Waffles, Come-alongs and Middle Earth

      Waffles, Come-alongs and Middle Earth

"I'm making Waffles!"-Donkey

      They were both looking at me.  I turned off the motor.  The cow and calf moose saw me as soon as I crested the final hill on the four wheeler.  Slowly they made their way up the cut across from me as I unpacked the wheeler and loaded my pack.  

    I don’t consider myself much of a four wheeler guy, but this year I drew a Talkeetna Mountains caribou tag and I was limited on time and therefore- options.  My plan was to ride-out the local four wheeler trail that leads above treeline. After I had gone as far as the trail could take me I would go on foot from there to scout for caribou.    

    I love to hunt caribou but I have finite leave-time, and hunting for moose, considered by many to be the grand-prize of Alaskan big game hunting, always takes precedent.  Moose are the largest of the deer family and of the eight surviving moose subspecies on the planet the Alaskan Moose, along with the Chukotka moose of Eastern Siberia stand out as the largest of them all.  What an amazing place we live in where healthy numbers of them still flourish and it is quite possible to fill a freezer with a whole year’s worth of lean healthy protein with one well placed shot.   

     The ten mile four wheeler ride-in could easily have been featured in Four Wheeling Mud-Bogger magazine (if there is such a thing.)  Never before have I ridden my four wheeler in such adverse trail conditions.  After I’d surpassed several nasty, swampy mud bogs I realized that the trail seemed to be getting worse. I knew that returning wouldn’t be any easier but I pressed on until I passed the point of no return.  The mud bogs continued their downward spiral and I felt much like Froto Baggins crossing the Dead Marshes of Middle Earth...except I was on a four wheeler.  Instead of seeing pasty dead faces and zombies in the swamps, I would spy any occasional beer can as I passed by that had been discarded from the redneck regulars who may or may not be blood related to the Orc.

     It’s a good thing that I threw in a come-along at the last minute.   Without it I’d still be out there wallowing in mud up to the wheel wells with my hands on my hips.  I had to use it four times on the trip in alone.   Mud of every conceivable consistency and depth kept me guessing. It was especially soupy as I neared the treeline.  It took me almost six hours to reach the end of the trail.  By then I was glad to be done riding.

   I loaded up my backpack and left the four wheeler on the hill.  From there I took off on foot picking my way over the hill and then up into the same cut the moose had been in.  I made my way around a thick bushel of willows that would lead me to a nearby ridge.  

  Holy Berries!  Berries everywhere.  With my pack still on I bent over and scooped my hand through one particularly thick patch of blueberries and came up with 40 or 50 plump blueberries.  It was almost too much to fit in my mouth but I persevered and found a way to stuff them all in as I hiked along. They were superb.  These wild blueberries are nothing like the big ones you can buy in those square plastic containers in the supermarket.  Visually those ones look okay, but are essentially flavorless.  For me, it’s exactly like the difference between a store bought tomato and a good locally grown hot house tomato.  The slightly tart, sweetness of the blueberry is a gift on a long fall’s hike.  I can recall many times sitting in a patch and eating until completely sated.

     Adjacent to the blueberries and tightly hugging the tundra were an equally thick patch of crow berries.  I grabbed a handful of those too.  They aren’t as great as blueberries but still good.  I made my way up and over the top of the knoll until I found a suitable camping spot.  At a casual glance, I noticed that the cow and calf that I’d startled earlier were settled into a nearby hillside.  Also I saw three more moose in the expanse of the valley below.  No caribou.

   After setting up the tent and otherwise organizing camp,  I grabbed a beer from the pack along with my binocs.   I glassed the hillside behind me where I thought the cow and calf were. Low-and-behold, the cow and calf had somehow morphed into a giant sow grizzly and her one year old cub!  I think there’s a lesson here:  Apparently one should perform more than a cursory glancing-around of their surroundings before settling-into a camping spot. Oops.  

    They were about 300 yards away from me working the hillside.  I sat there mesmerized watching them hoover up thousands upon thousands of berries.  First they worked their way up the hill.  I hoped they would keep going up and over.  Then they started working their way back down.  Down towards me.  Oh boy.

      It was late.  The day had been a long one for me.  I was beat.  I really didn’t want to pack up camp and relocate.  I decided to stay put for the night.  Here was my thinking/plan:  1) The bears obviously have plenty to eat, so as long as I didn’t provoke them or get in between sow and cub I should be good.  It would be hard to do either from inside the tent.  2) Preventative defense is the best offense ( I just made that up.)  Like Charles Martin Smith in Farley Mowat’s  Never Cry Wolf I set about the task of marking my territory.   I downed my beer and began peeing at several strategic locations around my immediate perimeter.  I must have looked ridiculous hustling around pissing everywhere with my pants falling down.  Okay. 3)  Part three of my plan included hanging all of my perishable food from the branch of a bush away from the tent.  I tied an empty can of beer to a branch higher up.   My thinking was that if the bears came into camp I would surely be awakened by such a clatter at the food bush.  4)  Contingency plan B:  Winchester model 70 30.06 locked, loaded and within reach.  Hell yeah!

     Yeah I slept like shit.  My brain kept trying to turn every little noise into a big bear.   On top of it there were three constant noises that served as confusing background to all others;  The variable wind’s flapping the tent’s fabric,  A light drizzling rain hissing over the tent, and the ubiquitous swarm of buzzing, circling mosquitoes hovering just outside in the lee of the tent.

      What may be otherwise obvious to the gentle reader I will have you know that I made it through the night unscathed if not wholly refreshed.

    Much earlier than I normally would have, I boiled up for coffee and eased into my morning.  I grabbed the binocs and gun and without looming bears (nor lions nor tigers.), I took a gentle stroll over to the next vantage point.   It was from this very knoll that I spotted a brilliant 50 inch bull moose in full velvet browsing just over the hill.  The early archery season for moose wouldn’t be open until the next morning but alas I’m not an archery guy so I was out of luck on both counts but my heart raced nonetheless.

    Sitting on a big rock watching this bull, I pondered my situation. Considering the fact that I would have to attack this caribou hunt on weekends only, I realized that this particular spot wasn't an ideal location for me to be hunting. The considerable travel time of mud bogging doesn't leave a lot of wiggle room for hunting.  

I decided to pick berries.  I mentally prepared myself for the return trip through the Dead Marshes and beyond.  

 I knew that I would have to transform myself from a mild-mannered, berry picking, conservationist into a redneck four wheeling wild man if I wanted to make it back home to the waffle maker.  

Freezing blueberries on a cookie sheet first
prevents smushing during vacu-sealing.

   

     

     

Wildlife and Fish at Susitna's mouth

                                       Wildlife and Fish

View from the outhouse

      I pulled back on the throttle carefully.  With Mom, Corey, and Larry on board I didn’t want to throw them forward with a sudden stop.  “Hey look, there’s a bear!”  The lanky two-year-old grizzly was as startled as we were.  He was in the water up to his chest and when we skipped around the corner he pulled himself up the muddy cut bank dripping wet.  Just then his brother poked his head up from behind a pile of drift logs.  We had disrupted their activities.  They were fishing.   They bolted up and over the high tide line disappearing into the grass just as Dad and Mike came around the bend in the other skiff.   I wondered if we would be able to see them from the cabin.  More importantly, I wondered if they would be back fishing during the next morning’s fishing period.  They were very close to our set net sites.

    Slowly we made our way down the beach.  We had arrived at the mouth of the Susitna River an hour and a half past high tide.  The water was rushing out and wasn’t very deep.  An occasional grinding-of-the-prop in the mud reminded me how shallow we were.  Up ahead I saw a pod of belugas breaching in a neat line.  I headed towards them knowing that they were in the channel of Ivan River and it would be deeper.  As we made our way into the river a gaggle of fifteen White fronted Geese waddled up the mud bank into the tall grass where we could see just the tips of their heads bobbing through the waving grass.  They were hustling their way to safety.   Another larger group of Canadian Geese took to the air as we came up on them on the very next bend of the river. Two seals bobbed their heads to get a look at us before diving out of sight into the muddy waters.

    As we pulled up to camp I noticed a fat seagull was squatting on the chimney cap of my bunkhouse.  The cap was now collapsed and there was a new series of white stains below it on the metal roofing.  Sweet.   I pulled the boat up to the bank and we began unloading gear and settling in.   I anchored the boats as the rest of the gang shuttled bags and gear up to the cabin.

   “Hey look there’s a coyote!”  sure enough a large coyote was trotting along the flats directly across the river from us.  We managed to gather all three pairs of binoculars and were focused-in when the coyote lept upward and then pounced nose-down into the grass.  It was easy to see the Twinkie sized vole in its mouth.  The coyote looked over at us and our barrage of glass lenses before turning tail, picking up the pace, and leaving us.   

       All day the Sand hill Cranes were constant.  As I was unpacking my bag in the bunkhouse, four of them flew ten feet over top, landing on the other side of the river.   Their squeaky clarinet-like bleatings are a dead-giveaway.  The mated pairs call in unison: two female calls to the one male.  (There’s a joke in there somewhere.)  There were several other groups of them walking among the grasses on the other side of the river.

       As I walked back to the main cabin I saw a goshawk dipping and swooping over the flats probably looking for Twinky-Voles, same as the coyote.  When I got back to the cabin I found the binocs.  I wanted to see if those bears were still around.   All I found were a half dozen eagles perched on drift logs out by the high tide line.  Several salmon finned and swirled in the river.  

       For some it might be easy to take for granted the abundant flora and fauna after so many years. We have been commercial fishing on the Susitna Mud Flats for the last 34 summers and, in contrast it seems that I have gained a greater appreciation for it as time passes.  It amazes me the diversity and numbers of creatures that gather for the push of the salmon each summer.  It’s like greeting old friends each July as we spill out of the Susitna River making our way to camp.  

   “Nice day.” I said. Larry and Mike were hanging out in the sun on the front porch talking to my dad.  Corey was untangling a kite and Mom was unpacking the food and organizing the kitchen.  The sun was kissing us midday and there was just enough of a breeze to sway our giant American flag that is attached to an old wooden oar. Mom found the oar beach combing one day. 
 “Where are all the fish?” I asked.  Nobody seemed to know.  By this time each year there are usually lots of fish in the river, so many in fact that I prop a few on the way to camp.  On some years the fish are so thick that some even wash up on shore in the wake behind the boat.  They flop and twist on the mud until they slide back into the water. 

     “They’re coming.” said Larry.  In the end he was right. They came and once again life was good. 

Corey and I practicing the forgotten
art of mud-glissading.

Corey earning his stripes

Mom and Dad enjoying the river

Hazelee and Brenton crewing for cheap.

The crew in action.

Fish Camp Chronicles Vol 5.

 The Fish Camp Chronicles Vol 5. (Photos by Rachel Harrison)

set net candy corn

Loaded to-the-gills with coolers of ice and important people on-board I powered up the skiff and settled into a good run down the Susitna River.  Once again we were returning to our fish camp on Ivan River for the first opener of the 2014 season.

     Along with the President of the Susitna River Coalition Mr.MikeWood and esteemed founders of Harrison and Sons fish Co. Rachel and Steve Harrison, there was also young sir Corey Harrison (crewman) and Hazelee Harrison (gill puller).  Soon we were passing the mouth of the Deshka and things were looking up.

Rockin the Su

   Water was still high.  This is a mixed blessing when you run a prop like we do on the Su.  Sure the channels are deep but where the hell are they?  Armed with a GPS and a depth finder I was groping for a clue but I’m no expert.  I’ve got a collection of mangled props hanging on my pole barn to prove it.  These soldiers of war are casualties that have served their time and have not been forgotten.  Most of them can be repaired but there are two hanging there that will never feel the silty waters again.  This is probably a happy-thought for them.  No self respecting prop should have to endure as much.  

Ol'Roy hasn't been the same
since the Indian run of 07.

    Before we turned the corner into Cook Inlet itself we always poke into Tide Creek to stage gear and gas.  As I pulled around the corner I quickly noticed that a big tree was blocking its entrance.  I gunned the motor and then at the last minute killed the engine and lifted it up as we glided over it landing us into Tide Creek proper.  As we passed over it we became victims of a seagull’s dive-bombing efforts.  There, tucked into the crook of the upturned tree’s roots were three neatly organized seagull eggs in a nest.  Aha.

      We dropped our extra gas and as we left I towed one end of the tree around the bend to we could pass more easily. From there we would exit the mouth of the Susitna River hugging the shoreline that would take us to our fish camp on Ivan River.

towing the seagull egg log.

Mike and Hazelee performing at a high level.

Bunk house among the Lupine

Newly repaired net rack

Grilling a freshie at camp

Mom found this cool sign beachcombing

The main cabin

Intimate Susitna

     

Corey photo bombing me on the Su

Some things can't wait. I decided to take the family on a float trip that would descend 35 miles of the Susitna River.  Snow machining and jet boating this section before just wasn’t enough.  Floating a river versus running it in a powerboat is akin to walking versus driving in a vehicle.  “A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles.”  Edward Abbey, outspoken environmentalist and National Parks champion knew what was up.

    “Have a good trip!” She said waving to us from the bank at the end of the Talkeetna Village airstrip.  My wonderful mother-in-law Pam Rannals had happily volunteered to not only drop us off and pick us up a few days later  but she was also watching our two dogs. A good time was had by them in our absence apparently when they both discovered an unguarded bag of dog food.   Rosemary, our new golden retriever puppy submerged her entire head into it chomping and feasting furiously with her tail wagging.

      We would have to settle up on that one later.  We were floating down the Susitna River and it commanded our full attention.

     The water was high.  The flowing silty waters dispersed themselves into a myriad of channels.  The entire watershed itself was littered with scads of uprooted trees, roots, and drift.   The upper end of the channel's braids were stacked with drift wood in the form of sticks, logs, and whole trees making route decisions imperative.  We did not want to be the next log in the stack.  The gentle hiss of the sandy silt swirling against the bottom of the boat serenaded us as we made our way down river.

    I pulled on the oars correcting our line as needed.  “Michael rowed the boat ashore.....guys?” Nothing.  “Guys, help me out here with the next line.”

    “What?”  said Corey.  I quickly realize that it might be a long trip but this is the stuff of good family camping isn’t it?  I’ve seen enough of the National Lampoon’s Vacation series to know that these were memories in the making and I must persevere. Clark W. Grizwold doesn't have shit on me.

    “Hallelujah.” I said. "Michael rowed the boat ashore Hallelujah."

    “Gazunteight.”  said Corey.  Okay. Just then we heard a thunderous crack. As we turned to look, an enormous birch tree, succumbing to the eroding bank fell and snapped as it toppled backwards onto the shore exposing it's upturned foundation. "Whoa." said Tamra.

      Slowly we floated our way downriver with Hazelee in the bow, Corey in the stern and Tamra and I were holding steadfast a midships.

    After my last float I couldn’t help but think that inadvertently, we were tracing the route of the old stern wheelers that plowed their way upriver over a hundred years ago.  I wondered how different the river was for them back then.  I wondered how their progress would have been in times of high water such as we were experiencing now.  How did they deal with giant cottonwood trees drifting at them downriver?  How were they able to negotiate the swift, shallow channels? Their boats were long and heavy.  As a person that is intimately aware of the forces involved in running the Susitna River I can’t even imagine how they could have done it with those lunky behemoth's. I’ve seen the pictures so it must be true.

     Nowadays the river is not a major freighting route for miners and trappers like it was back then.  The construction of rail and road put an end to all that.  Today the river is utilized mainly recreationally to access areas near salmon streams.  By-and-large cabins and lodges up and down the Susitna (and Yentna) Rivers are situated as closely as possible to salmon producing tributaries.  A quick search of remote property sales tell the tale.  Properties located closest to salmon streams fetch the highest dollar.  These are the areas that see the most boat traffic too.   It seems that the salmon have had quite an effect on human activity and development along the mighty Susitna.

     We made our way towards one of these salmon streams called Birch Creek which would be our first camp spot.  “Hey there’s a good spot.” I said and we pulled over on the sandbar staking our claim to Harrison camp-spot number one.

    As far as camp spots go this one was exemplary.  Essentially an island, this sandy, gravely beach was be speckled with lot’s of driftwood and even some beach coal.  Before long we were roasting hot dogs, playing bocce ball and carrying on as only we can do.   Hazelee quickly lost all of her clothing and was happy to be a stark naked child of the earth.  Tamra and I got a solid start on a bottle of Fireball next to the fire.

        The next morning a modest river boat zoomed by us on the far side of the river and it was quite later-on that a super cub dove and swooped over us.  These were the only others we saw on the river since leaving Talkeetna.

        It was cool to be checking out this section of river up-close.  The lion share of my Susitna River time has been spent on the lower river commuting to and from our fish camp on Ivan River.  It’s interesting to note the boating traffic on all the different stretches of river.  By far the busiest section of the river is the four mile stretch of river from Deshka Landing to the Deshka river.  Day trippers routinely zip down to the Deshka to sport fish for salmon.  This traffic has been booming in recent years due to the proliferation of the Deshka River salmon returns.

    The stretch of the Susitna from the mouth of the Deshka down to the mouth of the Yentna sees the next heaviest traffic.  These folks are accessing cabins and lodges up the Yentna drainage. We have cabins up the Yentna and are part of that traffic. 

    Across from the mouth of the Yentna is the old Susitna Station town site.  There are still a few ramshackle buildings left but it is but a shadow of its former self that once saw over 700 residents in the early nineteen hundreds.  Currently there are two cabins down river a half mile or so from this site, below that there is nothing and we are the only boat traffic from there there down to the mouth.

    Point of consideration: Behold such a great river so very near the main populous of Alaska and yet still so wild. Development along its banks are but a side note to the river itself.  The Susitna River remains a wild and free flowing river!

        In the morning the sun woke us from the tent.  A thousand mosquitoes had found refuge between the tent and rain fly over the course of the night.  When we detached the fly from the tent they quietly dispersed away from the sunlight like the little vampires they are.  Today would be a hot one.  We packed up camp and pushed off into the current.  Midday we passed under the Parks Highway bridge.  We stopped to fish for a bit at the mouth of Rabideax creek but couldn’t really stand it.  Like many of the mouths of fishing streams accessible along the Parks Highway, this one has fallen victim to the anything goes clause.  Without a monitored campground with rules and facilities this place was trashed.  People like to bitch about over regulation and government over-stepping their bounds but where is the balance?  

     With fishing poles in hand Corey and I walked past the abandoned fire pit littered with a Marlboro Light box and some charred beer cans.  A series of four wheeler tracks disappeared into the creek itself along with some old fishing line.  Just then a large man with a scowl on his face putted by us on a kiddy four wheeler. “I think that guy is ready to trade up.”  I pointed out as we piled back into the raft and pushed back off into the wilderness.  

      We floated another four hours until we became so hot we started to become bothered also.  The GPS on my phone told me that we were close to the mouth of Goose Creek.  We had to drag the raft upriver a little ways to make it over there but it turned out to be a great spot to camp.  We dragged the raft up a couple of bends to get out of the sun.  Tamra and I began to set up camp as the kids swam and floated in the cool waters.

     A couple of dudes working for ADF&G showed up and set some fish traps near the mouth.  They caught a few juvenile salmon over the course of the hour that they were there.  Their findings along with many others would be passed on to the scientists working on the Susitna Watana Hydro project.

    I didn’t realize until just recently that all the millions of dollars of science being conducted on the dam project so far isn’t to decide whether or not the dam should be built.  It’s already been decided despite ample public outcry.  As long as there is enough political will in the legislature in upcoming years it will be built.  My understanding now is that the science is being conducted mainly because it’s required as part of the regulatory commission’s licensing process and also to possibly figure out the extent of the mitigation efforts to restore all the salmon it kills.

     Salmon restoration and mitigation efforts are already being planned and budgeted for.  How much isn’t quite clear.  Wayne Dyok, project manager for the dam couldn’t be pinned down in an interview by KTNA’s Phillip Manning recently.  Dyok who comes across as a nice guy on-air, admitted that mitigation efforts on the Columbia River in Washington have been extremely expensive.

   When the Susitna Watana dam proposal came about just a few years ago, I assumed that the science would be used to find a way to preserve the wild salmon and if it wasn’t possible then the dam wouldn’t be built.  But after I took off my rose-colored glasses I realized that wasn’t the case and that saving wild salmon stocks hasn’t worked on any other dam and there is no reason to believe it will work here.

*********************************

It's hard to be humble when you
are too cool for school.

        “Haze, wouldn’t it be cool to have a house in a river?”  She was perched up in the bow tucked among the mounds of gear.  “That way you could go swimming right out your front door!" Haze loves to swim. " Corey what do you think wouldn’t it be cool to fish right outside your bedroom window?”  Corey loves to fish.

     Finally as we floated around the corner it all made sense.  There in the river was a large cabin....in the river.  I had checked it out this winter and wondered if it was still there.  Apparently someone learned the hard way the reason main reason why you should never build on a cut bank of a river.  This 24 by 16 foot cabin had fallen victim to the will and power of the mighty Susitna. It was biding its time among the drift. 

     I wondered if there was any kind of fine or punishment handed down to said property owner.  During the spring time it was frozen into the river solid and I was able to snow machine up to it.  That would have been a good time for the owner to remove any trash and other environmentally hazardous building materials.   It is a fully insulated and wired building and all of it will be in the river soon.   

I would have been glad to help.

Lately I guess I've become sensitive to the issues of the river. A river that I've taken for granted my whole life is now in jeopardy and I feel more connected to it than ever.

We floated past the sunken house, around the corner and down to our pullout at Susitna Landing where Pam met us there with the truck and a friendly smile.

Sunken cabin this spring

Not Thirty

   

   The trees were bending and whipping as I peered through the windshield of the truck.  It was spitting rain.  The wipers were on their highest setting.  I was on my way to Bartlett for the start of the Mayor’s Midnight Sun Marathon.  My mother-in-law would say: "It is nasty." She would be right, it was nasty. Shit.  I looked over at the passenger seat.  The Walmart bag nestled there contained a brand new hat and gloves.  I'd pulled over on a whim. I hate being cold.  The five dollar hat was cool and I thought that the same would be true of the five dollar neoprene gloves... until I pulled them on my hands at the beginning of the race.  One was a size large, the other one wasn’t, it was an artery constricting size small. Nice.

    Due to construction at Bartlett High, no parking was allowed, so I sat in the Takatnu mega-complex parking lot along with everyone else, rain pouring down.  I was there forty minutes early and I had to pee.  I decided to dart over to the McDonald’s.  There were six women standing in line outside the women’s bathroom.  For a moment, I thought I was at a Bon Jovi concert.  I wondered if there has ever been a McDonald’s overrun by such a fit running crowd before. There were over fifty marathoner’s milling around inside the Takatnu McDonald's.  Some were actually in line ordering food (Egg McMuffins?), but most of them, like myself were looking to off load.  

     Eventually I would make my way over to Bartlett where I would first be met by a barrage of twenty port-a-potties in a row that were backed up twenty women deep.  In the periphery, men could be found tucking in shirts and everything else as they returned from various sections of the Bartlett woods.  Everyone had been diligently hydrating and was trying to squeeze out every last drop before the race.  It’s no fun making a pit stop during a race.

    A gigantic sound system cranked thumping beats interspersed with witty DJ commentary.  “Five minutes left!” He announced.   Finally the Alaska Flag song sounded followed by the National Anthem. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Anchorage Mayor Dan Sullivan.” During the awkward pause four people clapped.  I’m pretty sure it was the four Japanese runners that cut-me-off at the expo the night before.  I’m sure everyone else would have clapped too but they were preoccupied with important last minute race details, like blowing snot from their noses, or picking their shorts out of their butt-cracks.  “Remember, our motto is Big Wild Life, so look out.”  OK Dan.

        “5,4,3,2,1...bam.”  The gun sounded like one you might find in the bottom of a cracker-jack box.  The guy next to me looked over at me and said “really?”  We took off out of the parking lot, into the wind and rain and towards the inevitability of our respective racing destinies.

        Despite the rain and wind, I was feeling good, ticking off 7:20’s and 7:30 minute miles.  At mile nine I saw Hazelee waving and smiling and cheering.  She had made a sign and she was waving it proudly as I ran by.  My dedicated support crew of my Mom, Dad, and daughter were with me all day long in and managed to make it to the majority of viewing areas to cheer me on and monitor my progress.   All was going great until I hit mile 12.

Nipples McGee

      I felt a dull pain in my left leg, it wasn’t my knee but it was just below that.  It hurt to put weight on it.  I wondered if I would have to quit.  I discovered that I could stop, stretch and alleviate some of the pain for about a mile.   So went the progress.  Stop, stretch, slowly run another mile.  My dreams of beating my first marathon time disintegrated with each passing mile.  Shit.

  About mile 16 I glanced down and noticed two strawberry sized red stains on my shirt.  Coincidentally they were located over each nipple. “Huh?” I thought.  Some of the powerade I’d slugged down on-the-run was a reddish color, maybe I spilled some.  “That’s funny.” I thought.  

     As it turns out it wasn’t funny at all. An hour later when the pain hit, I realized that I'd rubbed the skin off my nips.  Not only was I in pain but I realized that I’d run the whole second half of the marathon with two big red nipple-stains front and center for all to admire.  

Like some kind of sick Rudolph the red nosed reindeer I was Steve the red-nipped fruit loop. Luckily I was focused enough on all my various pain to not really care what anyone else thought.

Hazelee supporting her dad
as he pulls over to stretch his
weary bones. 

    Several days before the race I had considered downgrading to the half-marathon.  Although my overall training mileage seemed adequate I had, essentially taken the last three weeks off floating the Yentna, visiting my family in Ellomar and sport fishing for kings at the cabin.   

     “You’re not thirty anymore”.  The advice from a trusted coach was well received but I’ve always been stubborn.  For me thirty years old was 12 years ago.  My first marathon was only five years ago and I did pretty good posting a time of 3:31.  I surprised myself on my fast-ish time.  

    This year I was supposed to be ready.  I had logged in almost 600 miles of running since August and I had competed in several races including the inaugural running of the Kasugi ridge race, the Willow Winter half, and the Mission Gorge 15K in San Diego.  I had to be ready right?
I made my way past miles 18, 19, and 20. My pace had slowed considerably. I noticed several of my running compadres nursing similar pains. "What a wuss." I thought about myself. Somehow I'd pigeon-holed myself into the gimp-crowd. Finally, as I made my way up the final hill leading to the finish line. I could hear the cheering crowd and the bumping party music. I managed to pick up my pace to something that resembled a kick as I narrowly squeezed my way past several middle aged ladies that were running the 5K and blocking the whole chute. I darted past them to the finish.
Nips bleeding, legs in pain, and dogs-a-barking, I collected my ridiculously large medal and shirt and hobbled my way over to the beer tent. Let the healing begin.

The Third Cast

                                  The Third Cast

    

Corey, successfully harvesting a King Salmon.

It was the third cast. I flung the spinner high over me and winged it as far as the old line would allow.  Wait for it, wait for it, ....as the lure sunk towards the bottom I began my retrieve.  The action of the lure I was using was fickle today.   In the name of conservation, ADF&G announced that single hooks only could be used.  The standard treble-hook was more balanced, and made the whole thing spin better.  The rules had changed.  Oh well.

    In addition, retention of the coveted King Salmon would only be allowed on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Okay.

     The Deshka River had gone the other way with it’s regs.  Reaching their escapement goal early-on, Fish and Game opened the Deshka King fishery to treble hooks and even bait.  My common anecdote for the Deshka River King Salmon fishery goes as follows:  10oo fishermen on 300 boats casting for 100 kings.  I chuckle to myself each time I drive by the mouth of the Deshka.  Boat after God-forsaken boat pack the mouth like a true riverboat version of combat fishing.  

      A familiar tug pulled down on my rod and I knew what was in store.  Before I could even announce my success or play-it-cool by not announcing it,  another fished jumped into the air.  Tamra had one on too.  Holy shit!  There we were fishing by ourselves, without another boat in sight, and we both had one on.  Hazelee was in attendance and can bare witness to said story because she was in charge of the landing net.  “Haze, grab the net!”  Tamra barked at her.

     “ I am, it’s stuck on my boot.”  

     Meanwhile, as Hazelee was untangling herself from the dipnet Tamra and I were playing nice Kings on either side of the boat.  One would peel drag in a panicked frenzy as the other one seemed to be losing ground.  Hazelee was fumbling with the net along with a canister of Planters salted peanuts.  Just then, a third King jumped nearby.

   “ Here Haze, take the pole.”  I saw the handwriting on the wall and quickly decided that action must be taken.  Haze took the fishing pole and immediately felt the strong pull from the King on the other end.  Feelings and words of self-doubt threatened to get the better of Haze as the fight continued.   I got the net over to Tamra who swiftly guided her fish into it. After another minute or two I was able to land Hazelee’s fish too.

    “Whoo-hooo!”  said Hazelee as she sat down on the boat’s bench to take a breather.  Two bright silvery Kings flopped around on the bottom of the boat. They were just as surprised as we were.

All said and done, the King Salmon Hazelee caught received only a fraction of the attention of Hoppy Hopperton, the frog I found for her out by the outhouse, much to the chagrin of Hoppy himself.