An Afternoon in Tattooine

       An Afternoon in Tattooine

     On a recent trip to Tattooine I ran into a friendly and rather cute Jawa;  The Force was with her.

       “Teedee tee dee!” She said. Translation:  Follow me to the Cantina.    

     Often my new Jawa friend would stop to scout for Sandpeople;  They always travel single-file to hide their numbers. 

I think she likes me.

      You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than at the cantina in Mos Eisley, but they serve a nice IPA. “We must be cautious” I thought.

    There was a lot of work to do with the rebellion battling the evil Empire but for now I would be content to knock back a few with my new friend. “Teedee tee dee”  She said.  Translation beer is good.

You can never let your guard down
in a place like Mos Eisley.

 Of Honker Doubles and Retirement

“Often when you think you are at the end of something, you're at the beginning of something else”-Fred Rogers.

Full moon over the Tordrillo 
mountain range.

Ten Canadian geese breezed by me just out of range.  “Darn”.  I was hunkered behind a large cottonwood drift-log hoping for some action.  The morning had been a calamity of missteps summed up by the phrase wrong place, wrong time.  It was as if the geese were toying with me by flying just out of range or (my favorite) flying directly over the spot I had just left.  

My hiding spot.

     I watched as they set their wings and landed safely out of reach on the other side of Ivan River.  Now there were over 200 of them waddling around on the mud flats;  I think they were snickering at me.

     After waiting as long as I could, I decided to come out of hiding from behind the log; I couldn’t stand it anymore.  I decided to flush them up.  Maybe some of them would head in my Dads direction.  I stood up and started walking directly toward them.   I was able to make it onto the muddy bank right across the river from them.  Finally they started to squawk and honk and before long they had all taken flight in a big noisy frenzy.  

       Imagine my surprise when a group of 15 got confused and decided to fly right over the top of me.  I missed the first shot but the next two connected, sending two nice Canadians to the ground; Honker double!

     Retirement; What fun!  26 years of teaching and coaching was enough for me and I was ready.  I hadn’t been able to afford the time-off to join Dad waterfowl hunting while I was working but this year was different.  “I’m so glad you could make it.” He told me.  Dad was as happy as I was.  

     My Dad, Mom, and I had pushed off of the silty bank at Deshka Landing on the 27th of September and began our journey down-river to the mouth of the Susitna River, into Cook Inlet and then to Ivan River.  Our cabin on Ivan has been the base of our setnet salmon fishing operation for the last 36 years.

       Dad’s new 18 foot Woolridge was dialed-in.  The sun was shining high in the sky and it was a glorious day. We arrived at the cabin at high tide to unload.   We would spend the next five days hunting, cooking, plucking birds and enjoying everything the late fall had to offer.  

     We had a great time no doubt,  but it wasn’t all honker-doubles and rays-of-sunshine by any stretch.  I realized early in the trip how out-of-practice I was with a shotgun and missed so many more than I hit.   In-the-end I would collect more shoulder bruises than birds.  Luckily my Dad knocked down a couple nice geese and we got some ducks too.  

     “STEVE!” It was early on day four and Mom appeared in the distance.  I could sense the urgency.  Dad and I had set out early with headlamps to get in position for first light hunting.  

      “Why was mom out here?”, I wondered.  I grabbed my pack and headed her way.  The tide was cresting 32 feet that morning and the whole place was wet.  I almost went over my chest waders negotiating a slough.

        “A log got the boat!”, she shouted.  She was still 75 yards from me and once she saw that I was on my way she quickly turned her heels back the way she’d come. 

      Ivan River is a tidal slough and is a collection-zone for all manner of Susitna River driftwood.  Everything from cottonwood bark, branches of every size, and even entire trees come floating down the river.  This year’s heavy rains and near flooding conditions have flushed the Susitna basin of massive amounts of drift. Occasionally a log sweeps into our anchored boat dragging it up or down river (depending on the stage of the tide).

     I wanted to catch up to her for some details of the boat situation on the way back to camp but she was hustling with a definitive  hop-in-her-step.  I thought that I would catch her soon but I realized that I wasn’t gaining; She was on fire!  I picked up my pace to almost a jog and finally caught up to her after a quarter mile of chase.  “Jesus mom, I had a hard time catching you!”.  She giggled.  She’ll be 80 in February. 

     Sure enough a monster 70 foot cottonwood tree had dislodged the boat’s anchor and took it for a ride.  The behemoth log took the boat upriver to the corner before it rotated off and continued its wayward journey.  It’s always a little disheartening to look out the window of the cabin to discover that the boat is gone.  

The boat resting on the corner at sunrise
after going on a "ghost ride".

But all's well that ends well and I launched our rubber raft and retrieved the boat soon thereafter.  That night Dad made his famous sweet-and-sour duck recipe and later we sipped Creme de menthe by the wood stove.  We would leave the next morning but for now we would stay up late and swap old stories of Ivan River lore.

Full moon over Mt. Spurr

Dad plucking a goose
on the back deck.

Mom stripping a net in the front yard.

Lots of new drift including several
Iditarod trail stakes that washed 
down the river in the Spring.

Rendered goose fat.   

     

 

31 foot tide pushing drift 
onto our boardwalk.

Jump Shooting for Moose on the Yukon

Jump Shooting for Moose on the Yukon

(photo by Bryan Kirby)

     The canoe wobbled a little as I stepped in; I was the middle man of three in a 17 foot Coleman canoe which meant that I got to sit on the center crossbar.  Dave was in the back and was alternating canoe strokes with bull moose grunt calls.  Bryan was in the front.

      It had been a long day of travel on the Yukon River.  We had pushed off of the bank at the Yukon River bridge on the Haul Road at 7:00 AM that morning.  An hour stop in Galena had us at 12 hours of river running.

     After we left Galena we decided to stay at Dave’s cabin.  It was only thirty miles further and would break up an otherwise epic boat ride to moose camp.  Also, we wouldn’t have to set up camp.  “The question is..” Dave had said, “What happens if we see a bull at the cabin?” Bryan said nothing.  I was the newbie on this hunt and was trying not to call-the-shots.  After a pause, they both turned to me for an answer.  I was the only one with a rifle and was somehow designated shooter on this hunt.  Bryan and I have moose hunted together many times and neither of us cares who shoots the moose as long as the deed is done.  

     “Well if you’re asking me I would say that if it’s a small one we pass but I’m going to be honest with you.  I have a hard time passing up a nice moose”.  This ended the discussion and we made our way down river.  Next stop Dave’s cabin.

     Dave’s cabin was on an oxbow lake off of the main creek and as we paddled around the corner several ducks swerved in front of us. Dave let out another guttural bull grunt through his fiberglass moose call.

    “Did you hear that?” Bryan said” There’s one over there!”  A call just like what Dave had produced had me reaching for my rifle. It sounded very near.  The paddling had stopped and we slowly glided along the glassy water. 

    Just then an abrupt commotion with branches breaking, had a rather large bull charging out of the brush onto the bank right in front of us not forty feet away!  Dave’s challenge had been answered.  He was swaying his antlers back and forth as he stepped towards us.  I looked behind me at Dave for any indication of where he stood on the situation...nothing.  I turned around to look at Bryan and he was looking at the moose and had his fingers in his ears.  Now either Bryan was trying to dig out some late-fall mosquitos that had flown into both of his ears simultaneously, or he was protecting himself from a very loud noise.  This was all I needed.

       After a brief and intense stare-down, the bull turned his head just enough for me to place a bullet high on his neck.  He went down like a sack of potatoes.  In recent years I have been a bit more selective in my shooting.  When possible, a head or high neck shot is preferred because there is less waste.

       Bryan and Dave looked at each other and just shook their heads in disbelief.  It was 8:00 PM and the sun was going down.  We had several hours of late night work ahead of us but I couldn’t help but feel the excitement of harvesting what would be a big, fat moose that would fill the freezer for the next year! 

     I was a little leary that my hunting partners might dump me into the creek after shooting this moose so late in the day and/or early in the hunt but in the end they were super gracious and we soon got busy with the job of cutting it up .  The process of field dressing the moose would have us done at 12:30 at night but the cabin was only 75 yards away.  We paddled to Dave’s cozy cabin under a sky full of bright stars.  With a grateful heart and tired body, I crawled into my bunk and went to sleep.

47 inch antlers.  Not a monster by Yukon
standards but it was on of the fattiest
bulls I've ever harvested (photo by Bryan Kirby)

     

.

     

Whole moose in one canoe towed 
behind the "people"canoe.

Corned Moose 23.  Thanks for the
Idea Dave!

Lucky

 Lucky

     “This could be bad ” I thought. All six tires of Dad’s wheeler were completely submerged in mud.  I had broken the winch rope twice and now I couldn’t find the metal hook.  This was the seventh time I’d completely buried the Polaris Big Boss on my way to hunt caribou.  I realized that I was not very close to the area I wanted to hunt. “Maybe I should retreat”.

     Then I saw it; At the base of the small birch tree that was my anchor point I spotted something yellow.  Barely visible, I reached down and grabbed a small section of a broken ratchet strap.  I wondered if someone else got stuck here.  The webbing was weathered and torn but still attached to the black metal hook that would be my savior.  I cut off the webbing and tied the hook to my winch rope.  

     This was perhaps the crux-move of the trip as I was able to extract the wheeler and continue past the rain-soaked swamps and into the high country. 

     It was a relief to crawl out of the swamps onto a dry trail.  Before too long I was above the treeline and the valley presented itself to me in all its glory.  I followed the trail up the valley past a small lake that my friends have a cabin on.   The trail meandered up a steep hill with some tricky boulders to negotiate.  I planned to glass for animals at the top but I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be alone.

       I quickly shut-off the wheeler and stared straight ahead in absolute awe.  I tried not to move or breathe because right in front of me, no further than 50 yards was a large bull caribou. It was the day before opening day for my hunt; I named him Lucky.

Lucky

     Lucky seemed to be just as interested in me and I was of him.  He decided to hang out with me for 30 minutes or so.  He would graze on the short grasses and then look up and watch me.  I decided to set up my camp; This seemed like a good spot to me.

     Lucky watched me set up my teepee tent and unload my gear.  He wasn’t sure what to make of me so he came closer.  From inside the tent I peered through the zippered rain fly to see that Lucky was just 40 feet away!  

     Eventually after making a complete circle around me and my camp, Lucky disappeared over the hill.  I realized that it was highly unlikely that he would be around in the morning but I was encouraged to know that there were caribou around.  I enjoyed the evening camped out on a high point with glorious vistas.

Thanks for the wheeler Dad!

I'm a hot tent guy these days.  Love the wood heat.

    I had drawn a DC 590 caribou tag for the Talkeetna mountains.  I was one of 200 tag-winners out of the 5,839 total that applied; That’s a 3.4% chance. In the information section of the ADFG draw supplement for DC 590 it states:  “The caribou in this hunt tend to be in the areas only accessible by aircraft”.  I knew I was taking a chance with my choice of access but what can I say....I’m cheap.

     The next morning I stepped out of the tent into some of the thickest fog ever.  I felt like I was trapped inside a ping-pong ball.  I wandered no further than 50 feet from the tent before losing sight of my camp.  I returned and decided to wait-it-out.  

     Finally, the fog began breaking up the valley so I grabbed my gear and set out on foot quickly losing sight of my camp.  I hiked a couple of miles up the valley stopping to glass as the lifting fog revealed new areas;  No caribou.  I decided to return to camp, pack-up, and ride further down the trail to find some new areas.

     As I got closer to camp I realized that it would be a good idea to get a good look over all sides of the hill I was camped on.  The fog was gone now and I should leave no-stones-unturned.  

    Imagine my surprise when I looked over the first hill to find my new friend facing me behind a rock outcropping not 50 yards away.  He hadn’t seen me yet because his head was hidden by the rocks.  His big rack was giving him away.  Slowly I stood up poised to shoot.  He looked at me for what seemed like an eternity, then he turned his head just enough.  It was then that I realized that I had given the nickname Lucky to the wrong one of us.

      

Euro mount

All of the jars of caribou gets a small chunk of back fat 
Half of the jars get a tablespoon of yellow curry.