Endeavor to Persevere

Thanksgiving morning 7:00 AM: dinner time 4:00 PM:

“The turkey’s still frozen.”
“What? Both of them?”
    They had been thawing in the fridge for 3 1/2 days, and brining for the last 14 hours in a salty, broth, honey solution.  It should have been enough.  It wasn’t.   First thing in the morning I grabbed one of them out of the brine.  I squeezed it and immediately noticed it’s remarkable similarity to that of a still- frozen turkey.... shit.  
   Funny how plans change.  Originally I had planned to bake one and smoke one outside.  Ten below zero outside temps squelched my smoking plans.  My uninsulated smoker just doesn’t get hot enough when it’s cold out.
     I contemplated the situation with coffee in hand. Maybe they can both fit in the oven at once, I thought.  A tape measure told me no.  The tin roasting tubs were flared out too much, besides the turkeys were too damn wide.  OK think, think.

      I know, I’ll bone them out whole. It was decided. I’ve heard it can be done.  Taking the bones out would allow the turkey to morph into any shape I so desired right?  I should be able to fit both in the oven that way.   A few Youtubes later I was on my way cutting and butchering the meat carefully away from the bone.  Not too different from boning out any wild game I skinned, boned and cut my way around the turkey.  Twenty minutes later Viola!  There it was flayed out before me on the counter; One twenty-pound frozen-in-some-parts turkey minus the bones.  Let the thawing commence!  I grabbed the other bird and started hacking away.
    After a while I made the stuffing and formed a giant egg shaped blob of it nestled it carefully on top.  “Tamra, can I get some help please!”  
     Soon enough all four of our hands were pulling, pushing, and tucking the turkey up and around the ball of stuffing just like Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in Ghost in the pottery wheel scene, minus the erotic passion.  Our passion was entirely about frustration.
     “ I AM pulling!”  
    “ Your other left!”  
    “ I am jack-ass!”
    “Who you calling Jack?”  I hate that movie.  I digress.
    I didn’t have the appropriate sewing twine on hand but I did have some wooden kabob skewers that worked for at least one anonymous Internet source. I finally got it sewed it up with the pointy wood sticking out every which way.  It was finally contained in one piece!   According to several other ubiquitous Internet sources the final product stitched up and stuffed should resemble the shape of the original turkey.  Mine looked like a sad couch cushion.  I wanted to sit on it.
    We turned it over stitching side down into the aluminum roasting pan.  I tried to fluff up the turkey cushion but it was only a cursory effort.   The blob was already comfy in the shape it had become.  I decided that I better leave enough alone.
     After the second turkey was boned out, seasoned, stuffed, and stitched, we flipped it into the second aluminum roasting pan  just like the first one.  After much aluminum manipulation the oven door was opened for business.  “Into the oven, you fowl beasts!”  I shouted.   A little grunting, shoving and bending of aluminum allowed for closure ( of the oven door I mean.)
     The sigh of relief I was anticipating and any thought of a high-five was cut short when the wife noticed the large plumes of smoke billowing from the top vent of the oven.  ‘What the hell is going on? How could it be burning already?”  
  One of the wooden skewers had apparently skewered it’s little way through the bottom of the roasting pan creating a pipeline of fat drippings onto the floor of the oven.  Interesting.  
    Sometimes in life we are presented with challenges.  We don’t always ask for them but in these trying times it is our true character that is revealed.  I am reminded of the old Indian in “The Outlaw Jose Wales” who was encouraged by the Federal Government to “ Endeavor to Persevere.”  
   “Damn it! What the hell are we going to do now?  We’re screwed, we are SCREWED!”
    During my rant, the wife was starting to appear very foggy to me across the kitchen as the overhead hood vent was unable to keep up with the industrial revolution spewing from the oven.
    “I’ts going to be okay. Grab that cookie sheet.” she calmly reassured me.  I did what I was told.  Together we  transferred the dripping mess onto it and out of the oven.  A quick scrape with a flat metal spatula freed most of the charred turkey fat.  
  “Do you want me to call my brother and tell him to warm up his oven?” she asked.
   “Yeah.”
     I remained put in the kitchen calming myself down while Tamra drove turkey number two over to her brothers house down the road.      Soon the doorbell would ring.  Appetizers of all kinds, desserts, in-laws, jello, champagne, parents, and fancy cheeses all would march their way through the door to the table.  And as to be expected, all the usual rhythms, rituals, and traditions of Thanksgiving unfolded with much fanfare and laughter.     

 In the not-so-back of my mind, I couldn’t help thinking about my two wayward couch-cushion- turkeys sizzling away in separate ovens.  We did have a few boxes of Mac & Cheese in the pantry if it didn’t work out.   Beanie-weenie in a pinch?
     My apprehension laid to rest when several hours later my carving knife sliced directly through like a loaf of bread.  Without bones to negotiate, each full slice contained white meat, dark meat, and stuffing.  I looked over the table and saw that everyone had a crosscut section shaped like a couch cushion on their plate.   It looked good.

               

Dodging Cesspools

Dodging Cesspools     

    It was our last day.  After a fruitless morning we returned to camp and packed up.  To the delight of my co-pilot in particular, we were able to sled most of our way back down the trail, down the valley five miles, back to the truck.  
    With a heavy heart, I began shoving stuff into the truck for the trip back home.   We piled inside and left.  Was this really happening?  Was I striking-out again?  I felt depressing thoughts creep into my mind.  I tried to suppress them but it was tough.  I questioned myself.   Had I not tried hard enough this year? Maybe I should take up bowling or book club instead.  How about sewing, maybe I could learn to sew.
    Then, as I began to figuratively roll up my pant legs so I could start wading into the cesspool of my own self-pity, I saw them there.  They were two hundred yards off the road.  Three caribou grazing in a creek bed continued about their usual business of walking, stopping, eating.  
    Fearing another missed opportunity I pulled the truck over as inconspicuously as I could.  I hoped and prayed they would not be spooked. “Hey Corey look there’s some caribou!”.
    “Where?”
    “Over the hill, let’s get ready.”  Rifling through the truck I quickly found my rifle.  A gentle push on the truck’s door was quiet as a church mouse.  With Corey sidling at my hip,  I carefully maneuvered into positions.  I poked the rifle over the crotch of a spruce branch.   Reaching over-top I  had to snap a few twigs out of the view of my scope.  They were still there!
    The one on the end troubled me.  Head squared-off  in our direction, she knew something was awry.  She was right.  With a twitch and a jump she could spoil it all in a flash.  She probably didn’t realize that this was our third attempt this fall.   She probably didn’t realize that I don’t have any more time-off from work.  She probably wasn’t questioning her own resolve.  My heart pounded in my chest.
    A slow squeeze of the trigger released the firing pin.  The thunder of my 30.06 echoed across the valley.  There in the frozen creek bed she stumbled.  I jacked the bolt open to reload. Was it a hit?  I was pretty sure it was.  I wasn’t going to take any chances. “BOOM” I shot again to be sure.

Text message sent 1700:

Corey:  “Hi mom we got blud on our face so we are not a dicecrace.”
Mom :  “Hope you guys are having fun and staying warm!”
Corey:  “Wer in cant well.”
Mom:  “Yay!!!”

    I was doing the driving, the text-messaging was up to the ten year old -as it should be.  That’s part of the duties of the co-pilot.  I knew it wouldn’t take long for my wife to decode these messages;  She is his teacher after all.   She would know that we had meat for the freezer. Finally.   
    Last year’s meat was dwindling.  Lonely packages of moose, caribou, and deer longed for more of their buddies.  At least we had plenty of salmon.  My subsistence obsession has me hyper-aware of meat levels at our house.  That’s right, I said it;  meat levels.  I know.
    As a Physical Education teacher at our local school, I consider myself a health and wellness advocate and I fully realize the nutritional value of our hunting and fishing efforts.  The lean fresh protein we harvest and consume each year is a direct link to our families health.  Free of hormones, steroids and antibiotics,  I consider our meat organic, free-range, and delicious.  Well worth the effort and time, hunting for us is a family tradition that is looked forward to, planned for, and celebrated.
    Today I felt a weight had been lifted off of me like a curtain of lead and I was happy.  The last few days of tent camping in below zero weather had been awesome in itself but the end-goal is always ever-present in my mind.
     Already I was starting to forget the series of defunct hunting efforts this fall.  On opening day I was devastated to find myself muddling along amongst the masses. An endless sea of motor homes and camo-dudes blocked our every move.  It was akin to combat-fishing for Sockeye on the Russian River in peak season.   I was way out of my element; confused, angry, and a little hurt.  
    The other failed hunt this fall wounded my pride even further.  Our traditional late September moose hunt was riddled with poor weather. It beat us to a pulp.  Purposefully we escaped the crowds through hours of physical labor including over fourteen miles of pushing our 500 pound cart of rafting gear through mud and swollen creeks.  To our utter disheartenment we were slapped down by the rude blanketing of foul weather.  With our tails between our legs, along with my brothers ripped rain pants, we retreated once again back to the sickening comfort of the truck....again.
     A troubled mind no longer, I drove us home with an easiness and a satisfaction that I had long been awaiting.   Privately I revelled in it.  What a beautiful day it was.  The sun shone o’er the valley.  I noticed a light dusting of snow lighting up the rolling hills. Life was good and it was a good day to be alive.  I looked around for birds that might be chirping.   The tune “Zippidy- do- dah” edged into the periphery of my consciousness.   Luckily I snapped out of it before the singing started.
    As we rolled down the snow covered road, I realized that I was in my own world.  I glanced over at my co-pilot who was perhaps a smidge less encumbered by cesspools of self-pity and curtains-of-lead.   The inadequacies of our prior hunting efforts were of no bother to him.  He just wanted to have fun; camping with dad, fires at night, farting in the tent, and cocoa in the morning.  What else is there?  His refreshing outlook was just what I needed to keep me grounded.  Thanks Corey.
    Corey was busying himself with the food while keeping close tabs on the I-phone: changing the tunes, checking for bars of reception, singing, texting, joking.  Earlier he had cheerfully helped me with the field dressing duties:  holding a leg here, pulling on the hide there, here-a-hoof, there-a-hoof, everywhere a hoof-hoof. He had even carried more of the load out this year. I was proud of him.
     
    “What a great trip bubba, thanks for coming with me.”
    He was sifting through the pile of gas station goodies in his lap we had picked up in Cantwell.   Finishing his last bite of microwaved french bread pizza he reached for the water bottle and took a slug.  
    His hair was poking out every-which-way and fully rounded out his post hunting motif.  Food and caribou blood stains smeared down his coat leading to his baggy, black snow pants and untied boots. He wore his battle hardened dirty face unnoticed and therefore unabashed.  
      “It was fun dad, thanks for taking me.”   

Upland Nuances

“Upland Nuances”

By SteveHarrison

          My unfamiliarity with the seemingly esoteric subtleties of the upland bird hunting game had me intrigued. Running a fine balance between my growling and grunting subsistence ideology and my dabblings of fair-chase, I was at a crossroads.  But was I really?  Too long had I lambasted them off the ground or plucked them from a tree-branch with my .22 pistol.  Too long had I flouted the gentile traditions of fair-chase championed by the “real” sportsman.  Now, it was not enough, I told myself.  Was this maturity knocking on my door?   I reached for the .410 hanging among the coats on the hook by the door.  “On the wing today Su, on the wing.”  

    In lieu of the Pendleton hunting sweater with the right-side shoulder patch and the bloomers rollin-high socks, I took down the trail in my standard-issue hoodie and crocs.   Not to be outdone, I made sure the shotgun was draped romantically over my forearm, breech open.  I was ready. Su, running out ahead was flushing her little heart out.  She was hustling and sniffing, darting around hither and thither.  The definitive omega pup of her litter, Su’s subservient manner has closed more doors for her than has been opened but she is always eager to please and senses more in the realm of the hunt than a normal day has in store.  

   Perhaps my heightened sophistication would bump me up the ladder.  Maybe my upward mobility in the hunting social hierarchy would land me at some fancy shooting club where I could chum it up with my new found cronies. Together shooting trap, with our yellow tinted shooting glasses we would call each other “ol’ boy” while swapping reloading tips.

   Perhaps I would find myself at an exclusive country club where the mint juleps would lubricate my hunting fables alongside my new doctoral friends and maybe even a few foreign dignitaries.

   Perhaps a fine woolen Fedora will replace my cotton Adidas ball cap, coming with it (of course) the smoking of a low drooping English pipe.

   The shocking flutter of wings interrupted my daydreaming along with the nervous cackle of the male spruce grouse.   A slamming of the breech along with an upward swing of the .410 had me pinning on bird (or so I thought.)   BOOOOOOM!

   A single twig of spruce, caught in the crossfire, dangled in limbo for three full swings before falling onto the bough below it.  The grouse, grousing at me from the safety of his new perch was silhouetted against the cloudy afternoon sky.

   Perhaps I’m not ready.

   Or perhaps I was kidding myself and perhaps, just maybe I will never care how the bird falls as long as the bird falls.  What about the mint Juleps? What about the Fedora?

  BOOOOOOM!  The bird toppled off the branch like a bowling pin on league night.  Su bounded over the log to gather our prize.

   Within a minute I had stepped on the wings, pulled on the feet, and had all edible meat zipped up in a baggie, heart still beating.  This one would be added to the growing number of them in the freezer.

  Adjusting my ball cap, my fingers stained the bill with blood.   “Good girl Su.”

 

Moose Hunting?

“Moose Hunting?”

  
     If it weren’t for Pete’s declaration last night, I wouldn’t have laughed quite so loud.  “Here’s the deal on rain pants,” he had said.  His matter-of-fact tone was inviting ridicule.  He’s good with that.  In the name of humor and light-heartedness, Pete has always been willing to put himself out-there.  
     “You spend the money on the raincoat, but not on the rain pants.  Pick yourself up some cheap ones like these ones here.  I got em at Wal-Mart.  They’re gonna get trashed anyway... save yourself some money.”  Okay Pete.
     After the laughter died down I moved in closer to inspect.  His “cheapies” had split in two blowing out his entire crotch.  Not only were they split along both legs’ in-seams down to the calf but there was another rip shooting down the backside too.  What was he doing? Hurdling? Goose-stepping?  
     Although my laughter was genuine, I knew these were his only rain pants for the whole week.  “You might have to wear your chest waders.” I offered.  
     The wind had picked up.  It was blowing in our faces, pelting us with gratuitous sideways-rain.  The tires were sinking into the muddy road more and more with each passing hour.  I leaned into the harness, stretching the bungee cord tether taught.  Pete pushed from behind the cart gripping the handles like a wheelbarrow.  “ Hold up,” Pete stopped the train. 
      “What now?” I thought.
     The inner tube had herniated itself through a hole in the sidewall of the tire. The bulbous black plum was jammed against the wooden frame preventing the tire from rolling.  I had left the spare tire and inner tube back in the truck on purpose.  They would be useless without the bicycle pump we had forgotten.  “Well, let’s get this thing off the road.”   Pete grabbed the back as I pulled on the front.
     “BOOOOM.”  The tube-exploded sounding ironically like a gunshot.  Little did we know at the time that this was as close the sound of a large caliber rifle as we would get on this trip.  Like a Labrador on a duck hunt, I couldn't help but get excited at the loud noise. I wagged an imaginary tail.
     Back in the garage, it had seemed a “good-idea” to attach a braking mechanism.  A few years ago I had ripped the cable brakes from a defunct baby jogger.  How cool would it be to debut some sweet brakes?  The load of five hundred pounds of gear mounds over the cart rails like a muffin-top and doesn’t exactly stop on a dime.  There are a handful of downhills on our journey that I felt justified such a modification.  With a one-handed grip I would be a hero.  Plus it was cute, a novelty, like the year my dad attached a license plate to the back.  Pete will be impressed, I thought. 
      Unlike the licence plate though, my nifty idea popped our tire.  Apparently you have to be pretty precise with the placement of those brake pads.  The brakes, tweaking and riding upward with each bump in the road had risen to the sidewall of the tire, rubbing its way through.  From hero to zero in a flash, I took a bitter bite of humble pie.  Coffee anyone?
     Using our big fat brains again, we decided to switch out the front tire with the blowout.  Since the front tire wasn’t supporting as much weight, maybe it would still work even if it were flat. Pete pounded on the end of the front axle with a rock.  
      With Pete’s use of the primitive tool I couldn’t keep the comparison out of my mind between our fumblings and that of our distant cousins; the Neanderthal.   The image of the Geico Neanderthal in-particular darted in and out of my self-image as the day progressed.
      Soon enough we had made the tire switch and congratulated ourselves for our resourcefulness.  As I walked back up to my position at the front, I stopped to bend the brake up and out of the way.  Pete, not trusting my adjustment, came around and snapped it off entirely.  With the harness secured over my shoulders and cinched tightly in the back, we hitched up the wagon again.  Giddy up.

     The flat tire, sagging loosely on the rim was a sad and sorry leader to our efforts through the mud. Pete’s crotch-blowout was flapping in the wind at the back like a wayward rudder. But, with what felt like a new lease we pushed, pulled and otherwise coerced our way towards the back of the valley.

      On the big hill we were reduced to a twenty pace surge. Digging into the road on the balls of our feet, our anaerobic effort pushed us up the hill between rests.  At the end of these pushes, the cart was tilted backwards digging the bottom corner into the mud to prevent us from rolling back.  Four caribou skirted up and over a nearby bench.  They were probably snickering.
      By the time we reached the last stream crossing the creek was swollen.  We didn’t realize at the time that Pete’s clothes bag had cleverly situated itself at the bottom of the cart. It was selflessly protecting the rest of the load from the rushing currents of the stream’s reaches.  The icy waters flushed over the tops of the wheels and onto the bottom of the cart.  
      The boulders in the creek bed were doing their best to halt our progress.  Pete strained against the bungee, pulling it tight.  “One, two, three.. Ughhhh!” .  The cart surged forward.  My numb feet jockeyed for position. 
     Upon reaching the far bank Pete declared a break.  By now the storm was revealing itself fully. The gusts of wind were more frequent.  The undersides of the willow leaves turned and twisted-over in waves lasting several minutes.  We were closer to the snow line now and the rain wanted to make the big change.  I could feel it.  We pushed on for a few more miles. A ptarmigan fluttered and cackled from a nearby bush scaring the bejesus out of Pete. Ahead there were several more hills waiting for us.  Our pace slowed.
     “I think we should camp here,” I offered.  Eight hours and thirteen miles later we had made it to the foot of the switchbacks. Two years ago we had made it all the way to the top of them in the same amount of time.  This year was different on many levels.  I looked up into the pass briefly as the wind pelted sloppy sleet into the slits of my eyes.  Snow covered the upper reaches blending itself perfectly with the blinding white of the stormy sky.  Pete muttered something about Mordor.
     I was cold.  My useless, lightweight gloves had been saturated for miles. I had been warm on the uphill pushes but as soon as we stopped I quickly lost my heat.  My fingers weren’t working well.  As quickly as I could, I ripped open my clothes bag and threw on a few layers keeping my raincoat clenched tightly between my legs. The wind gusted again as the coat slipped out of my knee’s clutches plastering itself against the cart in a stroke of luck.  A quick lunge-move secured it back again. I slung it over my back and zipped it up.
     “Oh Great.” I looked over at Pete.  He was holding up his goose-down coat.  A steady stream of water poured down out of both sleeves before being vaporized by the wind.  Further diggings into his bag would reveal equally drenched garments.
    I cinched up my hood and grabbed the tent bag.  The virtual kite we were constructing kept making a break-for-it.  Setup should have taken us five minutes. A half hour later my frozen fingers were still fumbling around with the rainfly.  Finally we pinned it down with rock anchors on all the guy-lines.  I filled up all our water bottles at the stream before I crawled in.  Methodically, slowly I zipped up my sleeping bag with my cold clammy fingers being careful to keep everything out of the gathering puddles forming on the tent floor.  
    Pete, wielding his undying positivity, no doubt inherited from our mother, cracked a few jokes as he finally situated himself in the tent.  What was he so happy about? I was cold, tired, hungry, and disgruntled about our situation.  Myself, fully aware of the slippery slope of negativism, shut up and let Pete set the tone.  
     The rain slapped itself over the tent in sheets outside our little cocoon . Soon he began gathering together dinner-makings.  He had dragged the food bag close enough to reach from under the front of the tent.  After unzipping enough venting, he lit the cook stove carefully in the tents’ vestibule.
     Pete’s I-pod speaker was hanging from the ceiling and was playing some Dave Matthews.  Dave crooned us over the hiss of the cook stove and the roar of the wind outside.  A few slugs off the rum bottle warmed us as Pete diced, seasoned, jockeyed and joked.  Had Dave Matthews ever weathered a storm like this?
      Myself, slow to warm and tired as hell, was in no mood to cook but today I was lucky enough to be under the good graces of my brother.  Soon enough, served in the lid of the pot itself was a tent-bound meal of savory wonder.
     The sauteed onions and serrano peppers mingled with the browned moose sausage and a few sliced chunks of bratwurst in a slather of olive oil. With that aside he started boiling the water.  In the end, the cheesy Velveeta shells blended it all brilliantly and warmed us from the inside.  
     Years ago we gave up on dehydrated ready meals.  Nowadays we bring fresh ingredients. We cook real food.  “ Wow, this is really good!” I remarked as a greasy wheel of sliced bratwurst tumbled onto my sleeping bag.  The remaining noodle water was poured into empty nalgene bottles and tucked into our sleeping bags for warmth.  Pete was the man today.  
     Another blast of rain rudely spat over us again. Just then, the howling wind subsided long enough for me to hear the roar of the next gust building in the pass.  Soon it would scour over-top and test our barriers again.  Realizing there was nothing left to do, no decisions to be made, I drifted off to sleep rather pleasantly actually.
     The morning light illuminated the tent.  I had noticed during the night that my sleeping bag had taken on quite a bit of water.  I had to retract my feet a bit after I felt the saturation.  The driving wind had flattened the rainfly onto the tent wall on my side allowing for seepage.  I hate seepage.
    “I’m going up to the pass.”  I had been cooped up long enough.  I had slept well, I was warm, and now I was restless with a wet sleeping bag. I gathered my clothes, unzipped the tent and thrust myself out into the gale that hadn’t left us.  





    After re-securing the guy-lines I scooped the wet snow that had accumulated on the tent and refilled the water bottles.  "See you in a few."  I shouted over the wind. 
  "What?"
   " I'll be back in a while, I'm going up to the pass."
     "Okay."
      I set out for the pass, I had to check it out. I had to know.    
     There was slushy snow on the ground blanketing the muddy road.  Each successive switchback produced another inch of snow.  Halfway up the hill it was six inches deep. By the time I was near  the top I was breaking trail in deep, wet snow almost to my knee.  I took a break in spite of myself and realized that the cart wouldn’t roll through this stuff.  The thought of packing our whole kit an additional 1,000 vertical feet through a snow-choked pass was daunting.  
       Soon, I was joined by five ptarmigan.  Popping out from under a bush they scurried up the road twenty feet from me. I could tell they were feeling some anxiety about me but not enough to take flight.  Their half-and-half plumage was beautiful.  Their brown heads clashed with the stark white of their lower body.  Like a sore thumb, they stuck out against the snow. Another one joined them from a different bush. The seven of us, making our way up the hill became unlikely hiking buddies.  Finally after three switchbacks, they warned me with their telltale call and then took flight into the gale winds. “ Tak a tak a tak a tak atakaka akakakakak.” 
      I realized now that our hopes of reaching the moose hunting grounds this year, much like the birds, were swept away in a fit of weather.  I watched the cackling flock blow over the mountainside disappearing into a creek bed near the bottom. 
      I too turned away from the wind,  stepping back down the hill, striding in my own post-hole steps.

      
     

Funsies with the Sevies

Funsies with the Sevies

    It was 5^th hour. I was standing and delivering, teaching like my hair was on fire all the while changing my bait so that I could ensure a guarenteed and viable curriculum. It was cardio day.  I knew it would be hard for my 7^th grade P.E class. They had been a ball of energy for the first twenty minutes of it, but I was starting to notice waning efforts and lackluster form.  Thirty minutes, after all is a long time to exercise for a 13 year old.

     The workout was tough. Aptly named “Centaur”, The workout is a beast worthy of such a moniker.  In a nutshell there are five stations to complete as many rounds of in thirty minutes.  One round includes all of the following: Ten sit-ups, ten box jumps, twenty weighted rope jumps, twenty squats, and two laps (300 meters).  Boys and girls both were grinding it out, moving from station to station all with red cheeks.

   Suddenly I noticed several of my students singing along to the music.  The shuffle on the playlist apparently had bumped to a good one.  I looked around and did a quick tally.  Without exception, all fourteen seventh grade girls were singing every word to the song. They were also pantomiming and dancing along with the lyrics.  Craziest of all they were still doing the workouts, but now with zeal and bounce.

“Hey I just met you,

And this is crazy,,

but here’s my number,

so call me maybe.”

    The electronic pulse of the repeating baseline was apparently laying down some sweet beats.  Two girls at the sit-up station had imaginary phones up to their ears as they came to the top of the exercise. Another two exchanged glances across the gym prompting them to mimic each other’s dance moves while seamlessly completing their squats and rope jumps.  Three girls ran by completing their laps, singing, shimmying, phoning.

    I was taken-a-back. In a flash the gym had come alive again, like the zombies in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.  

   The clock hit zero and the kids had a chance to catch their breath. I felt we should debrief; “Wow, did anyone notice that every girl was singing along to -Call me maybe?” The girls giggled and smiled.

     Not wanting to be left out, two of the boys spoke up “Hey we were singing too”. 

Combat Hunting

                      “Combat Hunting”

     “Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, I was feeling just as faded as my jeans“. I always have a song in my head. Today I was rollin with some Bobby McGee. We had just crested a hill on the Parks Highway. “ Hey bubba, look out your window”. I timed it just right. Hurricane Gulch passed under the truck at fifty miles per hour.

     “Whoa!” Corey was impressed. The massive gorge cutting deep into the Talkeetna mountains is a breath-taker.  A quick glance is all I get as the driver.  Corey, sitting in the back seat was deftly negotiating his in-flight movie, the scenery, the snacks and his journal, not necessarily in that order. We had spoken before we left about using our powers of observation on this trip. He had brought his journal so he could write a story and draw pictures. He reached over to grab his blue spiral notebook.

     “Windshield wipers slappin time, holdin Bobbies hand in mine, we played every song that driver knew”. I was belting it out in my best Janis voice and tapping the steering wheel for all it was worth. By the time we reached the Igloo though, Janice was doing a number on my vocal chords so I shut her down although she still sang to me in my heart.

     We took a pit stop in Cantwell before turning down the Denali Highway. The Nelchina Caribou permit was burning a hole in my pocket. We were set. Apparently the herd had flourished despite the heavy snowfall south of the Alaska range last winter. There were more caribou than expected. This had prompted the issuance of almost 2500 additional permits.

     A recent ADF&G Press release said that the long term sustainability of the Nelchina herd depends heavily on keeping the herd within its population objective.

     Maintaining the health of the population: good. Increasing an already choked hunting area with thousands more hunters and their four wheelers: bad.

     Since the season opened on a Friday I hoped to get a head start. Most people have to work right? After pulling some strings at my work, we were able to leave on Thursday afternoon. The truck was packed with everything we would need. Corey was excited to be using new hiking boots and a .22 his Papaw had given him.

     After only a few miles down the Denali Highway I noticed that the traffic seemed heavier than usual. We passed a small covey of Winnebagos camped just off the road. A big crackling fire was lighting up the faces of the small crowd gathered around, all sitting in camp chairs. The lords of the motor home were holding court, laughing, eating. Across the road, a few hundred yards down was another camp. A couple of young guys were off loading a fourwheeler from a trailer. “Wow, there’s a lot of people this year”.

“Yeah. Are they all hunting?” Corey asked.

“Probably so”.

     Eventually we settled on a camp for ourselves. There was a good half mile between us and the next camp. From here we would have a good view on both sides of the road. In the morning, with a good early start, we would go for a hike and hopefully see something.

     We arranged the back of the truck with our sleeping gear and put in for the night.

     By seven A.M. we had crossed the road and had started hiking up the hillside. We were ready.

“ Hey dad there’s some poop.“. Sure enough, in the trail there it was, although it looked more like moose poop to me.

“ Corey look at this.”  The discoveries were rolling in. I noticed some bones nearby. Obviously dead for a year or more the bones were worn down to a chalky white, the backbone and one femur were mingling with an assortment of other unidentifiable bones near the base of an old stunted black spruce. Corey, pack board and rifle in hand came over to check it out.

     Putting the two together, he matter of factly exclaimed “Pooped and died”. His calm declaration made perfect sense to him. His inexhaustible sense of curiosity was a perfect match for the wilderness. Although he was excited about the prospect of hunting caribou, it was the ptarmigan and ground squirrels he was really after. “ Can we shoot ground squirrels?” he had asked.

“ Sure as long as we eat them.”

“Okay…..they ate them on Brother Where Art Thou”. Good point.

     Slowly we made our way up the hillside picking our way around the bushes. I scoped each new vantage point for caribou. Corey was keeping a keen eye out for Punxsutawney Phil. Together we make a pretty good team.

     Once we gained the ridge we noticed a nearby hill that would probably offer a great view.  We reached the knoll and took off our packs. The 360 degree view allowed us to scout the entire area.  “Look what I found dad”. Corey was holding a black tubular case. I knew exactly what is was.

     “Nice find Corey, that’s bear-spray”.

     “Awesome”. Corey was having a great hike. Already, we had hiked over a mile from the road and about 500 vertical feet all without a single complaint.

     “Maybe we should put some on us to keep away the bears”. I tested him.

     “Very funny dad”.

     It wasn’t long before we discovered a couple of four wheelers high on a distant ridge to our west. Then to our east we quickly found another group.  Three hunters were donning blaze orange camo.

     I was a little crushed. A far cry from the ideals of my own hunting expectations; I was disappointed. It was as if we were hunting somewhere in the Midwest. Blaze orange, really? I guess I should have known. I was hoping to beat the crowd, to get in and out before the brunt of hunting pressure materialized. I was wrong.

     Far below, a couple of giant white motor homes snaked along the Denali Highway kicking up a plumes of dust.

     With no caribou to be spotted, we picked our way back down and around, back to the road.

     It wasn’t to be on this day.

"Earning my Dagwood"

                                  Fish camp Chronicles

   Chapter 3.

                                        

                           “Earning my Dagwood”

     “Look, there he is again”, I pointed down the beach directly towards our fishing sites.  Our two-stroked presence motoring up the shoreline was an easy alarm.  The bear was running up the beach like a thief, I wondered if he had a T.V under his arm. 

     I like predictable bears.  Bears are supposed to run away from us.  The more I see of this bear, the more I liked him.   Sometimes  younger bears that lack the experience and food gathering skills of the older bears, are more apt to explore non-traditional food sources... such as our cabin.  

      Case-in-point one year after installing row after row of plywood nail strips below all of our windows at our fishcamp cabin, a determined young brownie decided that it would be a good idea, to walk over the nails and break through mom & dad’s bedroom window.  He then proceeded to bleed all over their bed and the entire floor, all the while pillaging and plundering everything as a matter of duty.  As an exclamation point he left a rather large pile of shit glistening as a monument to his efforts, in the middle of the room.

     I digress. With the bear out of sight, and the tide filling in, we went about setting our net high on the beach.   I have to admit that I was a little nervous about the situation.  We had spotted the bear very close to where we were planning to fish.  A lively set net is quite a spectacle.  Seagulls, eagles, and seals tend to hover nearby with mouths watering like Pavlov’s dogs.   With such commotion, a nearby bear might be tempted to check it out.  Also, I knew that there were a lot of fish around today.  I had propped seven of them on the mile and a half drive from the cabin to our fish sites.  A dull thud behind the boat is a dead give-away as the unlucky fish flounders in the prop-wash.

     Today’s high tide was over 29 feet.  Since the fish typically run close to shore, we wanted to be sure to have our net sweeping them up for as long as possible.  I had the anchor under my arm; dad grabbed the buoy, dragging the net behind him up the mud.   The consistency of the mud varies from shin-deep gloop,  to hard-pack and everything in between. 

     Newcomers walking on this terrain often feel clumsy, awkward and off-balance.  We've been at it for 31 years now and as luck would have it we too feel clumsy, awkward, and off-balance.  We've come to accept our graceless inadequacies on the mud.  

      With our boots slipping out from under under us together managed to pull the net up the beach as far as we could. It was getting harder to pull.  Once the net spills over the net-chute and starts dragging over the mud, the weight increases exponentially.  Once we’d had enough, I wiggled and pressed the anchor as deep into the mud as I could.  For good measure I glanced over my shoulder for the bear before making my way back to the boat over the glossy mud. 

     As I pushed the boat off shore, dad fed the net out the back of the skiff.   It was still low in the tide and we managed to set the net entirely by hand.   With my chest waders on I was able to push the boat far enough out to set the whole length of the net without any assistance from the motor.   As I pushed the boat off the mud, the net fed out the back laying down its curtain.

       The boat wasn’t twenty feet offshore when we claimed our first victim. "We got one!” dad chimed.  Another one splashed along the cork line by the time I got a look.   By the time we set the outer anchor the cork line was dancing with a dozen or more.   As we motored away from the net to pick up mom and the kids, I saw a fish squirt out of the net, into the air.  An escapee.  

     Our first pick-through the net yielded sixty fish, mostly reds.  We returned to the other boat to offload the fish and grabbed two more empty coolers.   Mom, Kynsey and Corey transferred back over so they could start sorting and icing our catch.  I looked back at the net and it was popping again.   Another dozen fish had already filled in.  “Wow, nice day!” mom noticed.

     “ Here we go.” dad said with a smile as we headed back to the boiling net.   He knew same as I did that with just one net we would be able to keep up today.  We would make several such deliveries in the next couple of hours and then we would be done; Fish bled, loaded into coolers and packed with ice we would be on our way back up river to sell our catch.

     Our stop at Tide Creek was a brief one.  With all the fish already in their places all we needed was a little fuel. Ten minutes after we pulled into the creek we were on our way back out.   Everyone was zipping up their float coats, putting on hats and settling in for the two hour burn up river.  Open skiff rides in Alaskan waters aren’t for sissies.  Tucked neatly into the bow to duck the wind, Corey and Kynsey were already munching down on their sandwiches, happy as clams.

      “Here’s yours” mom handed me a sandwich with SCH written on the zip lock in black marker.  I set it on my console, as we got ready for blast-off.  I wonder if any of the other set netters in Cook Inlet were lucky enough to have their moms write their initials on their sandwich baggies after a hard days fishing.  Probably not.

     “Thanks mom this looks great”.   It did look great, but I didn’t fully appreciate the quality of it though until after we got under power and had snaked our way upriver a few bends.  I peeled the bag back halfway and started in on my sandwich.

      Mom’s river sandwiches are the best.  To my delight I discovered that today’s special was a moose meatloaf sandwich.  This wasn’t just any old meatloaf sandwich, this Dagwood was loaded:  ham, slices of cheddar and provolone cheese, jalapeños, onions, tomatoes.  What were those fresh greens I was munching on?  They turned out to be spinach, cilantro, and fennel from the garden.  A good smear of  Inglehoffer stone ground  mustard coated the top side of a torte sandwich roll bringing it all together.

     I swerved to miss a large cottonwood branch floating our way as I took another bite.  This sandwich was so good it was throwing me off just guessing the ingredients!   After a hard days fishing, the sandwich hit the spot and would tie me over for a good while.  All things said and done, I guess I had earned it, we all had.