Meat Skillet

 Meat Skillet

          “Who’s that?” I nodded to my left.

     “ The short guy?”

    “ Yeah.”

   “ Oh, that’s Carl.” Pete bluntly explained. “He manages a small Laundromat in Nebraska but he’s secretly always wanted to be a fireman.  The academy wouldn’t accept his application due to his recurring asthma.   He actually owns a full fireman’s suit that he keeps in his closet.  He volunteers at the VFW and he’s a mediocre bowler.”

  “ What about that guy coming out of the bathroom?”  I was testing him.

Pete responded with deadpan;  “ Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Les.  Les is gay and is a hairdresser in Albuquerque.  Les actually hates hunting but is making good on a payback promise to his twin brother Jeff who is an attorney for the state department.  Last spring Jeff agreed to a  rancher- for- a- week retreat out of Austin Texas. They are both are still nursing rope burns on their butt cheeks.”

     All three of us broke out in laughter for a good thirteen seconds.  The guy did seem to have a bit of a limp.

    “Nice.”

     Experienced Alaskan hunters, it turns out tend to develop other skills too, like people watching in dumpy bush airports.

     A smirk and a chuckle came about me as I took in the room scanning for Pete’s next impromptu biography victim.  Wow there was a lot of camo in the room!  It was a wonder I could see anyone at all.  The hundred or so “sportsman” were caught up in the usual assortment of airport tasks, checking baggage, booking tickets, napping.  No one was coming or going at the moment.  With no plane to be had, we were stuck in a holding pattern of Cabelas card-carrying members.  It's okay, we are used to the goings on of small Alaskan airports; the predictable ebb and flow was an exercise in patience and tolerance.

      Myself, not entirely averse to donning camouflage in a hunting situation was conflicted internally to the urban-camo look and was taken-a-back on the ninety plus percent camo exhibited here, in the airport! Are these guys for real?  Did they really need to be prepared at any given moment to put the “sneaks” upon an unsuspecting deer or bear in the baggage claim area?

     Pete and I appeared as if we were on our way to a Sierra Club mixer with our Northface fleeces, whereas Dad’s camo stripe on his boots was quietly endearing himself to his mossy oak brethren.   How lame I must have looked to them in my “street clothes” at an airport instead of some good real tree thinsulate.  Maybe next year I’ll wear a ghilie suit; Maybe not.     

Next year's ghilie suit?

     The group of five camo dudes chatting next to us in a circle could very well have been a small bush.  It was only my keen eye as a hunter that was able to distiquish the difference.  The biggest of the group chewed gum as he held court.  He looked like a Dennis to me.  Dennis’s lively enactment of whatever he was talking about was provoking raucous laughter from his attentive buddies.  The hairy flesh of Dennis’s bulging gut was partruding well beyond the capacity of his mossy oak fleece top and was partially obstructing the view of his embossed elk belt buckle.  All I could make out were the four hoofed legs that came to life with each laughing fit like it was trying to get away. 
      A seven on a ten scale of annoyance wasn’t enough to ruffle us though, not yet, hell we were on our way to our deer hunters haven: South Kodiak.

     “Harrison party of three?” We were up and out of the seedy Kodiak airport loading the shuttle van as fast as we could.  We tried not to look like we were in a hurry but we were pretty excited.  We had to share the ride with another group, we were told.  Sure enough here came Dennis the Menace and crew slowly packing in shoulder to shoulder with Harrison party of three.  The minty waft of Dennis’s gum smackings permeated the cab almost as much as their hyena-like chucklings. 

     Amusing as Dennis and crew were to themselves it was Randy, the shuttle driver, who commanded our attention.  A seasoned local native, he was rough around the edges and, as I would discover later, a deserved character worthy of remembrance in the muddled and arbitrarily discriminatory archives of my memory.   

      His long shiny black hair was pulled into a ponytail with flowing streaks of silver.  From there, the romantic description of Randy’s physical attributes drops off.  I was certain that it had been at least a week since Randy had brushed his tooth.  He was hopelessly tied to his Marlboros and had a rasp rivaling Janis Joplin.   The deep ravined lines of a hard life had worked into his face.  His beady almost black eyes had a Clint Eastwood squint about them and came across as a fellow not to be trifled with. 

muffins are lame.

 Did he have an ivory handled colt at the ready?  We didn’t know but we were on a roll, a vacationers high.  Nary a smile was cracked by Randy despite some of the hilarity of our supercharged carryings on.  I'm sure he'd seen it all. 
     The dorky nonsense of Harrison party of three rolled on without breaking stride, ivory handled colt or not.

     We had purposefully arrived the night before our bush flight out to the hunting grounds and now we had some time to kill.  My dad had booked us at the Comfort Inn, which was close to the airport.  Randy dropped us there, freeing us from the pleasantries of the Dennis crew.  Initially we were pleased with the hotel selection due to its close proximity to the airport, but when we pulled the lobby doors open our sentiments changed dramatically. 

     A lingering white haze of cigarette smoke filled the large room.  There were four people puffing away like there was no tomorrow including the lady at the front desk. 

      The guy stood looking out the lobby window was sucking his cheeks in deeply, pulling a hard drag as far within his lungs as he could; we passed, making our way to the front desk. At least the smokers were smart; they were holding their smoldering butts way out to one side or the other between drags, so their eyes would not be irritated by the burn of their selected Phillip Morris products. The uprising tailings of the burning chemicals spiraled and joined the rest of the cloud in a swirl of toxicity.  Like peeing in a swimming pool, they shared their lobby fog with one and all without consideration of consequence. Pete was happy to introduce us to each of them confidentially including Flo at the front desk.  The matted down dusty Brown bear rug looked forlorn hanging above Flo; I couldn’t blame him.  We did manage to produce a genuine tone thanking Flo as we grabbed our faded brass metal key to our non-smoking room that ended up, not so coincidentally, smelling a lot like smoke.

Harrison's are well known
for their high-brow tastes

    Nonetheless, Harrison party of three had a brilliant time acquainting ourselves with the subtleties of the hardened Kodiak culture.  We drank some beer too.  Memory of note: My father Steve sr. did indeed order a Cutty on the rocks at the lobby bar that night.  Cutty Sark? Really? I had no idea I was hunting with Denny Crane.  Who knew?

Deer hunting anyone?

     The next morning we were picked up by our new buddy Randy.  With his edgy delivery and matter of fact opinions, he informed us of some local hotspots for any night forays upon our return and where we could pick up any needed supplies before today’s flight out.  He steered us to the best spots to buy beer and fuel canisters for our lantern as requested.  Both aforementioned items, blacklisted from domestic flights these days ranked high on our “need to get” list for our weeklong deer hunt.     

    “You guys don’t fly out until noon.”

“Do you want me to bring you to town for breakfast?” raspy Randy asked.

     We looked at each other for any indications of opinion amongst ourselves. “ Well I am kinda hungry, I did see a sign at the hotel about some continental breakfast”, I offered out loud although it didn’t sound very good to me. 

     Randy pulled the trigger; “ You don’t want no fuckin muffin” he barked with as serious a look as I’ve ever seen.  “ Let me take you down to the Shelly for a meat skillet!”

     After the laughter died down of which Randy did not partake, we whole-heartedly agreed upon his idea.  He was right, we didn’t want no fuckin continental breakfast muffin the size of a racquetball, wrapped in plastic to go with our cold cereal and maybe a brownish banana or outdated yogurt.  We were beginning to warm to this Randy guy; he was all right.

     None of us knew what the “Shelly” was, but the meat skillet sounded good.  Apparently Randy was as good reading us as we were at pigeon holing the camo dipsticks at the airport.   We grilled Randy during the ten-minute ride into town about whatever we could since we were pretty impressed with the whole meat skillet-muffin bit.  

Grig

     The Shelikof Lodge or “Shelly” as it were, was named after Grigory Shelikof, a Russian fur trader who founded the first Russian settlement in America, in what is now Alaska, at Three Saints Bay on Kodiak Island in 1784. Unbeknownst to him at the time Grigory (I think of him as Grig) had no idea his legacy would include his namesake on a two star Hotel in downtown Kodiak city where meat skillets rule the menu.  Lucky.  He probably just figured that if he beat up enough seals with baseball bats he might be able to barter his way back home to his lovely Russian wife Natalya, who was reportedly a hot little number and had a weak spot for seal oil. 
      I don't feel too much guilt talking smack about the deceased Grig considering that when he landed at Three saints bay and was met unfavorably by the indigenous Koniaga people of the Alutiiq nation, decided that it would be a good idea to kill hundreds of them and take hostages so as to send a strong message: You were here first, but I'm here now; give me all your furs!  I'm ok with the legacy of the Shelly meat skillet.

     “Good Morning gentlemen, can I get you some coffee?”

“Yes three coffees please”

“O.K I’ll bring some menus too.”

I stepped up to the plate.  “We won’t be needing any menus today ma’am, I think we know what we want.”

     She stopped in her tracks and pulled out her ticket book and a pen.

“Meat skillets all around please”.  I added the circular index twirl for flare and then she left us for a while, scampering across the stained seventies carpet.  There might have been something better on the menu, but probably not. The level of anticipation at our table was building; My stomach growled at me, it was 11:00 after all.  Our confidence in Randy’s blatant recommendation was affirmed when three oval shaped skillets came steaming our way.

     Although I’m sure my LDL Cholesterol bubbled up twenty points that day,  the meal itself was not bad.  A bed of fried potatoes anchored an all-star cast of bacon, reindeer sausage, and some other tasty unidentified mystery meats. Some onions and eggs joined the party all taking cover under a melted cheddar cheese umbrella.  The nasal tang of spicy vapors rose from the high sheen of Tobascco that I had dumped on my skillet clearing my sinuses.  Harrison party of three quipped no more as we devoured our breakfast. I wiped up the last of the savory grease off the plate with my sourdough toast.  We washed it all down with truck stop coffee and ice water. Ahhh!  Muffin my ass.