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.
"There is a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore like an idiot." Steven Wright
I was well into my second hour of fishing. I had successfully managed to free myself from several nasty entanglements involving intricately wrapped fly-line, hook, and weight. I was feeling like Steven Wright’s idiot but I was kinda proud of myself. I recognized that there was a time in my life when I would have cut the line and retreated to the bank. I might have even snapped the damn rod over my knee and threw it into the bushes in a fit of frustration. "Fly fishing's dumb." I would have said.
On this day though I was able to patiently unwrap the mess time and time again. Maybe it was no mistake that I haven’t taken-up fly fishing until now. I must be gaining patience. I must be a big boy now.
The plan for the day was simple: hike, fish, raft.
Tom was upstream and had a couple of brief hook-ups that ended quickly. “My goal for the day is to catch one fish.” Tom’s humble quest was declared early-on and it was looking like it was going to happen for him.
I was taking my instruction from Tom today and rightfully so. Although he used to be a self-admitted fly-fishing snob, he has expanded his repertoire to include everything under the sun. He has even joined me on the mudflats to wrangle salmon from our set nets, a far-cry from the purist ideals of the fly fisherman. He has a self-proclaimed Northern Pike-obsession too and is never too far away from his tattered floating mouse lure. He is quick to point out of all of the Pike tooth cuts along in its side.
Today he was getting back to his roots. There is no doubt that he knows his stuff and I consider myself lucky that he is happy to share his expertise with me.
The early afternoon sun made quick work of the last of the clouds bathing us in its glorious warmth. Katie was taking advantage of it enjoying herself on the bank, taking photos and relaxing. I was working on my ninth fly line tangle-mess but the sun felt good and I was managing to enjoy myself too.
I got the line under control and began casting again. My casting, a far cry from the romantic ones depicted in “A River Run’s Through it” was perfunctory at best but I knew that would change. I knew that if I got one strike, one bump, one hook-up then I could be bothered to cast with more feeling, more patience. Only then could I begin to become more of the process and start to pay attention. Only then could I begin to fish. I had to know that my technique, my presentation was even within the ballpark. “There’s one.”
I was retrieving the fly when he took it. I had a good two meters of line stripped, floating in front of me. I tensioned the line with my fingers as he bolted but the pull was too strong and somehow the line on the reel back spooled, came off and sprung like a slinky right out of the box. Shit.
I was able to hold the line with my hand and provide at-least some of the give-and-take required in the delicate battle of the trout. Luckily he was hooked well and with my fly-fishing mentor by my side helping to manage the rat nest of line and with Katie on-the-spot with the camera I managed to land him.
“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”
Helen Keller
It didn’t take long to figure out my mistake.
We had pushed the cart all the way to Grayling Creek and it was getting dark. It was time to stop and set up camp. “Hey Pete, I’ve got some bad news.” I had pulled the tent out of my pack and as it slid out of the top I couldn’t help but notice the flimsy-ness of the thing. My heart sunk a bit as I realized my own folly. I had forgotten the tent poles.
On the list of bad things to forget on a week long moose hunt, tent poles ranks pretty close to the top. I figured it wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for the trip but I knew that our comfort-level just got bumped down a notch or two.
The somber tone of the moment was quickly offset by my brother’s up- beat nature and glass-is-half-full outlook. “Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”
We decided to rig up whatever we could to make it through the night and then once we caught up with my Dad and Steve Davis we would have more time to mess around with it. As it turned out, the design we came up that night was a good one and would take us through the entire week-long moose hunt. I broke down one of the raft oars and we strategically wedged the two 3 1/2 foot poles into the middle of the tent. Once the poles were in place we staked and guyed-out the tent as tight as we could. Sleeping quarters were cramped but it proved to be a passable option.
pole less tent.
I figured that as long as it didn’t dump a bunch of snow or get too windy we would probably be alright. I kicked myself mentally for the dumb mistake I’d made.
The next day we packed-up and forged ahead. We pushed the cart about three miles without stopping. As we crested a small hill something caught my eye. “I think there’s some swans over there.” Sure enough, there were two big tundra swans up ahead of us tooling-around on a small shallow pond. I learned recently that swans mate for life and if one partner dies the other will not mate for years if ever. The bonds of love were strong with these two and it was touching to watch their varied displays of affection. They were happy snuggling and neck rubbing and seemed generally unimpressed with us as we pushed the cart right by them passing within sixty feet.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turned in time to see a cow caribou jump into the air like something out of a cartoon. It was like she had just been jabbed by a cattle prod. She was with her calf and as soon as she landed they sprinted up the valley past us. I soon found out why. Hot on their heels was a lone coyote. Eventually the coyote gave up the chase and looked over at us as if to say “WTF?”. Hequickly fled. Meanwhile, the caribou, bounding through the bushes scared up a small flock of ptarmigan.
Pete, asserting himself at the top of the food-chain quickly loaded his .22 pistol and took-off into the bushes. He returned shorty after with two of them. Their half white, half brown plumage was beautiful. They would be a nice addition to the curry dinner I had planned. Thanks Wiley.
Making ptarmagin curry.
I snapped the bungee cord to the harness and Pete assumed his position in the back of the cart and we were on our way.
We caught up with the old guys the next day. They had set up camp in the pass and were hunkered under their tarp-shelter eating lunch. They had left a couple of days ahead of us and the plan was to meet them in the pass. It was snowing big cornflakes of wet snow. The wind was whipping through the pass plastering everything with wet sloppy snow.
Pushing the cart up the pass.
We greeted them in all the usual ways and quickly found out that they hadn’t been sitting idol waiting for us to arrive. They had already made two packs into the next valley and weren’t expecting us quite so soon. They are both 69 years old.
My Dad Steve Sr. and his long-time buddy Steve Davis met in college back in the sixties at Central Washington University. They became fast friends and spent a lot of time fishing on the Yakima River in Ellensburg Washington.
They joined the Air Force and somehow they both managed to get transferred to Elmendorf Air force base in Anchorage. This was the beginning of many fishing and hunting adventures.
They are the sole pioneers of this moose hunt.
Steve Davis
It started for them back in the early 80’s and for many consecutive years, the hunt was a steady supply of meat for both families. Each year the particularly grueling nature of the hunt was soon forgotten in the weeks and months that followed . Soon enough, planning would begin for the next year’s hunt.
When we were old enough, my brother and I were finally allowed to go too and it was by-far the hardest thing either of us had ever done. On those early hunts we learned a lot.
My first
We learned how to hunt, kill, and field dress moose. We learned how to dress-for and deal with the fowl weather. We learned how to pitch a tent, set-up and break-down camp. We learned how to lash meat to our pack boards and how to puff-up and paddle a heavy raft. More importantly than all of that though, we learned how to suffer.
Steve sr. rockin the red suspenders and a nice
4x2.
Looking back at those early hunts for me when I was 13 and 14 years old, I can really appreciate that my Dad and Steve Davis took the time and had the patience and understanding to take us under their wing and allow us to be a part of something special. I can’t imagine that it would be easy or particularly fun to deal with snotty-nosed whiny teenagers on such a tough endeavor. (I guess I’ll find out first-hand next year when I take my own son.) Part of this reunion hunt was an opportunity for Pete and I to say thanks. I think we both realize that the Jedi-training learned on those early trips has made us who we are today.
Pete's first
The next day we packed the rest of our things over the pass and into the valley below. We had to set up camp in the driving rain and settled into our shelter for a nice meal just as the rain turned back into wet snow.
As a general rule, we have all come to despise freeze-dried meals. Freeze-dried meals such as Mountain House brand are light weight, neatly packaged, easy and quick to make. The problem is that they taste a lot like soggy microwaved sawdust. I’ll have to admit, freeze-dried food has its place in the mountains but on this trip we would have nothing of it and instead decided to pack-in real food and it was wonderful.
All four of us are accomplished cooks in our own right especially Steve Davis. Pete and I wanted to bring in some special ingredients, a move we learned from our Dad. Here is what we brought: four pounds of our fresh caribou breakfast sausage ( extra hot), 1 pound of moose bacon, 2 pounds of pork bacon, 6 onions, a dozen jalapenos, a pint of olive oil, half a pound of butter, a bag of bell peppers, 1 pound of summer sausage, fresh herbs including thyme, parsley, pineapple sage, rosemary (We got all the herbs from Buskirk gardens.)
In the dry-goods box we had various soup mixes: basmati rice, cous cous, dirty rice, jambalaya, spaghetti pasta (fettuccine), and pancake mix. I did pack a few canned goods including tomato paste (for spaghetti) and coconut milk (for curry).
Our seasoning kit was stellar: Yellow curry powder, a black pepper grinder, garlic salt, soy sauce, Thai seasoning, Tabasco sauce, minced garlic and yes I brought some saffron.
Pete brought homemade hot buttered rum mix, Captain Morgan's special reserve (rum),a bota box ( Shiraz) and some good beer. The rest of us rounded out the bar with several nice bourbons. Life is too short to eat crappy food.
By the way the weather was awful. It snowed or rained on us the whole time except for the last day. A smidgen of pride was realized after an overnight dump of snow collapsed dad’s tent (with poles) and our own make shift paddle-raft tent stood unflinching although somewhat soggy. Eat your heart out Bear Gryllis. Apparently Dad and Steve had to crawl out of their tent in the middle of the night to clear all the snow and bend the tent back into position.
Over the course of the next few days we would divide our time between hunting and moving camp lower in the valley. We would load all of our gear into the rafts so we could float and drag our whole kit downstream instead of carrying it on our backs.
The weather never showed any signs of letting up and consequently the majority of our down time was spent trying to dry-out and warm-up under our tarp shelter. Here we could change clothes, cook, tell stories, and watch passing caribou. Dealing with this kind of weather was not new to any of us and it felt good to share this experience these particular guys. We laughed a lot, marveled at the shitty weather, and had a few drinks.
“It’s good to have you guys back.” I said. We were hunkered in our lean-to eating fresh tenderloin from the kill. Pete had downed a nice big bull and spirits in camp were high. The rich wine sauce that Davis whipped up was steaming into our faces off of our plates. Both rafts served as the walls of our lean-to and for now we were sheltered from the storm. The snow was piling up on top of the tarp but we were warm, semi-dry, and happy.
"It's great to be back." said Steve.
54 inches. Nice shot Pete!
Pete and I enjoying a happy moment before the work began.
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.
"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?
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.
“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.
“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.
