not determine the sex through the thick foliage.  I was lucky to have drawn an any bull tag for our game unit. Unfortunately our area is super bushy and up to this point, warm.  Moose bed down when it’s warm and don’t move around much. I needed a different strategy.

    I knew this was my last chance.  We would head down river the next morning, back to civilization.  It was nice and chilly with the morning frost, but I knew that it wouldn’t last. The sun was slowly rising and I knew that it wouldn’t  be long before it would become T-shirt weather. I looked one last time to see if my stump imposter would magically come to life. It didn’t.  I slung my rifle over my shoulder and continued across the swamp.

   7:40 A.M.  Finally I successfully traversed the swamp and popped out onto a rather nice four wheeler trail.  One of our neighbors has a 3 mile long trail to his cabin that is flanked by long stretches of moose’s favorite food; willow.  The bushes were over my head and I quickly realized that I wasn’t going to be able to spot anything. I decided to proceed down the trail in the hopes that I would run into one or scare one up that might be bedded down near the trail.

    My plan involved walking about 50 feet down the trail quietly, then pause to look and listen.  There was no wind and it was joyful to take-in the forest through my senses. I heard a woodpecker knocking a nearby cottonwood on one stop.  The next break I heard an eagle screech high above. Another stop I watched and heard a single yellow birch leaf fall and land nearby. The Alaskan outdoors is my church and on this glorious morning I was glad to be alive.

  8:03:15 A.M.  The trail was beginning to parallel a nearby glacial slough. A tall and proud army of fireweed framed the trail as the slough grew nearer.  I made my way carefully around the bend and I decided to stop before it straightened out. As I was looking around I heard a branch snap ahead of me.  I didn’t know what it was but I knew that if it happened to be a bull moose I would have to be ready. I have learned to be an opportunist in my hunting.  Any hesitation on my part could be the demise of the hunt. I have been on too many hunts when I wasn’t ready in the crux moment and the opportunity is lost.  Strike while the iron is hot.

    I quietly slipped the shoulder straps off of my pack and lowered it quietly to the ground.  Another stick snap. I jacked a shell into the chamber and carefully slid the safely to the off position.  If I spook a moose into the thickets, it will be gone from me. They are too fast and nimble to chase and the vegetation is way too thick.  I’ve got to be ready to shoot.

    8:04 A.M.   I proceded further down the trail slowly taking care to avoid any snapping sticks of my own that might give me away.  Finally, I peered around the corner. Sure enough standing just off the trail and directly in front of me was a young 2 year old bull.  Not fifty yards away I could See his small 30 inch antlers and it was all the proof I needed as I shouldered my trusty rifle. He looked up and saw me just in time to meet his demise.  Game over.

  

Hazelee with her first grouse.

Corey and Sam celebrating the harvest their own way.
Corey also shot 4 nice mallards on the last day.

Although I'm not sure if these mushrooms are edible, my brother
and his boy Brenton each found Chicken of the Woods.  We ate some as appetizers
(sauteed in butter), the rest we added to an already incredible spaghetti sauce
prepared by my dad.

The blue rope on the right is a rope ratchet.  It comes in handy
gutting a moose by yourself.

Keaton and I spent our first morning canoeing to this spot on top of a beaver lodge. We called but saw nothing.

2018 Silverbright Championships

2018 Silverbright Championships

Steve Sr. taking care of business

“You ready to get your ass kicked again?” She asked.  Jamie is not known for her subtleties.  

      “What do you mean?”, I said.  She was over at our place picking up some salmon.  We have a setnet operation at the mouth of the Susitna River and we bring all of our fish home and sell them right out of our driveway to locals. 

      “Battle of the Silverbrights!”  She said.  Suddenly I understood.  Last year I challenged her to a smoked salmon competition. Smoked chum to be specific. I lost.  Who knew that she would bust out the ghost peppers to kick-it-up a notch. 

      Chum salmon are known by many other names; Dogs, Arctic Keta, Calico and my favorite Silverbright.  They are huge fish and have lots of oily fat on their belly which, as it turns out is great for smoking. 

     The majority of our customers are Alaskans who appreciate the resource but are increasingly unexcited about the prospect of driving to the Peninsula to try their hand with hundreds of other anglers or dipnetters.  Their other option is waiting for the fish to make it North to local streams where they are sometimes battle hardened and starting to turn blush.  For a lot of our customers it's a matter of dollars and cents.  They realize that for what it cost to take time off from work, pay for gas and supplies for a weekend of fishing on the Kenai, they are far better off pulling in to our driveway to buy a few beauties from us in prime condition-right out of the ocean.

     “Okay, it’s on!” I felt myself becoming excited.  The sudden need for redemption overcame me as foolishly exclaimed, “You’re going down this year!”

       The next fishing period we only caught six of them and a few of them were already spoken for.  I saved the last one and fileted it proper.  I put hers on ice in a small cooler out front.  The next morning after coffee, I checked the cooler and the big slab of fish was gone. Game on! A smile came over me because I knew that the stage was now set for the 2018 Silverbright Championships.

This year's offering.  I could tell you the recipe
but then I would have to kill you....sorry.

Fresh Winter Bird

Fresh Winter Bird

On the way to the cabin

     “Oh my God, what is that?”, I thought. I reached into the icy water to pull the trap upwards and suddenly it was clear; I had caught a duck.  The underwater trap destined for otter was baited with freezer-burned salmon.  Who knew that a large green-head mallard would be enticed by such an offering.  The cold, clearwater stream trickled-by releasing steam near its edges.  It was 10 below zero and the flow of the stream was keeping it from freezing.  I took a good look at the duck. “Trapper of the year.” I joked.

    I pried the 330 conibear apart with Bryan’s help and handed him the duck.  “Wow, nice work.” he said.  This year, like most years, I had purchased a state and federal duck stamp allowing me to legally shoot waterfowl including ducks, geese, and even cranes.  They were all safe from me though; This year I had killed exactly zero....until now.   Who needs a shotgun?

      Trapping season has been slow but  I have managed to catch three beautiful crossfoxes and a mink for all of my efforts. One thing is for sure; I have a lot to learn.  
    “Hey Dad, see if you can guess what I caught in my otter trap yesterday.”  Bryan and I had joined Dad at the cabin a few days after the duck by-catch incident and were looking forward to a good weekend.
    “Otter?”
    “Nope, its something we are going to eat.”
    “Pike?”
    “Nope.” The guessing went on like this for a while.  After a few more hints he finally guessed duck.  At this point, I produced a ziplock bag containing the breasts of the duck that I had butchered with the skin on.  I had it marinading in a balsamic vinegrette for the last day.  Duck is notorious for having a gamy flavor.  I assumed that a mid-winter fish eating duck might be especially so.   
    “Hey Steve, come here!”  Bryan was facing the shed.  “There’s a grouse in the shed.”  I scurried over to my snowmachine to fetch my pistol.  To my delight, sure enough he was right;  a plump grouse was milling around inside the shed.  It felt a little wrong shooting a firearm into the shed but my aim was true and suddenly we were up to two birds for dinner.  
      Later in the day Bryan pulled around the cabin on his snowmachine and another grouse flushed up behind him.“Hey Bryan, freeze right there!”   It darted straight up into a high spruce tree.  “Your turn.”, I said.  I fished out the pistol and handed it over.  The bird was perched some 50 feet high in a tall spruce tree.
    Side note: Last weekend Bryan and I spent some time honing our pistol shooting skills at the cabin. I’ve got a series of old cooking pans dangling from an overhanging birch tree.  We shot over 70 rounds of .22 shells.  I’m a firm believer that if you want to be an accurate pistol shooter then you have to shoot a lot.
     Bryan steadied his arm and slowly squeezed the trigger.  The bird twitched and twirled as it took off from it’s branch.  As it flew, it was easy to see that it was wounded and it soon took perch on a different tree.  We watched as it flopped and dropped down to lower branches until finally it fell to the ground; Tonight we would dine on 3 birds for dinner.  

Grouse and Duck in Red Wine Vinegar  

(Original recipe was taken from geniouskitchen.com but uses chicken....  bo-ring!)    

Ingredients:

1 free-range mallard duck (breast meat diced with skin on)
2 free-range spruce grouse (breast meat diced without skin)
1 cup red wine vinegar
1 cup chicken stock
2  red ripe tomatoes
2 spoons olive oil
1 tbsp fresh parsley
4 tablespoons butter

Directions:

1) Brown the marinated duck and grouse in the butter with a bit of oil as well to stop it burning.
2) Drain fat from skillet and return the poultry to skillet.
3) Slowly pour the vinegar into the hot pan to deglaze. Stand back from fumes!
4) Over med-high heat, reduce the vinegar by about half, turning the poultry periodically to bathe it.
5) Add tomatoes and stock, cover and simmer gently until flavors have melded and mingled, about 20 minutes.  Remove the pan from heat, set aside the poultry and keep warm.
6) In the pan, whisk in a knob of butter for a beautiful shiny sauce.
Pour the sauce over the poultry and then strew with herbs.
7) Enjoy with egg noodles.