Hitting Stride

"The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off" -Abe Lemons

Steve and Rachel Harrison

     Steve and Rachel Harrison, my beloved folks of 68 and 70 respectively, are hard-at-it as usual.  Never okay with just sitting-around twiddling thumbs, they have turned into, as Dad likes to quip, “farts on a skillet.”

    Since retiring from the U.S Fish and Wildlife in 2001 with 30 years of government service, dad joined my mom who also was retiring from her own career with the Anchorage School District having taught elementary school in Eagle River for 25 years.  

    Upon retirement they relocated North from their Eagle River roots and settled into a nice spot on the bluffs of the Susitna River in Willow, Alaska.  Having fished commercially at the mouth of the Susitna and sport fished in its tributaries for years, it was a natural fit.

    Hitting-the-ground running never seemed so natural for these two retirees who during their working careers kept busy raising three children who were involved in multiple sports and dance all-the-while running a family oriented commercial fishing business in the summer-on their leave time.  

   Since their "retirement" they have become the busiest people I know.  Retirement for them hasn't been a time to slow down; it has been a catalyst for switching gears.

   What is amazing to me is that they seemed to have been able to find the perfect balance between family, recreation, and chores.  I look to them as models of the ideal retirement; if not an exact formula, here are their patterns:

   First and foremost, priority is always given to every possible grandchild's sporting event, recital, or babysitting opportunity.  They have seven grandkids, and this alone keeps them on their toes. Since two-thirds of the the immediate family still reside in Eagle River, they are constantly driving the 80 miles to watch hockey, basketball, and volleyball games and don't forget about birthdays.  They are not bothered by the drive and will make the trip at the drop of a hat.  Along with the grandkids, they have also taken to supporting their aging son’s running endeavors.

    Next, they have cleverly set themselves up with plenty of things to do, mainly in the form of cabins to maintain and improve upon. Besides their home base in Willow, they also have three other cabins strategically built in scenic wilderness locations scattered around Southcentral Alaska.  They are all incredible places in their own right, but the surrounding wilderness is the overwhelming appeal to each of them. Dad played a major role in the construction of all of these places including their house in Willow and has taken it upon himself to become the superintendent-of-projects at them all.  Every homeowner is familiar with the inherent burden of ownership.  Dad has four burdens but he doesn't see it that way.  He enjoys it.  He always has projects to do but he is good at balancing project time with fishing time. Amen.

    Mom is the chief decorator, resident artist, and artifact collector at all of their places.  She has brought her artsy style to life in them all.  She has a keen eye for regional touches and likes to collect local artifacts and nick knacks to display on shelves and window sills.  Her mosaic tile work can also be found in each of their places.  In addition, she is not afraid to voice her opinion about additions, improvements, or any other worth-while suggestions.

Mom's touch

   Their cabins are not accessible by any road; only boats or snow machines can get you there which, in-turn has provided ample maintenance opportunities for their three fully operational boats and two snow machines....you know, so they don’t get bored.  It is not uncommon for Steve and Rach to return from one cabin only to start packing for a trip to another.

    Each fall, hunting takes priority and it’s no wonder that their freezer is always full.  Dad has been a committed subsistence hunter and fisherman ever since they moved to Alaska in 1969. He has shared his passion with his two sons who pursue big game and fish each and every year.  Generally we all work together as a hunting team, processing and sharing meat.  As it turns out my folks have learned a thing or two over the years and are masters of fish and game processing. They are generous with their windfall and look forward to sharing with friends and family alike.

My mother is a case all her own and if social health were measurable, she would be pinning the needle, topping-out on  "full."  Somehow meshed with all the cabin trips, family stuff, and everything else, she manages to keep a social calendar rivaling that of Michele Obama.  Mosaic Wednesdays are a must, as-is yoga Mondays.  Don’t forget about Bunco and book club.  Did I mention the garden club? Also, it seems that her years of teaching haven't escaped her; she volunteers each year at the elementary school during art- week and she eagerly helps set up bulletin boards in my wife's classroom.

Fishing with Grandma and Grandpa

    Both Steve and Rach have been actively supporting the efforts to protect the Susitna River.  They have an extensive history of recreation, subsistence , and commercial activity on the river and have been interviewed, quoted, and consulted about their opinions on the proposed development of the Susitna-Watana Dam.  The dam, which could be quite possibly the worst idea to ever come out of Juneau, would dramatically change the river that takes them to two of their cabins and would destroy the salmon that thrive there.  Not ones to sit quiet while their wilderness livelihood is being threatened, they are doing what they can.  It is their hope that their volunteer and advocacy efforts will pay-off allowing their grandkids' grandkids to experience the same Alaska that they have become enamored with.

     Their love of Alaska is undeniable but they do manage to get out of state once or twice a year to visit friends and to otherwise scratch their travel itch.  In recent years they have enjoyed traveling with several of their former Alaskan neighbors that they have kept close contact with, and they have also reconnected with some old friends from their youth in Washington State.

 They have been known to travel with family too.  Imagine our excitement when in the summer of 2012 they surprised the whole family with Mexican Riviera cruise tickets to help them celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary.

  Several times a year the stars align and all of their children and grandchildren converge upon one location at a cabin or holiday gathering.   These are Steve and Rach's favorite times and it’s during these gatherings that it is easy to see that they are playing their cards perfectly.

The whole fam damly.

Dad carving up a beauty.

Mom taking full advantage of Pete's muscles and hip-waders.

Dad, Pete, and I doing our thing at fish camp.

Top of the world baby, top of the world.

     Epic Moves

               “The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Tri-Wizard tournament since its inception.  On Christmas Eve night we and our guests gather in the great hall for well mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot  forward, and I mean this literally because the Yule Ball is first and foremost... a dance.” -Professor McGonagall

    You haven’t lived until you have chaperoned a junior high dance.  Period.  Well mannered frivolity, no matter how well intentioned, still needs oversight when teenagers are involved and so I accepted the position along with two of my colleagues Lisa and Katie.

    “Wow, you’re stepping outside your comfort box,” said Bryan, another teacher at the school.  I knew it to be true.  I figured that with my son in the 7th grade I should step up to the plate.  It was time.

    As we entered the school the electric pulse of synthesized drums pounded through the dividers that were trying their best to contain the energy of the teens' enthusiasm.  

You know it’s all about that bass

about that bass no treble...

all about that bass about that bass no treble.

it's all about that bass about that bass no treble
It's all about that bass, bass, bass, bass.

    I arrived with my son Corey and three of his buddies who had been pre-funking at the house with juice and bananas.  I helped them with their ties.  We arrived fashionably late by five minutes.  The boys had to wait for a few minutes to pay because the 8th grade girl taking money was busy counting the proceeds and couldn't be bothered to take anymore cash until she had properly accounted for what she had so far.  As a teacher at the school I walked right in to commence my chaperoning duties.   Together with Lisa and Katie we would prove to be a solid team of supervising adults, but where were they?  It was super dark.  I found them holding their ground against the stage. 

 “Where should I put the food?” I shouted.  Katie pointed to the round table in the corner.  I had brought some snacks to add to the assortment of others on the table.  I got there in time to see one of the boys put a handful of mixed pretzels back into the container. “Eu yuck!” he said with a face of disgust.  The thought crossed my mind that I could have used that as a teachable moment on manners. Maybe I should explain that once you grab a handful of food in your grubby little paws,  you probably shouldn't put it back in the mix. He quickly disappeared into the darkness before I had time to formulate my words, besides, it was so loud he probably wouldn’t have heard me.  Mellow out Harrison.

     Out on the dance floor was an irregularly moving blob of human activity that could loosely be classified as dancing.  On one side was a small herd of boys jumping straight up and down as high as they could with their arms pinned to their sides.  A group of four girls were hoola-hooping in the dark oblivious to the fact that the reason why they couldn’t keep it going was that the hoop was hitting stuff; the stage, other girls etc.  One girl was twirling the thing around her neck.

     Periodically groups of girls and boys (not mixed) would join hands ring-around-the-rosy style and start circling.  A couple of energetic girls decided to take it to the next level grasping hands, whirling around as fast as they could.  They would lean back with a full arch until the inevitable epic fail.  Natural consequence?  I think so.

   Just then one of the boys busted out a decent rendition of the worm, making his way through the middle of the crowd a distance of thirty some feet.  Nice.  I couldn’t help thinking that it must have hurt his bones worming like that on the concrete floor;  He only did it once.  Another boy hoping to follow his lead decided to crabwalk instead.  Quickly realizing that the crab-walk didn’t have the same effect on the crowd as the worm he stood back up and re-joined one of the ring-around-the-rosy circles.

I’m so fancy,

you already know

I’m in the fast lane,

from L.A. to Tokyo.....

       By and large the girls danced non-stop.  Sometimes with the boys but mostly in big groups of other girls where the group selfies could be maximized.  The main selfy face for the night was the always-glamorous pursed pouty lip face.  The flash of the phone’s camera had a strobe effect and I could see all the faces packed tightly together, lips pursed.

   I only had to curb behavior three times.  Someone brought a few of those green glow sticks and these ones came with a two foot lanyard which turned out to be perfect for swinging around. One young lad quickly progressed from a mellow twirl to full-on nunchucking right in the middle of the crowd.  The kids on the dance floor were moving further and further away from him as the neon martial arts demo was reaching crescendo.  The trick was getting in there to stop it.  I felt like I was stuck in a bad Bruce Lee flick trying to disarm the kid.  I would only have to put the kibosh on his nunchucking efforts once more before the end.  Not bad.

     On another occasion, the crab walker decided that it would be a good idea to start running really fast circles around the perimeter of the dancing masses like an Australian shepherd herding sheep.  Unfortunately his agility was much more like that of a St.Bernard.  After knocking over his third victim I decided to step in.

    I wasn’t the only chaperon earning keep on this night.  Lisa and Katie both were on-the-spot putting out small fires here and there as well.  Lisa was like a shot out of a cannon to the dance floor when an exuberant high school girl decided to poach the junior high dance running into the crowd with some sweet moves of her own hoping to show some kids how it’s done.

   All said and done,the dance proved to be an overwhelming success.  “It was really fun.” said Corey in the truck as we left the parking lot.  They all agreed as they compared notes on the way to the after party at our house. 
 Although I knew the answer I had to ask. “Did you guys dance with any girls?”  I got three yeses and a no. My son was the lone hold out. 
 “You guys just don’t know how to say no,” he told them.

Los cuatro amigos

Pursuing the Sub-Nine Kasugi

Pursuing the Sub-Nine Kasugi

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -Albert Einstein

    The Einstein quote has always resonated with me. I saw it first in the folds of a coaching clipboard belonging to one Bruce Gunderson.  I coach High School Track and Field with Bruce.  He is a sage beyond his years and is never too far away from his coveted yellow clipboard.  It is filled with an eclectic mix of notes, sketches, and other fabled coaching lore. I think there's even some hieroglyphics and moon runes in there. I digress.
 Way in the back, on the last page is where the quote can be found and for me, it’s a reminder that if you aren't satisfied with your current results then something has to change. There are no shortcuts or quick-fixes in this life;  Buck-up cowboy.  

    Finishing last year’s Kasugi Ridge Traverse for me was a gratifying personal accomplishment.  It represented the longest run of my life.  It was thirty miles and with an elevation gain of over five thousand vertical feet it is nothing to snub noses at.   Essentially traversing the spine of Denali State Park, the trek was a chance for me to link together three shorter hikes that I had done previously, multiple times each.  

     That year I wanted to quit at the halfway point at the top of Ermine Hill.  My entire lower body felt like it was about to cramp with one misstep or ill-word. But for reasons rooted in stubbornness and maybe even stupidity I pushed onward, over the hill beginning the second half of the course.  Why not? I only had fifteen miles to go. Trudging-on with the baggage of accumulating lower body pains, I managed to finish the damn thing in nine hours and thirty minutes; Dead last. I have to admit that my mommy actually helped me remove my running shoes and gaiters at the truck because I was so stiff I could not bend over. Thanks mom. My dad drove me home and provided special recuperative goodies such as cinnamon rolls and even a few fat tire amber beers! Despite my enjoyable recovery post-race, I missed the nine hour cut-off so I didn't get an official time for the race.

Near the Ermine hill cutoff

 

    Although I was thrilled to have finished such a long and arduous trek, it didn’t take me long to decide that I would have to do it again.  I decided that I wanted that coveted official time but Einstein was right, I had to do something different.  Cue-in the Rocky music.

    The summer prior to my first Kasugi race I had been focused on climbing Denali and it was on a whim when I decided to enter the race three weeks beforehand. Although it would certainly qualify as an off the couch entry, I didn't care; I was excited. I wanted to check out Kasugi’s ridge in its entirety.  I filled in the blanks in the on-line registry and after a long pause and with at least some reluctance I pushed the send button sealing my fate.  

    I have enjoyed distance running my whole adult life but my patterns have been sporadic at best.  I’d pick up the mileage for a few months at-a-time and then something would come up and then I'd think to myself: should I go running?.....meh.  Summer always presents a cornucopia of recreational options and along with my set net obsession, hunting addiction, and family camping it seems that running would always take second-fiddle.  This year will be different-I told myself.  Make time-I thought.

     I reasoned that staying in good running shape must be easier than having to gain it back time and time again.  

     As a Physical Education teacher, Track and Field coach, and cross country runner I have always believed that the hardest part of running is taking those first few steps out the front door.  Even if it is raining, snowing, or 20 below, once outside,  the run itself is always rejuvenating, invigorating, and even refreshing. Sometimes running doesn't come easy.  Sometimes the struggle to keep going is overwhelming but it always feels great to complete a run and not once after a run have I ever regretted doing so.

      I decided to keep track of my running efforts over the course of the year in the form of a running-log.  I set up a spreadsheet to keep a running-total of my mileage.  Along with the miles, I also noted pace (when possible), time of the run, and other information such as location of the run and even how I felt.  I included a column for other exercise (weight training etc.) and nutrition.  I thought that it might provide insight and possibly inspiration to review my training efforts as the year progressed.  It was fun to watch the numbers add up over the weeks and months that followed.  I found myself looking forward to logging-in to add my latest numbers.

    By late October I had reached 200 miles of running and to get me through my usually lazy Christmas break, I signed up for the Willow Winter half-marathon.  This race was on Dec. 12th and it gave me a goal to train for.   Although it was only a half marathon, the snow was super soft and as-it-turned-out, it was a pretty tough slog.  I finished in 3:23 locking down fourth place out of 23 which turned out to be my highest race-finish to date.  Boo-yah!

At the finish of the Willow Winter half

      In February I was able to compete in a race in San Diego.  The Mission Gorge 15 K was a beautiful mountain run and I finished in the top half of my age group.  By the 1st of March I was at 400 miles of training and I decided to commit to the Mayor’s Marathon in Anchorage on the Solstice in June.  I kept up my miles through our commercial fishing season the best I could and by the start of this year’s Kasugi Ridge Race I had accumulated 722 miles of running. Hah! Off the couch my ass.

       -------------------------------------------------

    “Hi Katie!”  I was surprised to see her there.  She had hiked up the Ermine Creek trail and was tucked into the bouldered scree on the mountain-side.  Katie and her husband Tom are good friends of mine and fellow teachers at Susitna Valley School. She was cheerfully greeting each of the racers as they passed.  She took some photos of me as I stopped and gave me a good slug of water.  She was taking full advantage of the glorious weather to pick blueberries between glances of the jagged and glorious vistas of the Alaska Range.

Thanks for the water and photography Katie.

    Two miles later I arrived at the Ermine hill cut-off and I was 25 minutes ahead of last year time.  I was ecstatic.  Carrie Sayer handed me a cookie.  I didn't stop until further up the next rise.  A group of super-cool hippy runner-types had set up an impromptu aid station.  They offered-up power bars, goos, gels, and even a couple of almond joy candy bars.   Cheering commenced when I grabbed an Almond Joy off the pile.  Apparently there had been bets on whether anyone would take it.  I ran over the hill slightly refreshed clutching a fistful of gummy-chews, Carrie’s homemade cookie,  and a full sized Almond-Joy.

Near the fabled rock pillars

    I ran between the rock pillars of the Ermine hill pass en-route to the skids of the steep back side. Over the course of the next ten minutes I would lose 900 vertical feet of elevation.  Not soon after in the marshy lowlands, I slowed considerably.  I had hit the wall.  I bonked.

      The uphills I had to hike but even on level ground I was struggling to maintain the slowest of jogs; I’m a long way from the finish I thought. Shit.

    I knew I was ahead of several other runners at this point but I realized that at my current pace they would soon catch me.  Fearing another nine-plus hour finish, I tried to focus my efforts on the only thing I felt I had control over;  my eating.

    I began to slurp down goo after god-awful goo hoping to regain some energy.  Along with these super sweet, syrupy goos you can also buy little gummy chews that come in a pack of fifteen or so.  I kept one going in my mouth for the remainder of the race.  Slowly but surely I crawled my way back out of Bonk-ville and by the time I reached the rounded summit of Golog ( 2970 ft.) I was able to begin running again.  In fact I ran the rest of the way, another ten miles or so stuffing my cheeks with ultra sweet goos and chews for energy.

   About four miles out I noticed that I was not only going to beat last year’s time I was going to crush it!  So with as much of a kick as I could muster I picked up the pace at the end and finished in 8 hours and 21 minutes.  I beat my time from last year by an hour and nine minutes securing my spot in the official results of the 2014 Kasugi Ridge Traverse.

Doing my best to fake a strong finish

Reconciling The Wolverine Trail

Reconciling The Wolverine Trail

    

This year I decided that I would name it the Wolverine Trail.  It is a trail that I know well.  Although I have traveled it many times since my first moose hunt when I was only thirteen years old, I hadn't really given it much consideration or thought. 

     Each time it was the same;  Push a cart to the back of the valley and then pack our rafts and all of our gear over the pass to the creek for a week long moose hunt. From the creek,  the rafts are inflated and from then-on, the work is different, still hard, but different.  Up until then though,  everything is strapped on your back.  Usually the pack over the pass takes three round trips each. It’s just over two miles to the creek.   The hope has always been that all the effort will pay off when a moose is down and the raft is put to work instead of our backs.

      This year I hunted alone.   So with no one to blame but myself I arose before dawn on the morning of the third day. I was sixteen miles off of the road in a non-motorized hunting area when suddenly and quite unexpectedly, my trip changed in dramatic fashion.

     The rain had pounded the tent all night which was consistent with all nights previous, and when finally there was a lull in the downpour, I pulled on my clothes and outer gear.  Who wants to start their day in the rain?  Just as I unzipped the tent the rain began again.  Great.  

       I didn’t know the exact time of day but it was very early and the beginnings of the day’s light had yet to light up the sky.   Having just emerged from my tent, I stood there for a moment to get my bearings. I saw the cook stove sitting there. Where’s my coffee?, I wondered.  Maybe I should put on my boots first, I thought. Oh look there’s a big bull moose standing there looking at me....huh?

     There, not forty feet away on a nearby rise was a rather large moose looking at me.  Okay.

    Holy shit, what is a moose doing way up here?  I was camped in the high alpine country.  Moose tend to hang-out in good browse areas thick with willow bushes and swampy lowlands.

     There wasn't any of that in the pass, just high tundra. In fact, the night before I watched a herd of forty caribou move over a nearby ridge.  It wasn't surprising to see caribou here, it’s their habitat, but not moose.  

    Maybe like myself, it was just passing through.  Maybe it heard me snap the wooden timbers of my cart for the fire the night before and wanted to check it out.  It was nearing the rut.  Bulls get very curious and aggressive during the rut.  Many hunters call them in-close with sounds of another challenging bull.  Sometimes knocking sounds such as chopping wood will bring them in.

     Maybe the moose was crossing the pass and had been hunkering down in the driving rain just as I was and when the rain subsided, he arose, started his day and happened upon my doorstep.

      I was no where near the creek where the weight of the moose could be offset at least somewhat by the flotation of the raft.  Two miles to the creek would represent the longest moose pack-out I've ever heard of.  Certainly the longest I've ever done.  The longest one for me was maybe a mile but the burden was shared among others.

    It was easy to stay calm because I was barely awake. I bypassed the coffee, cook stove, boots, and everything else making a nonchalant B-line to my rifle.  I pulled it out of it’s cover, chambered a cartridge and turned to face my new neighbor.

    During my fumblings he had retreated thirty feet but after I turned back towards him with something new in my hands his temperament changed.  

    He turned back, walking directly at me swaying his big rack back and forth.  Holy shit he’s challenging me to a dual!  In the confusion of his hormone fueled rut he was looking for a scrap with me. What a bully!  Maybe I should have taken it as a compliment that such a beast would consider me a worthy fight but since my antlers were many brow-tines shy of a decent match-up, I took the other road. I slid the safety from safe to fire and dropped him on the rise not fifty feet from the tent.

The creek in the valley yonder is where
the floating begins.

    Although this last paragraph would be a tidy ending to the story, for me it was just the beginning.  Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I knew that as the excitement of the moment passed that I was in-store for a real bitch of a pack out.  In some strange back-corner of my mind though I was okay with it.  Not only do I enjoy the challenge, but I also have learned to embrace the suffering that is inevitable with such things.  The rewards of gratification later-on far outweigh the self-doubt of passing it up.

With the moose on the ground I began the process of field dressing in the wee morning hours in the driving rain.  I finished mid-day and knew that I had to get my camp and all of the meat away from the kill-site.

     In my first load, I filled my backpack with an assortment of gear along with a 60 pound bag of back-strap and neck meat.  I put the game bag inside a garbage bag so it wouldn’t bloody my backpack and took off down the old Cat trail.  Also, I grabbed one of my oars to use as a walking pole.

    The pack was heavy and I had to find strategic sit-down spots occasionally to recover. These hand-picked rest spots had an elevated seat and allowed me to stand back up without too much effort.  

    At one such spot, halfway down the trail I looked up and was surprised to see a wolverine running down the trail towards me.  He had just crested a small hill in the trail and was thirty feet away from me when we both noticed each other.  He slammed on the brakes in dramatic fashion.  I immediately stood up and did the only thing I could think of; I raised my oar into the air to make myself appear bigger.  I had to do something after all I did had fresh bloody meat on my back, still warm and my rifle was sitting idol, back at camp. 

     Luckily, contrary to popular folklore the wolverine was just as scared as I was.  He paused to check me out, then turned on his furry heels running back over the hill from whence he came.  He left the trail, diving over the edge of the embankment.  He paused to stand on his hind legs to check me out again.  Maybe he smelled the fresh moose on me.  Maybe he was just curious.  When his head lowered below the bushes he was gone from me and after all was done I was grateful for the encounter.

    Over the course of the next two and a half days I would become re-acquainted intimately-so with my newly named Wolverine trail.  

Bags of meat waiting their turn for a piggy-back ride.

     Originally cut-in as a mining prospect in the late seventies, the dozer’s markings have since overgrown and inter-weaved with local game trails.  It is an elegant trail affording brilliant views of the high alpine tundra.  It represents a passageway between two distinct biomes; high alpine tundra and lush willow lowlands.  At it’s end it morphs into a tidy game trail as if it were planned.   

   I relocated my camp very near this end spot.  I wanted to get my camp away from the irresistible lure of the gut-pile and it turned out to be a good midway spot to shuttle loads of meat in and out of.

   With the last load of meat and antlers loaded onto my back I set out one last time down the Wolverine trail saying goodbye to each landmark as I passed it.

Wolverine trail near its namesake.

Tenderloin medallions, bacon, onions, jalapenos,
olive oil, garlic, and one succulent habanero pepper...
yeah!

   

Sadness of the last beer.

Happiness of one special bottle.

Repairing my hooves.

One for the Books

    

One for the Books

At first glance, I thought it was a rock.  The light tan lump blended perfectly into the rolling hills of the ridge.  Upon further inspection I noticed the pulsing white puffs of breath.  “Aha!” I thought.  Each breath was its own cloud hanging momentarily in the sun-kissed morning.   He was motionless and was taking-in the sun on the highest of the mountain’s ridges.   

    I was close.  I dropped my pack and jacked a shell into the chamber.  I tippy toed over the ridge, dipping down and out of sight.  From here I would be able to get behind a few rolling hills that would get me even closer.  

     The sun had painted the valley brilliantly that morning and It was so bright that at times I had to cover my eyes from the glare.   I had seen three other caribou before sunrise and all of them were high on the mountain.  After several miles of hiking and glassing down in the valley I decided that I too would go up high.   

     My notoriously restless nature in the field has paid dividends in the past. Those in my tight hunting circle know me as a hiker-hunter.  More than anyone I know, I am less likely to sit on a hillside behind a pair of binocs.  Tree stand? Forget about it.  If I don’t see something, I move.  If I do see something, I move-in for a closer look. Often times on these forays I’ll spot another animal on the way. Pete and I are never afraid to put boots on the ground in pursuit of an animal. In fact we talked about the concept of boots on the ground in camp on this very trip. "It's our whole campaign." said Pete.

Since we hunt seven miles back in a non motorized hunting area we have our work cut out for us. With the good graces of solid health and fitness we are both equal to the task and with the sobering realization that we won't be able to do this forever we both have made these hunts a priority; Carpe Diem!

    Gaining the mountain-top on this day was a generous vertical gain and it was glorious and it made me happy.  What a surprise to know that-on this day, the mountain was coveting a jewel up high in its crown. I wouldn’t have guessed that I would be putting the final-sneaks on a nice caribou at the top of a mountain.  

     “The sneaks” is a uniquely Harrison term that means stalking an animal.  Final-sneaks is the conclusive ending to the sneaks and represents the definitive moment in a hunt.  It’s the moment that decides the fate of the whole thing.  It’s the moment when the hunter, through stealth and cunning manages to close the gap and gain position for a shot.  Success means meat-for-the-freezer.  Fuck-it-up and it’s back to the drawing board along with a healthy dose of self-doubt served up with a side of self-loathing.  

      Meanwhile, as I was riding this peculiar fence of hunting fate,  my brother Pete, located several miles from me had been patiently glassing from a lower hillside. His modus operandi differs from my own at least a little.  For one, he is more patient. Earlier with my binoculars I could see him lying on the tundra studying the opposite side of the valley with his spotting scope.  All I could hope for was that he was having as brilliant of a time as I was. As it turns out he was.

     Slowly and as quietly as I could I inched my way closer to the bull caribou in the troughs of the rolling hills. Closer and closer-still I moved.  I had to have been within 50 yards now.  Painfully slow, I raised up for a look.  No caribou.  I stood up all the way.  Nothing.  I looked over the ridge.  Nada..... Shit.  

     I peered over the edge of the mountain expecting to see him scurrying away.  Again...nothing.  Where did he go?

   I hiked up the ridge further all the while questioning my sanity until suddenly I caught a glimpse of four different caribou.  They were moving down from a pass into the valley below.  They were on-the-move and my only hope for them was that they would show up in camp later in the day.  Eventually I came to terms with the fact that my summit bull was gone.

    BOOM! The shot rang out across the valley and I knew that it must have been Pete.  I picked my way down the ridge occasionally glassing for him.  Finally I spotted him several miles across the valley.  He had draped a couple of game bags over the bushes and they stood out in contrast to the rusty colored benches.  I passed through camp to pick up a couple of beers to share as I made my way over to him.  I was excited to see him and to see what had transpired. I picked my way across the tundra benches. As I approached him it was his smile that I saw first before the rack or animal itself. As it turned out this would be one for the books.

Pete Harrison

Luckily after screwing-up the final sneaks yet again the very next day on a different caribou, I too was eventually smiled upon by the hunting gods with a non-screw up.