Welcome to My Back Yard. These short stories are my attempt to document some of my many fine Alaskan adventures. My developing love for writing is a perfect match for my uncanny ability to forget all but the most fundamental of details. J.R.R. Tolkien's timeless quote is my mantra- "Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."- so I write.
As I sat there trying to absorb it all, I came to a realization. I was really enjoying this! It was Sunday and alongside the massive fanfare, build-up, and hoopla expected of such events I found myself fully engaged in what might be considered the greatest spectacle of the American cultural experience. That’s right we were at a professional football game. Go Seahawks!
I might be considered a strange lass in the fact that, although I played sports including a little football in my high school days I never got into following any college or pro sports after that in any way. Playing sports is fun. Watching sports on T.V.…meh.
We don’t have cable, dish, or direct T.V. at home and haven’t for years but even when we did I never found sports interesting enough to follow. I always ended up flipping to some cooking show or the history channel much to the chagrin of my family. I’m kind of an anti-T.V. guy now. I find it to be an incredible time-suck. Without crawling too high on my box of soap I feel that life is too short to be spent on a couch absorbing and observing other people’s creativity and work in lieu of making my own. I am reminded of Pink Floyd’s timeless lyric “52 channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from…to choose from….to choose from.” I know....strange lass.
Although for me T.V. is out, one would have to be dead or in a coma to not be aware of the degree to which pro sports has embedded itself into the very fibers of the collective American psyche. Sometimes I am amazed at how pro football, in-particular dominates the news feeds all year long, even in the off season. You can’t escape it. Many of the my friends and family are devout football fans and some are even fantasy football gurus as well. As an observer from the outside of this“football mania” I realize that I can’t identify with it much but I can appreciate it for what it is. Football makes a lot of people happy. Football is entertainment.
69,000 people packed Century Link field on this fine Sunday afternoon including my kids Corey, Hazelee and my wife Tamra. My lovely and kind hearted wife was the chief facilitator of this whole vacation including the Seahawks tickets. Although only five rows of seats were higher than us we couldn’t have be happier or more engaged. I was surprised how well we could see the game from so high up.
My lovely wife
As it turned out the Seahawks handily dispatched the Cleveland Browns much to the dismay of the the few and proud dog pound members (Brown’s fans) in attendance. One of them was seated next to Corey and was wearing a full Brown’s superhero suit including a cape. Each time they scored a touchdown (once) he would throw fake 1 dollar bills into the air with his right hand and hold up real twenties with his left. I think he left with a lot of money in his pockets.
Truth-be-told it was an amazing spectacle to behold: the deafening roar of the crowd (12th man), the multiple jumbo-tron screens, the amazingly talented blue thunder band, the beautiful cheerleaders in their little Santa outfits, the incredible food and beer…and yes the talented professional athletes putting it all on the line made for a memory not soon forgotten. Great entertainment. Nothing on T.V. could possibly be this good.
On the train going to the game
Century Link
Pre-game hair coloring
Monday, December 14, 2015
Weird Wild Kahiltna
“Woah.” We had stopped in front of the Kahiltna River. Not because we wanted to, but because things just weren’t right. The water flowing in front of us was unabashed and undeterred. Instead of a nice hard-packed trail leading across to the other bank, the river was wide open. Apparently it never got the memo about you-know...winter.
River crossing anyone?
Just then I noticed a man snowshoeing along the far bank. “Hey look that must be Ed on the other side.” He waved to us and then motioned down river several times. I quickly figured out that there must be a safe crossing down river. Ed had to have gotten over there somehow.
We followed his trail downriver a mile or so until we found his crossing spot. Sure enough it was the only safe spot to cross for miles around and he had it marked with survey tape and he had made faint snow machine tracks on the ice to follow. After we crossed the river we continued to follow the barely-discernible tracks along the edge of the river. The frozen edges of the river were our only path up river along the bank. The tracks weaved around and dangerously close to open leads. The Kahiltna is a roaring, glacial fed river and is not one to be trifled with.
“Hi Ed.” Ed was snowshoeing back to his snow machine when we caught up with him. I knew exactly what he was up to. He was meticulously testing his route by way of snowshoe and careful observance.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Steve Harrison.” There was a pause.
“Steve, what the heck are you doing out here?” I was glad that he remembered me. I didn’t want to come across as a couple of yay-hoo’s lost in the woods. Dad and I were simply trying to get to the cabin.
This marks the 7th year that we have been passing this way. For years and years we always ran our snow machines to the cabin from Deshka Landing in Willow. I discovered the run from Amber Lake (accessible from Oilwell road in Petersville) is much shorter and offers several distinct advantages. For one it's warmer and we don't have to run 50 miles of river constantly negotiating overflow and open leads. This new way leads us to the Kahiltna crossing near Ed Ellis’s mining camp.
Ed has six kids. I have taught all of them in P.E class at Susitna Valley High. Small world.
“We’re headed to the cabin.” I told him. We made small talk and eventually picked our way up river with him to the normal crossing area. We said our goodbyes and began breaking trail to the cabin; another fifteen miles yet.
As is par-for-the-course, we had a brilliant time at the cabin. We packed down our normal trails and cooked some pretty fabulous cuisine. In the video dad is tending to the bacon and beans on the woodstove while the curry chicken is sizzling on the stove. The diced peppers, onions, and carrots are waiting their turn on the counter. This is how we roll. Life is too short for Mountainhouse and granola bars.
Imagine our surprise on Sunday when we returned to the Kahilna to find that the water had risen considerably. No longer was is safe to scuttle down the side of the river on Ed’s forsaken trail. It had washed out. After carefully checking out all options we decided to back-track, cut through the woods and hopefully pop over the bank near Ed’s crossing.
In the end it was the right decision because we were able to make it through the thick woods and over the bank. It took plenty of time and effort to do so and I had to use my winch and chainsaw to coerce forward progress at times but at no time were we frustrated or disgruntled. As it turned out it was an exercise in problem solving and decision making and these are the things that make life interesting and rewarding. It took us six and a half hours to get home this time but we were okay with it. Sometimes you get to drive straight to the cabin and back without incident, other times it doesn’t quite work out that way.
After safely crossing we checked in with Ed to make sure that he was safe. He told us that he was worried about us too because he knew of the deteriorating condition of the river.
It was good to connect with him and I found out during the course of our conversation that he has discovered opals in the Kahiltna! They are called jelly opals and they are the first opals found in Alaska! Ed and his wife Anne run the Diamond Gold Corporation and spend their time mining gems in the Kahiltna and the Yenlo hills. I’m looking forward to checking out their gem store the next time I pass through. Anne handed me a brochure with a website link detailing their efforts. Check it out at www.diamondgoldcorporation.com
"There is a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore like an idiot." Steven Wright
I was well into my second hour of fishing. I had successfully managed to free myself from several nasty entanglements involving intricately wrapped fly-line, hook, and weight. I was feeling like Steven Wright’s idiot but I was kinda proud of myself. I recognized that there was a time in my life when I would have cut the line and retreated to the bank. I might have even snapped the damn rod over my knee and threw it into the bushes in a fit of frustration. "Fly fishing's dumb." I would have said.
On this day though I was able to patiently unwrap the mess time and time again. Maybe it was no mistake that I haven’t taken-up fly fishing until now. I must be gaining patience. I must be a big boy now.
The plan for the day was simple: hike, fish, raft.
Tom was upstream and had a couple of brief hook-ups that ended quickly. “My goal for the day is to catch one fish.” Tom’s humble quest was declared early-on and it was looking like it was going to happen for him.
I was taking my instruction from Tom today and rightfully so. Although he used to be a self-admitted fly-fishing snob, he has expanded his repertoire to include everything under the sun. He has even joined me on the mudflats to wrangle salmon from our set nets, a far-cry from the purist ideals of the fly fisherman. He has a self-proclaimed Northern Pike-obsession too and is never too far away from his tattered floating mouse lure. He is quick to point out of all of the Pike tooth cuts along in its side.
Today he was getting back to his roots. There is no doubt that he knows his stuff and I consider myself lucky that he is happy to share his expertise with me.
The early afternoon sun made quick work of the last of the clouds bathing us in its glorious warmth. Katie was taking advantage of it enjoying herself on the bank, taking photos and relaxing. I was working on my ninth fly line tangle-mess but the sun felt good and I was managing to enjoy myself too.
I got the line under control and began casting again. My casting, a far cry from the romantic ones depicted in “A River Run’s Through it” was perfunctory at best but I knew that would change. I knew that if I got one strike, one bump, one hook-up then I could be bothered to cast with more feeling, more patience. Only then could I begin to become more of the process and start to pay attention. Only then could I begin to fish. I had to know that my technique, my presentation was even within the ballpark. “There’s one.”
I was retrieving the fly when he took it. I had a good two meters of line stripped, floating in front of me. I tensioned the line with my fingers as he bolted but the pull was too strong and somehow the line on the reel back spooled, came off and sprung like a slinky right out of the box. Shit.
I was able to hold the line with my hand and provide at-least some of the give-and-take required in the delicate battle of the trout. Luckily he was hooked well and with my fly-fishing mentor by my side helping to manage the rat nest of line and with Katie on-the-spot with the camera I managed to land him.
“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”
Helen Keller
It didn’t take long to figure out my mistake.
We had pushed the cart all the way to Grayling Creek and it was getting dark. It was time to stop and set up camp. “Hey Pete, I’ve got some bad news.” I had pulled the tent out of my pack and as it slid out of the top I couldn’t help but notice the flimsy-ness of the thing. My heart sunk a bit as I realized my own folly. I had forgotten the tent poles.
On the list of bad things to forget on a week long moose hunt, tent poles ranks pretty close to the top. I figured it wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for the trip but I knew that our comfort-level just got bumped down a notch or two.
The somber tone of the moment was quickly offset by my brother’s up- beat nature and glass-is-half-full outlook. “Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”
We decided to rig up whatever we could to make it through the night and then once we caught up with my Dad and Steve Davis we would have more time to mess around with it. As it turned out, the design we came up that night was a good one and would take us through the entire week-long moose hunt. I broke down one of the raft oars and we strategically wedged the two 3 1/2 foot poles into the middle of the tent. Once the poles were in place we staked and guyed-out the tent as tight as we could. Sleeping quarters were cramped but it proved to be a passable option.
pole less tent.
I figured that as long as it didn’t dump a bunch of snow or get too windy we would probably be alright. I kicked myself mentally for the dumb mistake I’d made.
The next day we packed-up and forged ahead. We pushed the cart about three miles without stopping. As we crested a small hill something caught my eye. “I think there’s some swans over there.” Sure enough, there were two big tundra swans up ahead of us tooling-around on a small shallow pond. I learned recently that swans mate for life and if one partner dies the other will not mate for years if ever. The bonds of love were strong with these two and it was touching to watch their varied displays of affection. They were happy snuggling and neck rubbing and seemed generally unimpressed with us as we pushed the cart right by them passing within sixty feet.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turned in time to see a cow caribou jump into the air like something out of a cartoon. It was like she had just been jabbed by a cattle prod. She was with her calf and as soon as she landed they sprinted up the valley past us. I soon found out why. Hot on their heels was a lone coyote. Eventually the coyote gave up the chase and looked over at us as if to say “WTF?”. Hequickly fled. Meanwhile, the caribou, bounding through the bushes scared up a small flock of ptarmigan.
Pete, asserting himself at the top of the food-chain quickly loaded his .22 pistol and took-off into the bushes. He returned shorty after with two of them. Their half white, half brown plumage was beautiful. They would be a nice addition to the curry dinner I had planned. Thanks Wiley.
Making ptarmagin curry.
I snapped the bungee cord to the harness and Pete assumed his position in the back of the cart and we were on our way.
We caught up with the old guys the next day. They had set up camp in the pass and were hunkered under their tarp-shelter eating lunch. They had left a couple of days ahead of us and the plan was to meet them in the pass. It was snowing big cornflakes of wet snow. The wind was whipping through the pass plastering everything with wet sloppy snow.
Pushing the cart up the pass.
We greeted them in all the usual ways and quickly found out that they hadn’t been sitting idol waiting for us to arrive. They had already made two packs into the next valley and weren’t expecting us quite so soon. They are both 69 years old.
My Dad Steve Sr. and his long-time buddy Steve Davis met in college back in the sixties at Central Washington University. They became fast friends and spent a lot of time fishing on the Yakima River in Ellensburg Washington.
They joined the Air Force and somehow they both managed to get transferred to Elmendorf Air force base in Anchorage. This was the beginning of many fishing and hunting adventures.
They are the sole pioneers of this moose hunt.
Steve Davis
It started for them back in the early 80’s and for many consecutive years, the hunt was a steady supply of meat for both families. Each year the particularly grueling nature of the hunt was soon forgotten in the weeks and months that followed . Soon enough, planning would begin for the next year’s hunt.
When we were old enough, my brother and I were finally allowed to go too and it was by-far the hardest thing either of us had ever done. On those early hunts we learned a lot.
My first
We learned how to hunt, kill, and field dress moose. We learned how to dress-for and deal with the fowl weather. We learned how to pitch a tent, set-up and break-down camp. We learned how to lash meat to our pack boards and how to puff-up and paddle a heavy raft. More importantly than all of that though, we learned how to suffer.
Steve sr. rockin the red suspenders and a nice
4x2.
Looking back at those early hunts for me when I was 13 and 14 years old, I can really appreciate that my Dad and Steve Davis took the time and had the patience and understanding to take us under their wing and allow us to be a part of something special. I can’t imagine that it would be easy or particularly fun to deal with snotty-nosed whiny teenagers on such a tough endeavor. (I guess I’ll find out first-hand next year when I take my own son.) Part of this reunion hunt was an opportunity for Pete and I to say thanks. I think we both realize that the Jedi-training learned on those early trips has made us who we are today.
Pete's first
The next day we packed the rest of our things over the pass and into the valley below. We had to set up camp in the driving rain and settled into our shelter for a nice meal just as the rain turned back into wet snow.
As a general rule, we have all come to despise freeze-dried meals. Freeze-dried meals such as Mountain House brand are light weight, neatly packaged, easy and quick to make. The problem is that they taste a lot like soggy microwaved sawdust. I’ll have to admit, freeze-dried food has its place in the mountains but on this trip we would have nothing of it and instead decided to pack-in real food and it was wonderful.
All four of us are accomplished cooks in our own right especially Steve Davis. Pete and I wanted to bring in some special ingredients, a move we learned from our Dad. Here is what we brought: four pounds of our fresh caribou breakfast sausage ( extra hot), 1 pound of moose bacon, 2 pounds of pork bacon, 6 onions, a dozen jalapenos, a pint of olive oil, half a pound of butter, a bag of bell peppers, 1 pound of summer sausage, fresh herbs including thyme, parsley, pineapple sage, rosemary (We got all the herbs from Buskirk gardens.)
In the dry-goods box we had various soup mixes: basmati rice, cous cous, dirty rice, jambalaya, spaghetti pasta (fettuccine), and pancake mix. I did pack a few canned goods including tomato paste (for spaghetti) and coconut milk (for curry).
Our seasoning kit was stellar: Yellow curry powder, a black pepper grinder, garlic salt, soy sauce, Thai seasoning, Tabasco sauce, minced garlic and yes I brought some saffron.
Pete brought homemade hot buttered rum mix, Captain Morgan's special reserve (rum),a bota box ( Shiraz) and some good beer. The rest of us rounded out the bar with several nice bourbons. Life is too short to eat crappy food.
By the way the weather was awful. It snowed or rained on us the whole time except for the last day. A smidgen of pride was realized after an overnight dump of snow collapsed dad’s tent (with poles) and our own make shift paddle-raft tent stood unflinching although somewhat soggy. Eat your heart out Bear Gryllis. Apparently Dad and Steve had to crawl out of their tent in the middle of the night to clear all the snow and bend the tent back into position.
Over the course of the next few days we would divide our time between hunting and moving camp lower in the valley. We would load all of our gear into the rafts so we could float and drag our whole kit downstream instead of carrying it on our backs.
The weather never showed any signs of letting up and consequently the majority of our down time was spent trying to dry-out and warm-up under our tarp shelter. Here we could change clothes, cook, tell stories, and watch passing caribou. Dealing with this kind of weather was not new to any of us and it felt good to share this experience these particular guys. We laughed a lot, marveled at the shitty weather, and had a few drinks.
“It’s good to have you guys back.” I said. We were hunkered in our lean-to eating fresh tenderloin from the kill. Pete had downed a nice big bull and spirits in camp were high. The rich wine sauce that Davis whipped up was steaming into our faces off of our plates. Both rafts served as the walls of our lean-to and for now we were sheltered from the storm. The snow was piling up on top of the tarp but we were warm, semi-dry, and happy.
"It's great to be back." said Steve.
54 inches. Nice shot Pete!
Pete and I enjoying a happy moment before the work began.
My lips were still tingling from the too-hot sip of coffee I'd just taken. It was early. Corey's hot chocolate sat unattended on the action packer as he struggled to get up and out of the tent. Thirteen year old boys, as it turns out, are pretty fond-of-the-pillow and if left alone have been known to sleep all day.
"There's one." Right behind camp not 500 yards away stood a nice bull caribou. I grabbed my binoculars to confirm. "Corey!" I whispered loudly, "Let's go." We gathered the essentials and quickly decided upon a line of approach.
Soon enough we were within range and as the sequence-of-events played out I found myself becoming more nervous than I am when it's just me behind the gun.
Before too long the deed was done and there was much to celebrate. We watched my brother and his whole family as they made their way through the tussocks and tundra and up to the kill-site. They were all there to congratulate Corey on his Harrison family rite-of-passage.
We returned to camp after a couple of hours of field dressing and the pack-out was easy. As we settled back into camp Corey made his way over to the action packer to claim his cocoa which had cooled down considerably. Nevertheless he gulped it down enthusiastically. "How was that cocoa?" I asked.
"It was nasty." he said with a smile.
Field dressing
The whole crew minus photographer Amanda Harrison
Brenton Harrison bagging a few ptarmigan.
Uncle Steve teaching the finer points of field dressing a ptarmigan
Amanda bagged her first caribou too!
Pete stirring the camp jambalaya with a willow stick.
The mighty hunter
European mount tip: remove as much of the soft tissue in the field as you can. It makes a lighter load and you don't have to deal with the mess at home. Keep the skull moist or submerged until you are ready to blast with a pressure washer
After a couple of weeks of drying this baby will be ready to mount on the wall in Corey's room.
"This might be a little bumpy." He said. The gravel landing strip was situated alongside a swift glacial stream and was anything but smooth. After one big bounce he quickly wrangled us under control. Jordan, like his father was becoming a damn good pilot. The under-inflated tundra tires of the super-cub cushioned our landing and slowed our run-out. We puttered our way to the end of the short strip where my brother Pete was waiting.
Jordan had flown him in earlier. He had already cased-out the valley with his binoculars and was excited to share his findings. "There's a group of moose lower in the valley and there are two rams way up there." As he pointed I looked around trying to take in my new surroundings.
"Wow,this place is beautiful." I said. We were surrounded by jagged peaks, glaciers and waterfalls; it was rugged terrain no doubt.
Pete had drawn a sheep tag and had asked me to come along. It was easy for me to say yes. I have always been drawn to the mountains and this was just the excuse I needed. I am reminded of a sign in my brother-in-law's house: "If you are lucky enough to be in the mountains you are lucky enough."
In the end we wouldn't be able to access the hunting area of Pete's sheep tag. We thought that we could access a low point of the ridge that would grant us passage into an adjacent valley but after we got a good look at it on day two, it was obvious that it was too technical and too steep. I'm sure we could have scrambled up there but coming back down with heavy packs of meat wouldn't have been a good idea at all.
So, what started out as a quest for sheep ended up being just a great weekend in the mountains. We were lucky enough.
Day one hiking through paradise.
The Mountain Cranberry (Vaccinium Vitis-Idaea) were the prevalent berry on our trip.
Camp 1 (4,200 ft.elevation)
High camp (5,200 ft. elevation)
Pete hiking through the seemingly endless moraine.
Stream carving through the glacier
Pete, getting a drink at the disappearing waterfall. The stream
disappears into the moraine at the bottom of the picture.
Pete traversing the glacier.
I found these scattered on the glacier. There were many more. Anyone know what they are?
We could smell it coming. The pale tube of skin barely contained it’s contents. It was hanging from the web like a big bag of snot. Chris deftly maneuvered to the edge to intercept it before it sloshed it’s way into the boat. A ripped hole near the gill revealed a ragged white sack of eggs that was rolling around a stew of rotting flesh inside. The eyeballs were gone and the head was attached by only a thread of skin. It was hard to believe that this was once a beautiful salmon. Chris pulled the web high and it rolled over the lead line and under the net. “Nice job dude!”
Not all salmon make it to the spawning grounds or the cannery. Like in all great struggles there are casualties. Some are inadvertently whacked by boat props or bitten by seals, others fall from the nets and fail to recover from their battle. Regardless, the result is the same; these lost souls become the ghosts of the bay. Some call them zombies; they seem to be alive as the sway in the current with their wavy flakey white skin, eyeless skulls and foul stench.
Initially they sink. Soon enough though, the bacteria begin their work producing some kind of gas. “I think it’s methane.” Corey Ambrose was my go-to biology guy on the beach and after a little research at home it was confirmed. Apparently the bacteria have plenty of protein to break down and along with methane a stinky organic compound called amines are produced which gives us the lovely rotten-fish smell. Nice. Their sinking days are over by now and these “floaters” are happy to share their glory with the world.
“Holy shit look at that!” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coming up in the net, some fifteen feet away from the boat was a real doozy. Hanging out among a dozen bright and shiny sockeyes was a former fifty pound king salmon. “Oh my God, it’s the Witch King of Agmar!”
My reference to Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings character was spot on (if I don’t say so myself). It’s giant white skull and black empty eye sockets sat atop it’s huge bloated pale body. Preceded by it’s shocking odor, it moved towards the boat trapped by our net. I could almost hear the screeching from the movie and wondered if it might be hiding a sword in its flank.
I lifted the net high enough for it to roll out and under the net. We said our goodbyes to the Witch King and continued with our work. We wouldn't see him again until the next tide change.
