2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race

2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race    

    When I woke up there was five inches of new snow with an icy crust.  The fine snowflakes falling from the sky were pretty wet. They were riding the fence between snow and rain.  30 degrees.

    I had told myself that I would do it if the weather was reasonable.  I wasn’t interested in running thirteen miles in forty below temperatures nor through a foot of fresh snow.  It’s worth a look I told myself as the alarm went off at 6:00 A.M.  I packed up my gym bag with all my running gear, warmed up the truck and left.  

    I was surprised to discover that Willow did not get as much accumulation as Talkeetna overnight and I was optimistic that this might be a good run.

   “Ooh this is soft” I heard from one of my fellow runners within fifty feet of leaving the start line.  I chuckled to myself.  This could be awful.  We were running on loosely packed snow machine trails and each step would sink three to six inches deep.  It was like running through sand.  We all had headlamps that illuminated the snow pack in front of us like our own personal spotlights  

     Eighty beams of bouncing light in a big wave moved across Willow Lake straight into the darkest and shortest of days.  From there we would access the only road-running of the whole race which was plowed and hard packed.  It lasted about a quarter of a mile and it was sweet.  Everyone’s pace picked up along with our spirits.  I moved to the left to pass a couple of kids who were running the 5K portion of the race. “ Hey guys, nice job!” I told them as I ran by.  The kid closest to me who was probably ten years old and 120 pounds sped up to catch me and then decided it would be a good idea to try to shoulder me off the trail.  “Hey there buddy , you shouldn’t do that.”  He kept up his antics.  “ It’s bad form and bad sportsmanship.”  I reasoned.  Eventually after several additional pushes, his buddy called him off.  
"Josh, knock it off." 
I was proud of the way I handled it because my first instinct was to grab his arm and fling him over the snowbank ass-over-tea kettle. Rest assured, I was able to restrain myself and harness my inner teacher. Who knew that I would have to overcome a race bully?

     With the trail harassment behind me I crossed over to Long lake where the trail softened back up again like warm butter.  I tried to find a key to success.  Maybe I should make my own tracks.  Maybe I should try to run in the line created by the snowmachine’s skis.  Maybe I should try to run in other’s footprints.  It turned out to be a combination of all three techniques changing as the miles slowly ticked off.  Twelve minute miles never felt so tough.  

    Finally I found a rhythm and settled into a good pace that I could live with.  The trail, maintained by the Willow Trails Committee ( WTC) was excellent.  They have designed and maintained the trails in Willow for years and seemed to have found the perfect balance between user groups.  Snowmachiners, mushers, and skiers all know what to expect thanks to the comprehensive signage.  Well organized and with plenty of volunteers The WTC is a model for other recreational trail systems around the state.  

    Slowly I made my way up the bank of Long lake, to an airstrip and across some ponds and onto Boot lake.  From there Vera lake took us to its Western outlet to an informational kiosk where I tagged-out at the halfway- checkpoint and briefly chatted with race organizer Dave Johnston.  “ You’re doing great." He said. " You’re in fourth place.”  

    I looked up and saw a group coming up the trail.  “See ya Dave.”  Fourth place, really?  The last race I ran was the Kasugi Ridge Traverse and I didn't finish fourth. I earned the equivalent of the red-lantern.  Last place.  Fourth sounded pretty good to me.   

    I boogied back down the trail and caught up with some familiar faces.  My folks had trailered their snow machines from their house and unloaded at the Crystal Lake parking lot.  They wanted to watch this event unfold but mostly wanted to support me.

    They had some treats for me none of which I could stomach except for a red bull.  Hopefully I wouldn't be DQ'ed for using performance enhancing drugs. I chugged as much as I could and bid them farewell.  “Thanks.” I told them as I took off back down the trail I’d come.

  When I made it back out to Vera lake I noticed that there was someone about a quarter mile behind me.  Was he closing in on me? I couldn’t tell.  On the straight stretches I would look back and see a black figure with sparkly headlamp.  I buckled down and tried to quicken my pace.  I still had five miles to the finish but I wanted that fourth place bad.  In the Olympics that’s almost a bronze medal!  Finally I made my way across Willow Lake with no one in sight.  I ran up the hill to the finish line where Mom and Dad were waiting for me.  In a few minutes I would meet the runner in black.  She thanked me for my steps apparently she had been running in them.  We went inside the community center I ate some soup, changed clothes, and went home.

My support team.

The Fish Camp Chronicles: Part 4

The Last Beautiful flight of an American Icon

  It all began innocently enough.  The wife had picked up some cheap kites to bring to fish camp.  Little did she know what would become of it.  Little did she realize that lives would be at stake.  Innocent fun for the kids, she thought.  

    There were three of them.  Paying with a crisp ten dollar bill at Walmart she left with the kites and a handful of change.

     The first was a fancy red dragon kite.  The thing had multiple wings, a long tail and looked fierce like Smaug of the Tolkien tales in a cheap-plasticy kind of way.  Unlike Smaug though, this kite was a big puss.  Touted as a “trick-kite” capable of flips and the like, it turned out to be more of a duck than a dragon. Lame-duck that is.   No doubt flips are cool but as we found out soon enough they are hard to perform from the ground.  It wouldn’t fly. It seemed that Smaug was more of a land lubber. Strike one.

    Number two was a penguin kite.  “Now this kite has potential”, I thought to myself as I assembled the thing.  Anything had to be better after the let-down of Smaug jr.  With a steady 15 mile per hour wind from the Southeast Corey let it go; this had to be the one, and in truth, it was great for about five minutes until it took a direct nose-dive into the hardpack of the mudflats.   The broken stanchions and torn plastic were beyond repair. It was a sad moment; Strike two,but there was another.   

   I cringed a little as I saw the last of the kites.  I reached into the tattered duffle bag and pulled her out.   It was a Barbie kite.  Hazelee was beaming as I began assembling it.  Let’s see, traditional shape, clean lines, giant barbie doll face....check.

   “Let er go!” I shouted and Hazelee did so.  I pulled back hard like I had on the other two but I quickly found out that it was not necesary,  Barb took to the sky like an Arctic tern.  Within a minute she had taken all of our line and was as steady in the North Eastern skyline as Mt. Susitna. Hmm.

    “Haze, come hold this.” I had an idea.  I returned with an old spinning rod and a full roll of one pound-test monofilament fishing line.  Before long, I had ol’ Barb hooked up to a fishing rod and after flipping the bail, we had let out several hundred yards of line.  No more than a small dot in the sky far away I suddenly  realized; Barb was legit!  Corey, Hazelee, and I stood there on the mudflats cheering up at the most plastic of American icons high in the sky. Fly Barbie fly.  Smiling down at us with her pouty lips and high cheek bones, she seemed pleased to please.

    “Here hold this, I’ll be right back.”I left Corey and Hazelee again standing there with the fishing pole, tethered by over a quarter mile of string to the far off kite.   I ran to the shed for more line.

    “ What are you doing?” Tamra appeared on the corner of the cabin porch with her hands on her hips.  

   “We are flying a kite honey.”  

   “ I see that.  How high are you planning to fly that thing?” she asked.  I could tell by her tone that she was going somewhere with this I just wasn’t sure where.  

   “As high as we can of course!”

“That’s too high!  You’re going to hit a plane”.   I snickered outloud at the thought and quickly regretted it.  A part of me was a little proud that we had flown a kite so high in the sky as to be a perceived threat to safe aviation.  Maybe with enough line we could fly Barb into the Ozone layer and beyond.   Maybe Barb would be detected by the high-powered radar systems of NASA, or the U.S military.  (“Uh, sir, I think you’d better take a look at this.”  There zoomed into some fancy screen would be Barbie’s face, long flowing blond locks, big blue eyes. )

    At fish camp we are situated in a major flyway from Anchorage to Beluga that is frequented mainly by small planes.    They buzz by us all day long following the coastline as a safer alternative to flying over Cook Inlet itself.   A lot of these pilots choose to fly right off-the-deck Barbie level or lower.

     “Are you kidding?  You can see Barb from miles around.  She is a beacon of all that is good and true in this world!”  She wasn’t buying it.

    Maybe she was right.  After all, overcoming the humiliation from the boys at work from being taken-down by a Barbie kite would be too much for any bush pilot to overcome.  

 “ Okay hun.”  We reeled her in, tucked her into the shed and sought after other, safer activities like napping.

Immaculate Solstice

   Immaculate Solstice

 

  The rising mist off of the creek could easily have been interpreted as eerie.  I was awestruck.  I wouldn't even have noticed it though if the full moon wasn't out.  It was 18 below zero. I turned off my headlamp.  It was still another four days until the winter solstice so it's not as if I was traipsing around on the shortest and darkest day of the year. I had a different plans for that day.

      I stood there along the creek side taking my time, watching the moon cast its hypnotic charms upon the small valley.   The portrait of the moon this night resembled no cheese I’m aware of.   The impression I got rather, was one of rounded fluorescence.  The light was as fluorescent-white as I’ve ever seen.   Breaks in the clouds of steam from the creek lit the valley with the power of the moon intermittently  until another plume of steam dulled it down again.

 There was nothing in my traps today and yet I was happy.  My modest recreational trap line is accessed on foot.   I have found that I don’t really care too much whether or not I have caught anything nearly as much as the fact that I have a good reason to get out.  A means not only to an end but also a purpose to go for a hike and reason to pay attention to my surroundings, to the snow pack, the fresh tracks;  this country is alive and when I'm out in it I am a part of it and it has become a part of me too.

    The creek was spilling out of a small lake that had been dammed by beavers.  The basin of the lake itself was illuminated around the corner by the moon and I considered changing course to check it out.  Maybe there was something ethereal going on up there.  Maybe the last of the lake-ice was sealing up for the winter bidding goodnight to all.   Maybe a moose or fox could be spotted in the floodlight of the moon.  

    I didn't give it a chance though, I strapped my hiking poles onto my hands, turned on my headlamp and crossed the creek.  I turned my back on this immaculate event choosing instead to hike up and into the darkness of the forest and eventually back home.

Cousin Eddie's Chubby Moose Ribs

Cousin Eddie’s Chubby Moose Ribs

Eleven easy steps to down-home goodness.

    First off, if you are some kind of rib-snob and are expecting neat little rows like you would get at the Tony Roma’s, then you should just sit down and enjoy your ride on the lame-train.  The recipe here is down home-cooking for real people and it’s delicious, just ask my son Rocky.  You could pick up these ribs with your fingers but you would  look like a fool and might stain aunt Edna’s doilies.  Hasn’t she been through enough?

   Still listening?  Here it is:

1)  Hopefully you left all the flank meat and layers of fat on the ribs when you sawzalled them off of the moose.  If not, two words: Tony Roma’s.  They’re open till nine.  Ribs without fat is like wearing jeans without skivvies. It seems like a good idea at the time but it’s just wrong.  It’s no secret that for ribs to be good, they’ve got to be chubby.

  

2) The bottom of the crock pot is where the magic begins.  Set your Winston down and whisk the following together with gusto.  Keep in mind that a super-high whisk elbow is taking it too far. Settle down. This isn’t an audition to Heehaw.

(All measurements are approximate.  We lost all the measuring stuff when the mobile home burned last winter.  Luckily Vickys cupped hands is almost exactly one cup!)

- 1 Tbsp Granulated Garlic

-1 Tbsp Onion Powder

-1 Tbsp Sweet Mesquite Seasoning

-1 Tbsp Smoked Paprika

-1/4 cup Worcestershire Sauce

-4 Tbsp Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce.

-1 cool one. ( That’s beer to the layperson.)

-3 cups Bloody Mary Mix.  I know what you are thinking here;  Eddie, you're just rifling through the fridge reaching for anything to dump in this thing....you’re damn right!  Note to the galley: The last time I drank Bloody Marys was at Clark and Ellen’s two Easters ago and it wasn’t pretty but I still feel I won the fight and I’ll have you know that the restraining order was the wife’s idea. Damn that Audrey.  I could tell you more but the court won't allow it.      

3)  Next, nestle your chubby-ass ribs into the marinade.  I know it sounds like a come-on line at a hottub party but trust me on this one.  If it doesn’t cover all the meat then top it off with water or, even better-more beer.   

4) Turn the crock pot on.

5) Plug the crock pot in.

6)  Go away for a long time.  While your're passing the time try to do something productive.  Heck, after Catherine’s shift at the carnival workin the tilt-a-whirl she tends bar out at bingo night at the Elks and she’s eight months pregnant! She’s quite a woman that Catherine. We sure are proud of her.

7)   Much later, walk in your front door and be prepared for a full frontal assault on your sniffer.  And don’t worry it’s nothing bad like the time the Snots ate a whole barrel of cheese puffs from the Price Club and got the shits on the heater vent.  Oooh wee!

    Also, it’s a good idea to have a slimjim or three to take the edge off before coming home because you will probably want to start wolfing it down by the spoonful.  Don’t do it!  Your work here is not done.  Pop yourself a cool-one and re-focus.

8) Since you were gone for ten whole hours the bones are no longer as snug as they used to be.  Slide them out and discard them to make room for the veggies.  If this is a problem for you then once again ( let’s say it together.): Tony Roma’s.

9)  Fold in the following ingredients to complete the dish:

- 1 whole white onion-diced.

-1 huge carrot cut into your favorite shapes.  I went with little racecars.  If you are not in possession of a “huge carrot,” consider using two or three smaller ones ( I got that tip from the cooking channel on the cable T.V. ) It is a lesser-play for sure, but still much better than substituting with a beet or rutabaga or something else lame.

-7 baby portabella mushrooms sliced.  Why seven you ask? Six is not enough and eight is too many.  Any more questions?

-1/3 cup quinoa.  Rinse first because that’s what is says on the package.  Rice and/or pearl barley are great substitutes here but quinoa seems to be all-the-rage these days. Something about El Camino acids... count me in.  

10) Go away again. Clean out the Trans Am or something.

11)  Return, serve and eat... in that order.  

 Clark bought us this crockpot after the fire.

Culinary review from the fam:

Rocky: “It’s delicious.” This is his default answer to every meal that’s ever been placed before him unless the vegetables are presented in too-great of a number in which-case his comments lean more towards:  “I don’t like this.” (We are working on articulation.)

Vicky:  “Dad, I really like that the sauce blends in with the meat and the vegetables on top.  I really like that texture.  If you can do that again, I’ll be oppressed. Bravo.”

    “Oppression, that is an interesting word Vick, do you think that maybe you meant impressed?” I was reaching.

    “No, I’ll be oppressed Dad.”

    Okay.

Ruby Sue:   She was born without a tongue so she doesn’t say much,  but don’t you worry about her one bit, she whistles like a bird and eats like a horse.  She ate four bowls.

Catherine: “It’s good.”

Me:   As for the meal, Rocky was right;  it was delicious.

     That being said I couldn’t help but want for a stalk of celery and a shot of cheap vodka as the meal passed but the court won’t let me do that either.

Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

     Musings of a Middle-Class Mountain Man

    From the mouth of the mighty Susitna River you can see the jagged white peaks that spill across the horizon in the Western sky.   Like the upturned blade of some primitive snaggle-toothed saw these mountains extend far to the North, out-of-sight where they eventually touch fingers with the much bigger sawblade of the Alaska Range.  The Tordrillo Mountains jut into the Cook Inlet skyline unabashed and can’t seem to shake the glorious snow shawl that drapes over them year-round.  Undoubtedly they are admired from afar by many, but not many admire them up-close.  None admire them more than me.

      “Hey mom is there another spatula?”  The window was open and from my spot on the deck, I could see her working away inside in the kitchen. She was busy with the potatoes, green-salad, and bread.  She had already graced the table with an assortment of veggies from her garden and some smoked salmon dip and I had seen the rhubarb crumble on the counter earlier.  I watched her pull open one of the drawers.

    “Yep, it’s right here.” We were about to pull-off another great salmon dinner at fish camp.  From flop to filet in minutes we know how good we have it and aren’t bashful to take full advantage.  We always eat good at fish camp.  My role as grill-man often finds me on the corner of the back deck.  Situated through trial-and-error on the North West corner of the cabin, the grill is sheltered from the prevailing South-Westerly blow.  It’s from here where my love for the Tordrillos has taken root.  I enjoy my time out-back and that is where I first spotted her.  She is quite lovely.

       Our vantage point on the flats at Ivan River is a splendid one that grants us unobstructed 360 degree vistas that include the austere sawteeth of the Tordrillos.  Ironically it also includes my favorite view of Anchorage from a comfortable 26 mile distance.  On the darker nights of the shoulder seasons, the lights of downtown sparkle from across the Inlet.  More impressively, on a late summer’s eve, when the midnight sun is blazin,  it’s the bright amber reflection twinkling back at us from the windows of the posh homes on the upper hillside that shine brightest.  Anchorage, like many other big cities loses appeal for me with each approaching mile.  But if left alone and kept at arms-reach can be quite lovely, almost quaint.

       Alas, it’s more often than not that my gaze is cast not towards Anchor-town but 180 degrees the other way.  Located 75 air miles Northwest of those twinkling Anchorage lights, and clear-as-a-bell on a bluebird day, are the Tordrillos proper.  

    

The Tordrillos are a contradiction of remote wilderness.

One would expect at least moderate recreational activity, and there is- somewhat with the heli-ski crowd, but it is seldom graced by climbing axe or boot.

  If the Tordrillos see less-than-fair visitation it might be related at-least somewhat to the severity of the getting-there part.   

     You could take a skiff-ride across the unpredictable and notoriously treacherous waters of Cook Inlet. A successful crossing would land you on the mud flats, close enough to embark upon quite-possibly the most arduous and epic 20 mile bush-whack of your life.   Arriving above treeline would never be as sweet.

     Conversely, I have heard rumors of mountaineers saddling Skandics and accessing the North side of the Tordrillos in the winter.  The almost two hundred mile ride that includes traversing the Skwentna River drainage through steep-walled canyons isn’t for sissies, beginners, or folk with limited time.  Hats off to those cowboys.    

       Single-engine planes outfitted with skis are capable of impressive glaciers landings, and since the 1950’s has opened up the world of  mountaineering in Alaska seven-fold.  Unfortunately, finding the right pilot that is comfortable, capable, and willing to touch down on a crevassed and unpacked landing strip can be a risky and possibly spendy proposition.  All-said, it seems that flying-in is the most practical.

     There is at least one other option that stands out in stark contrast to the others. Tordrillo Mountain Lodge, owned in part by Olympic gold medalist Tommy Moe, is a high-end outfit that caters to the Heli-ski crowd.  It is located in the foothills of the Tordrillos on the banks of Judd Lake and has taken the idea of niche-market to the next level.  Their “Cast and Carve” promotional has you fishing for King salmon in the morning on the clear, pristine waters of the Talachulitna River.  After a catered lunch on one of their three large cedar decks it’s time to round up your boards because the chopper is ready to go as-is the corn snow that has loosened up nicely and is ready to fall apart under the good graces of your sweet butter turns.   Go ahead and make that last run because your massage will be waiting for you upon your return along with all the compliments of a full wine and spirits bar.

   As appealing as this is to me, the wife seems quite adamant that we direct our earnings towards more mundane expenditures such as our mortgage, clothing for the kids,  and food staple items (milk, eggs, flour etc.) Nine thousand US dollars for five days of adventure seems like a good deal to me.

   Tongue-in-cheek aside,  it’s this difficult or cost-prohibitive access to the Tordrillos that make it perhaps the truest representation of untouched wilderness in Southcentral Alaska.    

    On the Southernmost forefront of the Tordrillos, and hard-to-miss from the porch, is its most famous and quite volatile mountain that has become a household name to Southcentral Alaskans.   The mountain is known aboriginally by the Dena'ina Athabascan name K'idazq'eni, and literally means 'that which is burning inside', but it’s more commonly known as Mt. Spurr.  Spurr and its Southerly neighbors Mts. Redoubt, Augustine, and Iliamna have all demonstrated equally hot tempers in recent geologic time blowing tops and spewing ash near-and-far in their staggered eruptions.

    But there is another.  Tucked North and due West of Spurr lies a mountain worthy of note.  The highest of them all, standing at 11,414 feet tall is Mount Torbert and it is the mother of all things Tordrillo.  The lovely matriarch Torbert is tucked innocently behind the lesser Spurr.  

     Sunset vantage points from Anchorage to Homer illuminate impressive profile shots of all four of the active volcanoes on the Western shores of Cook Inlet and it’s only a trained eye that would even notice the snowy capped summit of Torbert beyond.  Lady Torbert seems content to oversee  her subordinates with unassuming confidence. “Let them enjoy the lionshare of affection,” I imagine her saying.  “I am taller!”  It’s true Mount Torbert seems a bit lost-in-the-shuffle, a sidenote to most, but there are those who have taken notice.

    Lowell Thomas Jr.,  the 5th Lieutenant Governor of Alaska under Governor Jay Hammond, was a bush pilot too and apparently had a bit of  peak bagger in him.  He and his party that included Dr. George Wichman, Dr. Rod Wilson, John Gardey, and Paul Crews Sr. tagged out on the summit of Torbert in ‘64 after landing on the Triumvirate Glacier north of Torbert at 4000 ft.  Since that first-ascent there have been others, but not many.  

    It’s true, I have imagined walking the plateau leading to Torbert’s peak and I’ll admit that the chance to reverse the view back down to fish camp, along with the prospect of a bomber ski run down her slopes, leaves me a touch giddy.  To know Torbert’s secrets on her own terms would be a saucy little nugget indeed.

    I reach for the last lemon wedge to squeeze onto the fish and I see her from the corner post on the deck.  She tries to hide behind Spurr but I see her.  Maybe my long staring sessions have alerted her.  Maybe she suspects something.  Maybe she knows that I’m coming for her.  

  “Fish is done!” I announce as I make my way around the the windy corner to the front door.  The table is set, full to the brim with all the spoils of war and there is barely enough room for the entre d’ honneur.  Thoughts of mountains and expeditions quickly evaporate and are replaced by good food and conversations of fishing, river, and mud.

My Dam Manifesto

“My Dam Manifesto”

“ Pave paradise to put up a parking lot”- Joni Mitchel

    Catchy titles, quotes from a popular song, maybe a good old fashioned dog-and-pony show would get the word out.  Many don’t realize the implications of what’s happening in the Susitna valley these days.   The Alaska Energy Authority is pushing hard to build a 735 foot tall Dam on the largest wild salmon producing river in Cook Inlet.  Brace yourself-the Susitna dam project is rearing its ugly head again.  

        After Pebble, the Susitna-Watana dam project is the second mega-project proposed in recent years that would dramatically alter the headwaters of a thriving salmon river.  What’s next a dam on the upper Russian River?

    If you are one of the 30,993 sportfisherman that fished in the Susitna river drainage in 2012, as reported by ADF& G  in their annual sport fish survey, then your way of life, like mine has been backed into a corner.

      I too have a vested interest in the vitality of the Susitna River.  My family and I own and operate a small setnet operation near the mouth of the Susitna in Northern Cook Inlet.  Our multi-generational fish camp has been rolling for the last 32 years.    Setnet fishing for us is as regular as breathing.  Each summer we return and quickly fall into all the usual rhythms of fish camp hoping to feel the pulse of the salmon once again as they push into the mouth of the river.  It makes for a busy summer wrangling nets at fish camp all-the-while direct marketing our catch to local consumers here in the Matsu.  

    During the season, setnet fishing sites dot the shoreline from the mouth of the Susitna on down the beach where commercial fishing families like ours contribute to Alaska’s robust fishing economy by delivering coveted wild Alaskan salmon to markets here in Alaska and beyond.  Each year the salmon return in force....for now.

    Despite all the calm words of reassurance by the State, I have a hard time ignoring what has happened to every other salmon producing river that has been dammed.  You don’t have to delve too far in research to realize that there is overwhelming evidence that dams kill salmon.  Currently there is no shining example of a dammed river in the world that has sustained its native salmon population. Zero.  A smattering of repopulation efforts riddled with problematic infusions of hatchery replacements is all you get.   

  

    In the lower 48 there is a long and sad legacy of impacts from dams such as the one proposed for the Susitna, where salmon and fishermen were traded for hydropower. Dan Beard former Commissioner of the Borough of Reclamation contends that restoring the Columbia basin salmon fishery - where salmon runs are on the brink of extinction - or even restoring it somewhat represents "the most complex natural resources problem in America today. Nothing else approaches it." The challenge of restoring fisheries after dams is costing billions of dollars for lower 48 states and even with bolstering from hatcheries -is being met with little success.  

     

       The Alaska Energy Authority wants this dam to happen so bad they can taste it,  and they're not afraid to spend your taxpayer money to do it- to the tune of 95 million dollars, this year alone.  The flurry of helicopter and boat traffic up and down the Susitna basin this season has been non-stop. All summer long, boats and helicopters have burned thousands of gallons of gas and spent millions of dollars shuttling over 200 scientists and gear up and down the river.

    Scientists doing studies is good, right?  During the short window of time allotted for the study thus far, there have been two separate fifty year weather events.   The fall-time flood of 2012 followed by the late spring flood of 2013 are hardly representative of typical river conditions.  Among other things they are counting juvenile salmon.

    “Watson, there are no fish.”

    “Duh, it’s flooding Sherlock. Where’s my life jacket?”   

    The scary part is that a decision is to be made whether to build the dam from these very findings in this quick two year snapshot.  How can this flash-in-the-pan data be reliable? This fast-tracking of what would be the largest publically funded project in Alaska is irresponsible and short-sighted.  At this point I wonder if they are still trying to figure out how to preserve the salmon or are they just willing to mitigate the damage on the back-end like what’s happened on the Columbia.  What a shame.  What a sham.  

      

      On their website, the energy authority folks are quick to point out that not many salmon come that far up past the turbulent waters of Devil’s Canyon.  What isn’t mentioned is that the dam would radically change the natural flow of the river year round. Flow-rate in the winter could be as much as 10 times greater than normal, harming incubating eggs and juvenile salmon that overwinter in the Su.  In the dark, cold months of winter when energy needs along the railbelt are at a peak, and the river is normally at its lowest,  the dam would respond in-kind by opening the floodgates literally to match demand.  Good for Railbelt power consumers, bad for little fish.

    

    I wonder how many more setnet seasons we have left.  Will my son and daughter be able to continue this family tradition? What about their children, will they even know what a setnet is?  If history is any indication, the outlook is bleak.  

  This isn’t just an issue for the locals, it’s an issue that affects us all and threatens our way of life.  Our identity as Alaskans has long been rooted in the rugged wild lands and the abundance of our most precious of natural resources- our fish and wildlife.   It’s this identity that highlight the reasons why many of us choose to live here, instead of elsewhere where development goes unchecked and you can see the next Starbucks from the window of the one you’re sitting in.

       What ever happened to the idea of wanting better for our children?  Are we really so short-sighted as to consider risking the future of a thriving salmon population that has existed for thousands of years for a mere 100 years of electricity?  I find it hard to believe that this is as clever as we can be with the estimated 5.19 billion dollars (cost of the dam) of public funds to solve our energy needs.   If we are so easily willing to trade one resource for another I wonder where will it end?  Pave paradise to put up a parking lot.