Rite of Passage

Rite of Passage

Corey's first caribou.

     My lips were still tingling from the too-hot sip of coffee I'd just taken.  It was early.  Corey's hot chocolate sat unattended on the action packer as he struggled to get up and out of the tent.  Thirteen year old boys, as it turns out, are pretty fond-of-the-pillow and if left alone have been known to sleep all day.

      "There's one."  Right behind camp not 500 yards away stood a nice bull caribou.  I grabbed my binoculars to confirm. "Corey!" I  whispered loudly, "Let's go."  We gathered the essentials and quickly decided upon a line of approach.  

    Soon enough we were within range and as the sequence-of-events played out I found myself becoming more nervous than I am when it's just me behind the gun.   

     Before too long the deed was done and there was much to  celebrate.  We watched my brother and his whole family as they made their way through the tussocks and tundra and up to the kill-site.  They were all there to congratulate Corey on his Harrison family rite-of-passage. 

     We returned to camp after a couple of hours of field dressing and the pack-out was easy.  As we settled back into camp Corey made his way over to the action packer to claim his cocoa which had cooled down considerably. Nevertheless he gulped it down enthusiastically.  "How was that cocoa?" I asked.

      "It was nasty." he said with a smile.

Field dressing

The whole crew minus photographer Amanda Harrison

Brenton Harrison bagging a few ptarmigan.

Uncle Steve teaching the finer points of field dressing a ptarmigan

Amanda bagged her first caribou too!

Pete stirring the camp jambalaya with a willow stick.

The mighty hunter

European mount tip: remove as much of the soft tissue in the field as you can.
It makes a lighter load and you don't have to deal with the mess at home.
Keep the skull moist or submerged until you are ready to blast with a pressure washer

After a couple of weeks of drying this baby will be ready to mount on the wall in
Corey's room.

     

A Great Weekend in the Mountains

A Great Weekend in the Mountains

Pete and Jordan

     "This might be a little bumpy." He said.  The gravel landing strip was situated alongside a swift glacial stream and was anything but smooth.  After one big bounce he quickly wrangled us under control.   Jordan, like his father was becoming a damn good pilot.  The under-inflated tundra tires of the super-cub cushioned our landing and slowed our run-out.  We puttered our way to the end of the short strip where my brother Pete was waiting. 

       Jordan had flown him in earlier.  He had already cased-out the valley with his binoculars and was excited to share his findings.  "There's a group of moose lower in the valley and there are two rams way up there."  As he pointed I looked around trying to take in my new surroundings.

    "Wow,this place is beautiful."  I said.  We were surrounded by jagged peaks, glaciers and waterfalls; it was rugged terrain no doubt.

       Pete had drawn a sheep tag and had asked me to come along.  It was easy for me to say yes.   I have always been drawn to the mountains and this was just the excuse I needed.   I am reminded of a sign in my brother-in-law's house: "If you are lucky enough to be in the mountains you are lucky enough."  

     In the end we wouldn't be able to access the hunting area of Pete's sheep tag.  We thought that we could access a low point of the ridge that would grant us passage into an adjacent valley but after we got a good look at it on day two, it was obvious that it was too technical and too steep.  I'm sure we could have scrambled up there but coming back down with heavy packs of meat wouldn't have been a good idea at all.  

     So, what started out as a quest for sheep ended up being just a great weekend in the mountains.  We were lucky enough.

Day one hiking through paradise.

The Mountain Cranberry (Vaccinium Vitis-Idaea) were the prevalent berry on our trip. 

Camp 1 (4,200 ft.elevation)

High camp (5,200 ft. elevation)

Pete hiking through the seemingly endless moraine.

Stream carving through the glacier

Pete, getting a drink at the disappearing waterfall.  The stream
disappears into the moraine at the bottom of the picture.

Pete traversing the glacier.

I found these scattered on the glacier.  There were many more.  Anyone know what they are?

The Nushagak Chronicles Part 3: The Witch King of Angmar

The Witch King of Angmar

a smaller version

    We could smell it coming.  The pale tube of skin barely contained it’s contents.  It was hanging from the web like a big bag of snot.  Chris deftly maneuvered to the edge to intercept it before it sloshed it’s way into the boat.  A ripped hole near the gill revealed a ragged white sack of eggs that was rolling around a stew of rotting flesh inside.  The eyeballs were gone and the head was attached by only a thread of skin.  It was hard to believe that this was once a beautiful salmon.  Chris pulled the web high and it rolled over the lead line and under the net.  “Nice job dude!”  

    Not all salmon make it to the spawning grounds or the cannery.  Like in all great struggles there are casualties.   Some are inadvertently whacked by boat props or bitten by seals, others fall from the nets and fail to recover from their battle.  Regardless, the result is the same;  these lost souls become the ghosts of the bay.  Some call them zombies;  they seem to be alive as the sway in the current with their wavy flakey white skin, eyeless skulls and foul stench.

    Initially they sink.  Soon enough though, the bacteria begin their work producing some kind of gas.  “I think it’s methane.”  Corey Ambrose was my go-to biology guy on the beach and after a little research at home it was confirmed.  Apparently the bacteria have plenty of protein to break down and along with methane a stinky organic compound called amines are produced which gives us the lovely rotten-fish smell. Nice.  Their sinking days are over by now and these “floaters” are happy to share their glory with the world.

    “Holy shit look at that!”  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Coming up in the net, some fifteen feet away from the boat was a real doozy.  Hanging out among a dozen bright and shiny sockeyes was a former fifty pound king salmon.  “Oh my God, it’s the Witch King of Agmar!”  

     My reference to Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings character was spot on (if I don’t say so myself).  It’s giant white skull and black empty eye sockets sat atop it’s huge bloated pale body.  Preceded by it’s shocking odor, it moved towards the boat trapped by our net.  I could almost hear the screeching from the movie and wondered if it might be hiding a sword in its flank.  

      I lifted the net high enough for it to roll out and under the net.  We said our goodbyes to the Witch King and continued with our work.  We wouldn't see him again until the next tide change.

It lives……in the Nush!

The Nushagak Chronicles Part 2: The Man in the Moon

The Man in the Moon

  “Gonna be some sweet sounds coming down on the nightshift....”

-The Commodores-

    I was on the night shift.  Setting our nets out at 11:30 P.M., we would hold the line until 6:00 A.M.  It was a clear night and the sunset had dropped behind the mountains in spectacular form.  The deep blazen orange glowed behind the Ahklun mountains in diminishing intensity with each passing minute.  Side note: One of the mountains of the Ahklun is curiously shaped like a woman’s breast.  I digress.

    It was darker now and all that could be seen were several tender’s boat lights and the little net-lights blinking at the end of each net. Navigation between nets had become difficult making the GPS invaluable.

    We had just cleared the last net of fish and were clipped-on to our fifty fathom net enjoying the view.  No fish were hitting at the moment.  It was time to chill.

    “Mega-man, Tundra Prancer...”  I was being hailed on the VHF radio.

    “Go ahead Ian.”  Communication between boats is essential and we all have call-names (handles)  My handle, Tundra Prancer, was earned back in the late nineties.  As the story goes I had led a group of young men on a long hike behind camp through the rolling Nushagak tundra.  It was a hot day and the mosquitoes were relentless.  On our way back to camp as a way to avoid the bugs, apparently I broke out into a slow run or as some would call it...a prance.  Go figure.

     “How’s it going over there?”

     “P.D.S.” ( Pretty darn slow), I replied.

    The darkness blanketed us now and all that could be seen clearly was the hundred or so boat lights of varying brightness spotting the horizon like a constellation.  The moon was the dominant figure of the night and it was slowly sinking in the Southern sky.

     It hung low and large in the sky and as we watched it descend we became transfixed by its splendor.  “Yeah, not much going on here but check out the moon!”

    Ian and Cole were across Nushagak Bay on Coffee Point very close to where the moon appeared to be touching down.  I wondered if their view was as good as ours.  By now the moon had touched-down on the bay and the calm seas reflected its light.  From our vantage point it was clear; The moon was melting into the sea!

    It was the color of Tillamook Cheddar with a splash of pink thrown in but its coloration was not uniform. “Hey I see a man’s face!”  I said.

    “It’s the man in the moon.”  Chris replied.  He was my bowman and partner on the boat.  Almost 20 years my junior Chris is a scrappy carpenter from California with a cheerful outlook and a well developed work ethic.  We had shared the night shift duties for the last three nights and it was looking like the pattern would continue.

    We sat in amazement as we watched the man in the moon melt into the sea like some strange giant wax figure.  Soon he was gone and the Bay got just a little bit darker.

“Gonna be a long night

It’s gonna be alright

On the nightshift

Oh you found another home

I know you’re not alone

On the nightshift”

A rare sighting of Chris and I in the daylight.

The Nushagak Chronicles Part 1: The Mud Walk

The Mud Walk

    “This shit sucks!”  The guy was carrying a filthy raincoat and a bucket. He was a twenty-something crewman and was caked in mud from the thigh down. His Grunden’s rain pants had gained twenty pounds as he slopped his way through the mud.  “It gets worse every fucking time!”  Cussing like a sailor means nothing to a commercial fisherman and typically there is little restraint in this regard.  We were all slogging through the mud trying to get back to camp.  We all agreed with the guy to one degree or another and it was funny to hear someone vocalize it so bluntly.

    The walk-in from the anchored boats to the nice gravel beach is about 400 meters, half-of-which is ladened with the gloopiest of mud.  Maybe it should be called the Forest Gump walk.  Each step is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.  If you are lucky you’ll sink-in a mere six inches.  More common though are the foot to foot-and-a-half deep steps.  “These must be the steps that build character”-I kept telling myself.  Already I had seen the mud suck the footwear off of three different people’s feet.

    We were returning from a six hour setnet opener.  Among our catch were 91 king salmon...not bad.  There has been a recent decline in kings around the state and it has been a long time since I’ve seen so many at once.  I was on cloud nine!

   As I labored through the brown slop I noticed the picked over remains of another king, eyeballs missing no-doubt from an opportunistic seagull.  I could tell that it had been there for several tides because the mud had already caked its layers over top.  Soon it would become one with the mud.  

   Finally we reached the gravel beach and the pebbles clung to our muddy boots as we walked.  “Well dip me in shit and roll me in Wheaties.” I pronounced.   My off-handed commentary produced only the mildest of chuckles but I was okay with it.   We would return to the cabin for about three hours of rest.  There was a hot meal waiting for us followed by a short nap.  It wouldn’t be long before we would be heading back down the beach and back onto the mud to do it all over again.

Second Life

Second Life

    The 12 foot aluminum boat was a gift from Tamra’s dad.  Overturned on the bank at the island for years on end, the run-about had ceased to run anywhere at all and was collecting moss into it’s riveted seams.  

   “Well thanks Dave....can I give you a couple hundred bucks for it?” The 7.5 horse Gamefisher motor that came with it along with a gas tank was worth at least as much and felt obliged to offer at least something.

   “No. You’re not going to stop giving us salmon are you?”  Not a chance.  Corey and I carried the thing up the hill to the truck.  We loaded the kicker into the boat and slid it into the back of my truck.  

     The next day I replaced the transom which had rotted away with some new 1 1/8 inch plywood.  The rear seat was rotten too.  I found an old 1 X 10 inch trim board in the garage and custom fit it into place.   I bought some oar locks to work with my 7 foot raft oars and trolling mount for the back seat.  I found some old gray primer spray paint in the garage and blasted the new wood with several coats.  Done.

Corey honing his tiller skills.  Thanks Papaw!

Tamra bringing home the bacon.

The bacon.

My reel broke mid-battle with this guy.
I managed to pull him in by hand.
Here I am displaying my cut ring finger.
The line was wrapped around it during the struggle.
I will have you know that, yes I am okay.

New grill works great.

Hazelee showing Grandma
her catch as we pass her
in the canoe.

Dad at the helm as we troll
for kings down the creek.

Corey ate this entire 18 inch rainbow
that he caught!

Give me some of your tots

"Give me some of your tots"

Family firewood day

     Today he was in a funk.  This time I wasn't quite sure why. It happens.  Raising teenagers can be an exercise in patience.   He had refused dinner.  The rest of us were almost done with our burgers when he finally decided to join us at the table.  The springtime sun was glorious and on this day we were having a good-ol' fashion Bar-Bee-Que.  On the menu: Cheeseburgers (his favorite.)

    Finally he sat down.  Miraculously, despite his stubborn mood, he managed to wolf-down a grilled cheeseburger  The 1/3 pound angus beef patty had been grilled to perfection and was adorned with all the accouterments.  

    Although still quite sullen and unsure whether or not this was the family for him or not, he pointed the ketchup bottle at his empty plate and I watched out of the corner of my eye.  The rather large gloop of glossy redness piled-up.   He had already eaten his burger.  I was suspicious.

      Sure enough, with his right hand, he slowly produced a lone tater tot from below the table.  He dipped,  He munched.  

     Done with my own dinner, I Deftly maneuver to his right side and waited for the right moment.  “Give me some of your tots!”, I demanded with a smidge of drama.

   “Get some of your own”, he told me. “I haven’t had anything all-flippen day!”  There was a a small pause before I did what I knew I had to do.  Noticing his hand poised at his right-hip pocket, I raised my foot and followed through with a good kick, aiming at the bulge in his right-hand pocket.

    “Idiot!” He told me.  We both laughed and suddenly the mood was right again as he produced a flattened glob of processed potato product from his grease-stained pocket.

I wish I could say that no tater-tots were harmed
in the events that unfolded on this evening.  If I had made
such a statement it would be a bold-faced lie; don't judge.