Welcome to My Back Yard. These short stories are my attempt to document some of my many fine Alaskan adventures. My developing love for writing is a perfect match for my uncanny ability to forget all but the most fundamental of details. J.R.R. Tolkien's timeless quote is my mantra- "Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."- so I write.
“A fisherman is a jerk on one end of the line, waiting for a jerk on the other”-Unknown
Jerk#1 and #2 in no particular order.
Corey was clutching the two foot ice fishing pole as it was bending and twitching violently towards the hole. It was a battle I wasn’t sure he would win. Unfortunately I had neglected to change line and I had our poles rigged with four-pound test from a prior trip and he had already broken one off. Corey had been jigging while the rest of us were busy re-baiting all of our tip ups. I hustled down to him in time to take some video. “Nice job Bubba!”
For reasons that are beyond me, the fish were able to strip us of our bait on all of the tip-ups and the only way to catch them was to jig. We had at least 20 flags on the tip-ups; bait gone on them all and no fish. Huh?
“Maybe something else is getting the bait.” Tom surmised. I had caught up with him on Monday at work and was interested in his opinion on the matter. Tom was probably nursing sore arms from reeling-in scads of giant Pike on his own weekend trip. Apparently he had found the “honey-hole” and told me that maybe he wouldn’t ever have to fish for pike anymore because he could never hope to top the fishing he had just experienced. Asshole.
Maybe he’s right, maybe a voracious school of whitefish are pecking our bait to death. I think next weekend I’ll gear-down and see if I can catch some of these interloper bait thieves.
The creek had frozen high this winter and there was enough water to punch-in some holes and fish. Years ago we drilled a few holes and literally “drew mud” indicating insufficient water depth and honestly the thought of ice fishing in the creek after that hadn’t even crossed my mind. Maybe this will be the year, I thought.
I was right.
Dad caught a burbot.
Corey the fish slayer hauling his load back to the cabin.
Mount Susitna bathing in the morning sun.
The sun even shines on a dogs ass every now and then.
“Next!” The friendly TSA agent waved us over. I was feeling pretty confident as we made our way through the security line at SEA-TAC. After all, this was our fourth and final checkpoint on our way home after an amazing family trip to Mexico. We had made it through customs twice, managed to have all our paperwork and passports in order, and been searched in Cancun all without any major issues. This final checkpoint should be nothing special. The passports had been put away; all we needed were our tickets and IDs. All of which I had neatly clutched in my hand ready to go as we approached the checkpoint.
The agent took the pile of boarding passes. Mine was the first to be scanned. There was an audible, but nothing special, “beep” made and the agent got on her walkie-talkie, “We need a security manager at checkpoint five.” She quickly scanned everyone else’s ticket, and then asked Hazelee how old she was. “Eleven.” The woman repeated her request for a security manager.
She asked if I had ever gone through extra security screening, and I kind of laughed because I was the one who randomly got checked in Cancun. Hazelee asked what was going on, and I explained that sometimes people get chosen randomly to go through extra screening. No big deal. I looked to the woman for reassurance, “Right?” “I really can’t comment on that ma’am.” Oh Shit.
The security manager showed up and she showed him my boarding pass with a code written on it. “Oh,” he said and physically took a step back. Then the woman, who I had previously misjudged as friendly said, “and she is traveling with an eleven year old.” I could see the demeanor of the security guard change. He began moving and talking more quickly. It was as if adrenaline had kicked in. He wiped his brow and got on his walkie-talkie and requested another officer. I decided to name him Twitchy.
From around the corner came the second security officer and he looked exactly like Brad Garret. I found this amusing because Brad plays Raymond’s cop brother on the T.V. show Everybody Loves Raymond. I was anxiously waiting for him to speak, maybe this was Brad Garret and we were on some hidden camera comedy show. The woman looked at him and said, “Here is her ticket,” and then sort of quieter and leaning in she continued “…and she is traveling with an eleven year old.” What is with all this “eleven-year-old” stuff? Is that code for something? Are eleven-year-olds a security risk all the sudden? I looked down at Hazelee. She was wearing a Puerto Morelos t-shirt, her pink backpack with a giant monkey face on it, and a giraffe airplane pillow wrapped around her neck. Yeah, she looked like trouble.
Brad Garret looked at Steve and Corey, “You two are going to have to go to your gate.” Then he turned to Hazelee and me, “You two, come with us.”
I told the boys to go ahead and kept a smile on my face trying not to worry anyone in the family further. Twitchy took us through the checkpoint and had us unload all of our items into bins. “All of your electronics must be able to be powered up. Are they all charged?” Hazelee tugged on my shirt, “My laptop isn’t charged.” Brad Garret looked at me sternly and said, “If your electronics cannot be powered up you will not get past this checkpoint.” What? We are going to miss our plane because Hazelee’s cheap-ass Wal-Mart laptop isn’t charged?
This laptop has been a pain in the neck from the beginning. We have had to return it twice for a new one. Sometimes it turns on, sometimes it doesn’t and it never holds a charge. The only reason it made the trip was to placate Hazelee and her obsession with the damn thing.
We found the charger and put it in the bin with the rest of the electronics. In the meantime, Twitchy was anxiously waiting for us at the entrance to the x-ray machine. His forehead now had a fresh sheen of sweat, and he kept asking Brad about protocol and which machines we needed to walk through. This guy was clearly nervous, or excited, I couldn’t really tell which.
At that moment it occurred to me that this guy thought he was about to save the day and stop some major terrorist attack. There would be interviews, praise from his superiors, and maybe even a big promotion in his future. Whatever secret code came up when they scanned my ticket must have been a good one.
Hazelee and I were asked to go through three different full body x-ray machines before moving into another location where a female officer was waiting for us. We were about to experience what Hazelee would later call “A firm Christmas pat down.” The officer explained exactly what she was going to do and I saw Hazelee’s eyes get a little wider. I told her I would go first and that there was nothing to worry about. Luckily, our groping security guard had a nice smile and a sense of humor. Her laugh put both of us at ease while Brad and Twitchy, along with a back-up squad of six additional officers, rubbed swabs all over every inch of our belongings.
I looked at the image produced by the x-ray machine and saw a tangle of various wires from our kindle and phone chargers. I had them all plugged into a charging block. The image on the screen looked remarkably like a ticking time bomb inside my backpack. The next image was of my cell phone and the intricate circuits and wires within. The security guys had circled everywhere the wires came together and Brad was examining the details with scrutiny. In the meantime, the Mod Squad kept bringing back results from the swabs while Twitchy anxiously took notes.
Just then Brad got on his radio, “Are the dogs still here?” Dogs? Seriously? In the back of my mind I kept picturing the scene from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles when the guy mockingly taps his watch and tells Steve Martin, “You’ll never make the six.”
All the sudden, Brad looks at me and says, “You can go.” What? Really? I saw Twitchy’s shoulders slump a little. There goes that promotion. I didn’t ask any questions. I quickly started to repack our belongings as Hazelee put her shoes back on. As we hustled through SEA-TAC, feeling confident we were going to make our flight, I wondered what Hazelee must have thought of our experience. She suddenly looked up and me and asked, “Were they able to get my laptop working?”
Brian had asked me if I wanted to go scuba diving with him several times during the trip and I had shown interest. He told me all about it and convinced me that it would be safe and easy to learn. “We’ll only be in less than fifteen feet of water so if you are in trouble you simply swim to the surface.” Okay. Finally on the last night we decided to do more than talk about it. “Let’s go tomorrow.” I said. It was decided.
But Corey got sick in the middle of the night and none of us slept very well so the next morning was a slow mover indeed and I decided that I wouldn’t push the issue; we still had to pack. We were leaving today and the shuttle van would be picking us up at 3:00 P.M. to take us to the airport.
At a quarter to two while sipping an incredible mango margarita, he came at me again. “We could still make this happen Steve.” I had been willing to let it go. I had thought that if we were going to go we should have gone much earlier. “We could do it in thirty, forty minutes tops.” All the bags were packed, Corey was feeling a little better; what the hell. Mango margaritas have a funny way of changing one’s mind.
“Okay, let’s go.”
One of the two tanks was low on oxygen so Brian hustled down to the neighbor’s house to fill it up. Brian’s dad Gary and his old friend and neighbor Matt went in together to buy a compressor years ago so filling up was never too big of a deal and they had all the dive time they wanted.
While Brian was gone Brent gave me the quick lesson. He showed me a tethered gauge that had two displays; one dial showed your depth in feet and the other showed you how much oxygen you have left. Handy info.
“Once you get in the water you are going to want to dial in your buoyancy.” He grabbed a different tube. The end of this one had buttons on it. “If you are sinking too much push this button.” he pointed to the red button. He demonstrated and when he pushed it I heard a hiss. “This will fill up your vest with oxygen and make you float. The white button is the one you want to push if you are too buoyant and are having trouble diving down.” He lifted the tube with the two buttons up above my head, “but to make the white button work you have to hold it up here or the bubbles won’t escape.”
It all made enough sense to me so I strapped on the diving vest that was strapped to the tank of oxygen. My guess was sixty pounds; pretty heavy. I’ll have to admit it was a little unnerving to think about slinking into the water strapped to such a heavy object but I was willing to try and I always had that lovely red button to push that would shoot me to the top. It reminded me of those life jackets with the CO2 cartridges. When you pull the red cord it quickly inflates the vest and up you go.
We walked down the beach a couple hundred meters. “We’ll put-in by that boat there and the current will take us back down the beach to the house.” The first step in rigging-up was to strap a weighted belt on my waist. It contained about ten large lead weights and it probably weighed another 20 pounds. Next I tightened the straps on the vest and put on the fins. “Since we are putting the fins on the beach we’ll have to walk backwards into the water.” Once I had back peddled into the water waist deep I put the mask tightly on my face and sucked in with my nose to seat the mask as tightly as I could on my face.
I have only snorkeled a handful of times and I must have a weird shaped face because I always have trouble with water leaking into the mask. I did not want that to happen today with everything else I was trying to keep track of.
Next I put the mouth piece in my mouth and practiced breathing. As every good snorkeler (and diver) must know, breathing through the mouth is the only option. It may sound easy but breathing solely through one’s mouth is not normal or natural and although it’s easy to do for a minute or two I found that any little distraction would temp my nose to breath. Reflexively trying to suck-in through the nose when there is no air to breath is to invite a sense of panic if not panic itself.
I was planning to be mindful of this idea the whole time. My mantra was “mouth breath, mouth breath, mouth breath” I knew I could drum-up enough presence-of-mind to be able to control it. Even if I lost my way Brian would be there to navigate. It was my job to simply breath out of my mouth. Even if a moray eel decided to swim figure-eights around my legs, Brian would take care of it. It was my job to breath…..through my mouth.
After I was comfortable with mouth-breathing out of water I was ready to stick my face in it. No problem and no leaks from the mask. I pushed out deeper using my fins to maneuver. The plan was to feel this thing out and stay in fairly close to shore. I was doing it, I was scuba diving! Kiss my ass Jacques Cousteau there’s a new sheriff in town….Scuba Steve!
Just then I noticed a few small fish swim right in front of my face. I realized that I was still pretty close to the surface to I tried to use the white button so I could go deeper but it didn’t seem to do anything. I dolphin-kicked my way to the bottom which was only ten feet or so and felt the familiar head pressure. I remember from my younger days trying to dive to the deep end of the pool. Some of my friends could swim right down there without issues, but I always got these awful head pains from the pressure. This tiny distraction took me off my mantra and I did a nose/ mouth dose-e-doe. Mouth breath, mouth breath.
I was able to avoid the dreaded panic and got the breathing under control but I decided that I wanted to go back in shallow, take a minute and collect myself. As promised, Brian was right there and pulled up beside me.
“How’s it going? Are you doing all right?”
“Yeah, I just need to reflect on what I just learned, I want to go back out.” We compared notes and decided that I needed some more weight so Brian gave me a couple of his lead bricks and put them into some pockets on the vest. “Okay, lets go.”
I was starting to feel more comfortable and we went out a little deeper. The current was sweeping us along and we were able to get down to the bottom. I saw something below me and sure enough it was a barracuda! Three passed right in front of us and Brian whipped out his camera. There were a bunch of smaller fish too that were unfazed by our presence and swam quite close. I looked above me and saw a needle fish scooting by and below me were some much larger fish that I couldn’t identify.
“Wow, Brian that was an incredible experience, thank you!” Brian shrugged it off as if were nothing but I was pretty impressed.
We hauled the equipment back up to the house. I grabbed a quick shower, we said our goodbyes, and we were off to the airport. Back to Alaska. Nice ending to a great trip.
Who would have thought that I could look so good in yellow?
The seas were angry that day my friends-George Costanza
By all indications it was going to be a banner day. And, for all intents and purposes, it was... but sometimes you get more than you bargain for.
We were up at 6:00 A.M. and Brent had woken up even earlier and had a custom breakfast ready for us on the table including Mexican fry bread, eggs, and coffee. “Whoh! Thanks Brent.” He wasn’t even going fishing with us today. He had sacrificed his spot on the boat for the benefit of his guests. He had even found a good fishing boat for us and his wife Nancy had paid the required deposit.
As you may have guessed, the Mason’s are renowned for their generosity and hospitality. Lucky for us we were under their good graces at Casa de Mason.
Tamra chillin on the beach in front of Casa de Mason
We were staying at the Mason family house in Puerto Morelos Mexico and had been leisurely enjoying our Christmas vacation bouncing nonchalantly between the beach, Puerto Morelos itself, and their lovely beach house. On this day though we were ready for more. What might have been construed as a mild-case of ambition had us up early. We had plans.
The cab took us right to the ferry terminal, we bought our round-trip tickets and soon we were speeding across the choppy waters at close to forty knots on a very impressive ferry boat. We arrived shortly after 8 A.M.
“Roger?”
“Si, I’m Roger.” Roger was a short stocky Mexican man with leathery brown skin and weathered lines on his face. He immediately struck me as someone who had spent his whole life on the water. Good. We were to meet him at the dock and we were pleased to see that the Lilly M was indeed a legit fishing boat. It was about thirty five feet long with a covered cab and nice lines above and below water. There was everything on board needed for big game sport fishing and not much else. Two twenty foot outriggers were lashed tightly to the starboard and port rails and four heavy duty rods were neatly tucked into their holders in the center of the aft deck. Just then another man approached and took the conversation from Roger. Roger's English was barely discernible and he was more than happy to bow-out and go about his boat captain duties.
“Hi guys, I’m Jeff.” He was an American and judging from the ensuing exchange we quickly deduced that if he wasn’t the owner of the boat himself, he had to be some kind of manager. It was clear that there were other boats in his charge too, in fact he left with a different boat shortly after talking with us. “I’m going to level with you. It’s smoking rough out there today. It’s been blowing for days now and it’s not supposed to let up until Tuesday.” He went on to outline our options: “If you don’t want to go out in the rough stuff, I totally understand and you could cancel altogether or you could reschedule for another day. Also, if you want to, you could fish in-shore where it's more protected for smaller game fish namely barracuda. Whatever you guys want to do is fine with me.”
Smoking rough. I know a little about judging rough water and it can be somewhat subjective but smoking rough? I know that one person’s rough water is another’s walk-in-the-park but what was this smoking rough?
“What do you mean rough?” asked Mike. “Are we talking chop, swell, breakers?”
“.....Yeah all of that. It’s probably 4 to 6 foot seas...or more.”
“Four to six? That’s what he calls smoking rough?” I thought. We talked about it among the six of us and weighed our options. Among our crew was myself and Corey, Mike Parker and his son Ben, Brian Gornick and Naomi Decharmes. The only female on board Naomi had distinguished herself early-on by wearing an old trucker’s ball cap that read “Shut up and Fish” in bold letters so we knew what her vote would be.
I threw out another option. “We could bag the fishing, rent some carts and fart around the island.”
Isla Mujeres is a small island located about 8 miles off of the Yucatan coast. It is 4 miles long and just under a half of a mile wide. The streets are chock full of gift shops, restaurants, snorkel shops and the like. Interesting Mexican architecture and rich colors bring the island to life along with the crowded streets of people. Golf carts and mopeds are the chief modes of transportation here and although we agreed that it would be fun to scoot around the island, in the end, for better-or-worse we decided to tempt fate.
“Okay, we want to go out Jeff.” Roger and his deckhand Juan exchanged dubious expressions before ushering us aboard. No one knew what the expressions meant, but we all caught it, and no one asked.
“Okay let’s go.” Roger motioned us onto the Lilly M. The boat was fully outfitted in anticipation of our group and and soon enough we were making our way passed all the docks and the beautiful white sandy beaches around the corner and into the deeper, unprotected waters of the Caribbean.
My big concern for for the boys. I didn’t want the two boys (fourteen and eleven) to have a bad experience. After explaining the options to them including details about the possibility of enduring a certain level of misery they still wanted to go. We told Roger that we wanted to fish out deep but if it got too rough we wanted to come in closer to try our hand at catching barracuda. We all were willing to endure at least some misery in the rougher waters for in our hearts we are all fishermen and today we would position ourselves for one of the great gamefish of the world. Today we would hunt the great sailfish.
As was to be expected the seas worsened steadily as we got further out. It became difficult to remain seated so I positioned my feet as wide as possible as the boat pitched and rolled over the giant waves. I kept looking for the 4 to 6 foot seas Jeff mentioned and they were not to be found. As a fairly seasoned commercial fisherman of over 34 years and in the spirit of throwing out a conservative number I put us at steady 10 to 12 foot waves with a few 14 and 15's thrown in for good measure. Yes sir. I was seated back-to-back with Corey. “You okay Bub?” This would be Corey’s first trial in the big stuff and I wanted to assure that he was okay. I knew that we could pull the plug whenever we wanted to. A hasty retreat into calmer waters and little barracuda fishing wouldn’t be a bad day at all.
“I’m fine dad. Stop asking me that.” Okay.
Juan with his back to us skirted around the stern section of the boat gracefully as if it were second nature. He was rigging up. His shirt read No Pain No Gain and as the giant waves rolled us up and over we watched him lower the down the outriggers to the side, baited a series of hooks with 10 inch silvery, stinky bait fish and got us fishing proper. As much as we might have wanted to be more of the process we were all too busy holding on and keeping our balance to be of any help to Juan who seemed to be in his element and probably wouldn't accept help anyhow.
When the Lilly M crested the waves the fading line of buildings on Isla Mujeres were visible in the far distance but when she slid back down into the deep troughs we were surrounded by big blue walls of rolling water.
“Dad I’m going to Puke.” I grabbed his arm and helped him to the gunwale where he did indeed puke his guts out. I held on to him hard so he wouldn't be pitched overboard. There would be more barfers today but Corey earned the distinction of being first. And then as soon as it started it was over and Corey looked up at me with a few chunks on his chin.”I feel better now.”
Just then Juan became animated because one of the poles was bending and twitching. “Who is fishing? Rapido, rapido!”
“Come on Corey. Are you up for it?” I asked. Corey had pulled paper/scissor/rocks with Ben for first fish. Corey had won and he was smart to jump on his opportunity. “Yeah I want to do it.” I helped him to the back of the boat and Juan snapped on the fighting belt. Corey came alive and worked the rod like a pro. I took video of it and after watching it you would never guess that only moments before it was filmed he was doubled over losing his breakfast. Corey fought hard and handily won his battle with the first fish of the day: It was a five foot sail fish!
In the end we did bail out and retreat to calmer waters but not before Brian landed a 7 footer and Ben brought in a beautiful Mahi Mahi And also, not before most of our crew wretched their guts overboard too. To their credit both of the boys barfed but neither complained, sulked, or whined and both rose to the occasion to land nice fish! We all suffered a bit as discussed but we persevered. Just like Juan’s shirt: No pain no gain.
Barracuda fishing was nothing less than hot as well. We all caught nice ones and the boys each caught a second. In truth we could have stayed a bit longer to catch more but as a crew we all agreed: we were done.
Hungry Pelicans waiting for scraps
Corey and Ben posing with some of the catch.
We released both sail fish, ate the Dorado
and donated the barracuda to the locals
Corey, Brian, and Naomi
Naomi with her signature hat and smile.
Corey on the colorful streets of Isla Mujere
The Mahi Mahi or Dorado, as it is commonly called, is a delicious fish and made for wonderful ceviche the next day at Case de Mason.
As I sat there trying to absorb it all, I came to a realization. I was really enjoying this! It was Sunday and alongside the massive fanfare, build-up, and hoopla expected of such events I found myself fully engaged in what might be considered the greatest spectacle of the American cultural experience. That’s right we were at a professional football game. Go Seahawks!
I might be considered a strange lass in the fact that, although I played sports including a little football in my high school days I never got into following any college or pro sports after that in any way. Playing sports is fun. Watching sports on T.V.…meh.
We don’t have cable, dish, or direct T.V. at home and haven’t for years but even when we did I never found sports interesting enough to follow. I always ended up flipping to some cooking show or the history channel much to the chagrin of my family. I’m kind of an anti-T.V. guy now. I find it to be an incredible time-suck. Without crawling too high on my box of soap I feel that life is too short to be spent on a couch absorbing and observing other people’s creativity and work in lieu of making my own. I am reminded of Pink Floyd’s timeless lyric “52 channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from…to choose from….to choose from.” I know....strange lass.
Although for me T.V. is out, one would have to be dead or in a coma to not be aware of the degree to which pro sports has embedded itself into the very fibers of the collective American psyche. Sometimes I am amazed at how pro football, in-particular dominates the news feeds all year long, even in the off season. You can’t escape it. Many of the my friends and family are devout football fans and some are even fantasy football gurus as well. As an observer from the outside of this“football mania” I realize that I can’t identify with it much but I can appreciate it for what it is. Football makes a lot of people happy. Football is entertainment.
69,000 people packed Century Link field on this fine Sunday afternoon including my kids Corey, Hazelee and my wife Tamra. My lovely and kind hearted wife was the chief facilitator of this whole vacation including the Seahawks tickets. Although only five rows of seats were higher than us we couldn’t have be happier or more engaged. I was surprised how well we could see the game from so high up.
My lovely wife
As it turned out the Seahawks handily dispatched the Cleveland Browns much to the dismay of the the few and proud dog pound members (Brown’s fans) in attendance. One of them was seated next to Corey and was wearing a full Brown’s superhero suit including a cape. Each time they scored a touchdown (once) he would throw fake 1 dollar bills into the air with his right hand and hold up real twenties with his left. I think he left with a lot of money in his pockets.
Truth-be-told it was an amazing spectacle to behold: the deafening roar of the crowd (12th man), the multiple jumbo-tron screens, the amazingly talented blue thunder band, the beautiful cheerleaders in their little Santa outfits, the incredible food and beer…and yes the talented professional athletes putting it all on the line made for a memory not soon forgotten. Great entertainment. Nothing on T.V. could possibly be this good.
On the train going to the game
Century Link
Pre-game hair coloring
Monday, December 14, 2015
Weird Wild Kahiltna
“Woah.” We had stopped in front of the Kahiltna River. Not because we wanted to, but because things just weren’t right. The water flowing in front of us was unabashed and undeterred. Instead of a nice hard-packed trail leading across to the other bank, the river was wide open. Apparently it never got the memo about you-know...winter.
River crossing anyone?
Just then I noticed a man snowshoeing along the far bank. “Hey look that must be Ed on the other side.” He waved to us and then motioned down river several times. I quickly figured out that there must be a safe crossing down river. Ed had to have gotten over there somehow.
We followed his trail downriver a mile or so until we found his crossing spot. Sure enough it was the only safe spot to cross for miles around and he had it marked with survey tape and he had made faint snow machine tracks on the ice to follow. After we crossed the river we continued to follow the barely-discernible tracks along the edge of the river. The frozen edges of the river were our only path up river along the bank. The tracks weaved around and dangerously close to open leads. The Kahiltna is a roaring, glacial fed river and is not one to be trifled with.
“Hi Ed.” Ed was snowshoeing back to his snow machine when we caught up with him. I knew exactly what he was up to. He was meticulously testing his route by way of snowshoe and careful observance.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Steve Harrison.” There was a pause.
“Steve, what the heck are you doing out here?” I was glad that he remembered me. I didn’t want to come across as a couple of yay-hoo’s lost in the woods. Dad and I were simply trying to get to the cabin.
This marks the 7th year that we have been passing this way. For years and years we always ran our snow machines to the cabin from Deshka Landing in Willow. I discovered the run from Amber Lake (accessible from Oilwell road in Petersville) is much shorter and offers several distinct advantages. For one it's warmer and we don't have to run 50 miles of river constantly negotiating overflow and open leads. This new way leads us to the Kahiltna crossing near Ed Ellis’s mining camp.
Ed has six kids. I have taught all of them in P.E class at Susitna Valley High. Small world.
“We’re headed to the cabin.” I told him. We made small talk and eventually picked our way up river with him to the normal crossing area. We said our goodbyes and began breaking trail to the cabin; another fifteen miles yet.
As is par-for-the-course, we had a brilliant time at the cabin. We packed down our normal trails and cooked some pretty fabulous cuisine. In the video dad is tending to the bacon and beans on the woodstove while the curry chicken is sizzling on the stove. The diced peppers, onions, and carrots are waiting their turn on the counter. This is how we roll. Life is too short for Mountainhouse and granola bars.
Imagine our surprise on Sunday when we returned to the Kahilna to find that the water had risen considerably. No longer was is safe to scuttle down the side of the river on Ed’s forsaken trail. It had washed out. After carefully checking out all options we decided to back-track, cut through the woods and hopefully pop over the bank near Ed’s crossing.
In the end it was the right decision because we were able to make it through the thick woods and over the bank. It took plenty of time and effort to do so and I had to use my winch and chainsaw to coerce forward progress at times but at no time were we frustrated or disgruntled. As it turned out it was an exercise in problem solving and decision making and these are the things that make life interesting and rewarding. It took us six and a half hours to get home this time but we were okay with it. Sometimes you get to drive straight to the cabin and back without incident, other times it doesn’t quite work out that way.
After safely crossing we checked in with Ed to make sure that he was safe. He told us that he was worried about us too because he knew of the deteriorating condition of the river.
It was good to connect with him and I found out during the course of our conversation that he has discovered opals in the Kahiltna! They are called jelly opals and they are the first opals found in Alaska! Ed and his wife Anne run the Diamond Gold Corporation and spend their time mining gems in the Kahiltna and the Yenlo hills. I’m looking forward to checking out their gem store the next time I pass through. Anne handed me a brochure with a website link detailing their efforts. Check it out at www.diamondgoldcorporation.com
