Whale Bay, July 2013

This morning is Saturday, July 20.  The last time I posted, it was raining.  This morning, I am tied to the transient dock at AB Harbor, Sitka, and I can barely see the bridge to Japonski Island.  Fog again, rain soup really, 54 degrees.  Just checked the weather in Texas and Salt Lake, both over 100 – hard to imagine right now.  Why are we tied to this particular dock, when we have a perfectly good stall a quarter of a mile away, somewhat removed from the pirates that inhabit this spot?  Another fishing story…  but first, Whale Bay.

We were up at 3:30 on July 1, pulling anchor in the early light and heading out of our pristine little cove to see what we could catch.  On our way in to the Basin, I had carefully arranged all our freshly tied up king salmon lures so there would be no delay in getting started.  I was even smart enough to put a 20 pound (hand troller size) cannon ball on each of my lines and lower them down to see how much line I had, if there were any bad spots that needed attention and so forth.  Everything had worked perfectly, so I was eager to get gear set.  Just outside the entrance to Kristoi, I dropped my first wing line into the water with its 50 lb cannon ball.  The night had brought the ubiquitous drizzle, so my Grundens jacket felt good with the hood turned up.  It was really good to be setting gear again!  First line out without a hitch – attached the new, ridiculously priced float bag to the line, and bingo, we were fishing.   I began to set the heavy line on the same side, with its 60 lb cannon ball; I got the first spread attached, lowered to the next beads, and zzzzzooom, the ball began to head for the bottom at a high speed.  The first reaction is to grab the stainless steel line to stop it, but I have learned to resist that temptation since I really enjoy having all my fingers.  I tried the brake to no avail, so grabbed a wooden handled gaff hook and pressed the line against the support column.   Finally it  stopped before unreeling the whole 900 feet.  I put the gurdy into gear and tried reeling it up, but it only slipped and would not engage.  I was worried that the ball was so far down we would hang it on something and lose it, so I  had Lovie head for deeper water.  Tools came out, and I adjusted the gurdy enough to get it to wind back up.  Analyzing the situation, it became clear to me as it had to many other misguided fishermen (or so I’m told!) – spray PAM is a great lubricant for gurdy slides and collars, but when you get over ambitious and put lots on the clutch and brake surfaces, don’t expect them to start or stop the  reels! Basically, I had oiled the brakes and drive clutches, then the rain worked with it to create a freewheeling situation.  Some spray brake cleaner applied judiciously and minor adjustments took up an hour of prime fishing time, but by 6 am we had all the gear in the water again.  Another lesson learned…

 

Whale Bay has a couple of really long arms at the head of the bay that extend several miles.  We worked some terrain features out toward the main mouth of the bay with a few other boats, and picked up several nice kings for starters.  I have realized I really don’t know very much at all about king fishing – coho trolling has been our main experience the last few years, and it is quite a different technique.  We have tried to pick up as much wisdom from any source we can, and it was really rewarding when some of the tips and techniques began to pay off.  After a long day, we headed back to the anchorage, happy with our little successes.   The next morning the wind had shifted, making our previous site a bit bumpy for comfort.  The fact that no other boats were to be seen in the area helped us make the choice to explore a bit deeper into the protected waters of one of the arms.  The water is really deep in theses great cuts, and to fish at 20-25 fathoms we were within 40 feet of the shore much of the time.  We picked up a number of coho as the day went on, and an occasional king.  Perfectly calm water and stupendous scenery made the slow pace be just fine.  A couple of times I would hear an increasing roar, and look up to find a thundering waterfall from several thousand feet above – a couple of spots you could see all the way the the deep blue pocket of glacial ice high on the mountain where it began.  One waterfall had carved a cave through the rock in a shape that looked like a Mickey Mouse silhouette – this is what we had in mind when we first envisioned owning a troller. 

Another night back at the basin, only this time a huge luxury yacht registered in North Carolina was our neighbor, along with a couple of other fishermen.  Lots of dollars just to drive around – at least we justify ours with catching some fish!

If you want to see a video of this spot, check out this Youtube link -- Whale Bay trolling

Third day was still bumpy with seas outside building – we began to worry about a tender showing up, as we don’t like to keep the fish in our hold more than 3 days if we can; we could go a week, but the quality and appearance go downhill, and prices with it.  If Eyak ( Sitka Sound Seafood’s tender) doesn’t show up tonight, we will try to head north in the morning if it isn’t too snotty for the hour and a half run off Necker Bay.  Fishing the inside corner we found a sweet spot where a point of land ran out shallow, and every time we went over it, we picked up a king or two.  We circled there for several hours, slowly adding to our catch, then the day was done.  We heard a broken transmission from Eyak, working their way up the coast, but they won’t be here till late Thursday, so we will run in the morning.

We set out early, to get a jump on the predicted westerly – seas were 7 feet, with wind chop, which is just plain rough and tiring in our little boat.  We spotted a couple of boats heading south, so didn’t feel quite so alone out on the rough part.  With tide, swell, and wind chop, it seemed like we got tossed every way possible – no way to get into a comfortable rhythm.  Not scary, just uncomfortable.  Finally, we made Walker Channel and saw 4 or 5 boats in a little drag in the lee of the northwest shore, so we set some gear out and fell in line to see what was happening.  We picked up a few coho, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort for them while kings were still open.  We headed straight on in to Sitka, got unloaded, re-iced, and slept soundly tied to our Sealing Cove slip dock. 

Next morning, we headed for Biorka where we had seen a number of trollers working.  First line in, and it barely hit depth and we caught a nice king.  We worked the area the rest of the day, but nothing great – a few here and there, and some small coho.  We eavesdropped on a couple of the other guys that were heading back in, and my ego got squashed -- “we picked up 180 kings yesterday out deep”, or “Bob got 125 in his favorite spot..”  -- even with the fisherman’s truth discount, some people caught a LOT more than we did.  Readjust and study some more for next year.

 

The problem for us beginners, the summer opening is so short we don’t have time to experiment much.  Next year we should come and fish the king hatchery openings with the intent of learning a bit more about them.  I want to target kings only; coho is a tough way to go when you have to chase the schools, and spend most of your time offshore to be really into them.  We’ve proven we can do that, but this king thing has me intrigued – a challenge, if you will.  More money in them, too.  Average king was $65 dollars to us – coho is about $7.50 each.

With king season ended on Saturday midnight, we came in with our catch, got a shower, and got on the list to unload.  It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that we made it to SSS – everybody must unload all fish caught in the king opener before they can fish again for coho, so it was quite a traffic jam.  Just get on the list and wait.

We sat out a blow thru Wednesday, as did most of the Sitka fleet.  Harbor was full as people regrouped and enjoyed not getting beat up.  We headed out offshore Biorka with about 40 other trollers – coho were definitely there.  120 in a day, and we even quit early around 5pm.  Up and out the next day for a repeat – just plain fun fishing, with a good delivery load. 

We stayed out till Saturday, and dragged gear in the water on the way back, scoring some really nice big fish in an unexpected location on the way.  Just got tied up to the dock, heard the plane land, and Em texted us they had made it.  We met them at the airport with blood splattered clothing, still swaying from getting back to solid ground.  They got their crew licenses at Murrays while I brought the boat over, picked them up, and within an hour of landing they were helping me unload fish at the cannery.  Welcome to the other world, kids!  And thus began the next phase of our adventure, which culminates in us being tied to the dock, looking at the grid… check out why on the next post!

Fish on!

Summer 2013 - June

Fortune cookie wisdom from Kenny’s Wok,Sitka

Tonight Sitka is living up to it’s reputation for rainfall.  It’s 54 degrees and has been pouring a since Sunday, with the local populace suitably clad in rain gear and ExtraTuffs, while the cruise ship tourists waddle about town with their Eddie Bauer expedition rain suits and cameras.  The forecast just changed from SE winds at 20 knots with 6 foot seas to NW 25 with 10 foot seas for tomorrow, so we are snuggled into our berth at Sealing Cove, getting ready to go back after some cohos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t always this way – I came here the first week of June, and this is the first steady rainy weather we’ve had.  June was gorgeous; actually a hot 71degrees once -  shorts and tanktops on the locals, but the cruise ship tourists still were looking like they had just summitted Everest in their two thousand dollar coordinated outfits.

I spent about half my time in June programming to finish a project back home, and the other half doing projects on the boat.  Seems like there is always something that could just be better.  This year, I pulled the old Dickenson Bristol out, replaced the firebrick and cement inside, buffed it up, and put in an forced air combustion assist fan.  What a filthy project!  It burns diesel just like the engine, so the soot inside is oily and sticks instantly to everything.  One spot turns into a huge smear as soon as you touch it, so I was glad Lovie was still in Montana until I could clean the mess up.  New stovepipe and there you go, good as new.   They are a bear to get adjusted just right, and I’m still tweaking with it even this evening.  Overall, it was a worthwhile project.

Based on a couple of light-deprived episodes in the past, I added a new LED floodlight mounted on the A-frame.  We haven’t had to use it yet, and really don’t want to, but nice to have it there.

Inside, I replaced all the cabin lights with LEDs to save  battery drain when not running the engine, and they work really well.  I will be adding several more in spots that seem always dark, like the engine area, the hold, and the forward storage compartment in the bow.

I put in a cell phone antenna and signal booster to give us a little more range on the cell phone – I can’t tell if it really helps a lot or not, so the jury is still out on that effort.

While adding the lights, I got disgusted with the old decrepit switch panel and replaced it with a couple of nice banks of switches by Blue Sea. They are fused and easy to operate and make me feel so much better.  About three hundred dollars better, to be exact, but better nonetheless.

 

Our Avon inflatable that was also our life raft suffered badly last year on the barnacles at Samsing Cove.  I tried some expensive TufCoat restoration paint on the bottom, and it will probably work, but my patience and trust level were way down.  It sits in the storage unit awaiting it's fate;  I sprung for a new Mercury inflatable dinghy that is a little smaller, but NEW and stays inflated!  That is now our shore dinghy, and I made the investment we needed into a new Elliot 4 man liferaft, a real survival craft.  It stores in a flat fiberglass canister on the bait shed, and has a hydrostatic release so that it will deploy and float free if you sink, or so the theory goes.  You can also launch it manually if you need, so we feel a little more prepared than we were.

 

A new rearview mirror and TADA! a PortaPotty for the head!  No more nighttime trying to hit a coffee can and over the side dumping, but you can now get bladder relief in your PJs in relative style, just like in a real house!  Of course, it eventually needs dumped, but the  jury is definitely in on this one, and it is favorable.

The fishing this year has been good for most folks.  There was a lot of talk about the success early on in the spring troll openings, and when I got here in June there were daily reports of people having some nice little catches on spring kings.  Tragedy also struck early on – up at Homeshore in Icy Strait, a thunderstorm swept through and caught the chum fishermen by surprise; a local guy had his deckhand from Oregon wash overboard in the night and he hasn’t been found.  Another local man was working with his partner getting their troller ready to go, and he fell, striking his head.  He seemed ok for a while, left the boat with his mother, and a couple of hours later collapsed in a coma from a swelling brain injury.  Not sure what his status is now, but he was flown to Seattle, and last I heard was on the slow road back.  Nasty business.

We decided to really focus on learning how to fish kings this opener, so I only tied up king gear for use on July 1- July 6.  Since our running buddies were still in the middle of some big welding projects and neither have made it out yet this year, we got brave and set our sights on going down to Whale Bay for the opener.  It is about 50 miles south, halfway down to the tip of Baranoff Island at Cape Omnay.  We have wanted to go there for a couple of years after talking to a couple from Meyers Chuck near Ketchikan, and it all seemed to work out.

We headed out on Saturday evening on as still a water as you can imagine – ran south thru Dorothy Narrows into Windy Bay, and spent the night tied to the mooring buoy way back in Seven Fathom Bay.  There is a Forest Service cabin there, and it looks like a neat place to spend a day or two.  Sunday morning we pointed South, down thru First and Second Narrows and into Walker Channel.     From there, we had to cover about 12 miles offshore past Necker Bay, to get to North Cape, the entrance to Whale Bay.  That open water stretch takes us about an hour and a quarter in good weather, which it was.  We did not even have to put our stabilizers in the water, which lets us go about a knot and a half per hour faster.  Glassy smooth is nice.

After the smooth open stretch, we were rewarded with the stunning view of our destination.  A little poking around, and we found a wonderful place to anchor in Kristoi Basin.  A couple of other boats found their way in, and we spent a relaxing Sunday afternoon anchored up, checking things over, and enjoying the wonderful weather.

How did it go from there?  Well, I guess you’ll have to read the next post, won’t you?

Here’s how it started, anyway.

Fish On!

We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet…

             We two have paddled in the stream,
                 from morning sun till dine;
            But seas between us broad have roared
               since auld lang syne.

There’s a standard fisherman’s term about sacred waste that seems right to preface the question, “Where did the year go??”, but I won’t add it here.  The trips and holidays have flashed by like the kids on their snowboards do on Big Mountain, leaving me shaking my head and wondering what in the world just happened.  It’s almost time to sing Auld Lang Syne again, if we wake up for it; I better chronicle some details of the past few months as promised before I forget everything. 

As you might have noticed by now, the sea, the boats, the scenery, the work – all have blended together to give us a wild and unparalleled experience since starting this journey.  But far and away, the people we’ve come to know are the absolute highlight of this venture.  I’ve said so many times before what a grand group of friends we’ve gained, and I’ll trumpet it again – you are the best.  If you read this and can put yourself into any scene I’ve written about (and many I haven’t!), thank you again for being part of our lives.   
                                   
I want to dedicate this post to the special people that came and crewed for us this year.  We desperately needed a year where nothing broke, no harrowing storms or tides roared, there were no close calls to write about, and enough fish were caught to not go backwards on the books.  That all came true, and as a bonus, we got a great lift from each set of “crew” that spent time with us. 

Emery and Todd – you guys are great to have every year!  You lift us out of the doldrums every time with your enthusiastic embrace of the whole trolling thing. But if you ever think seriously about buying your own boat, I’ll toss you overboard!



Although they didn’t spend time on our boat, Jake and Lois from Sitka were part of a memorable night in the Forest Service cabin at Samsing Cove, just out of Sitka a ways.  The acoustics in the cabin are awesome for the old Gibson.  If you ever want a cool place to stay, check out renting it for a few days.  You won’t regret it.  And, thanks to Jake’s little sideshow, the bears all stayed away… !



Then came the “Pirates of the Inside Passage”, Philip and Simon – headed for the lower 48 the long way, in a 22 foot boat, with no previous serious Alaskan sea-time.  It was a real treat to have you detour over to Sitka just to see our operation – glad we got to be a little part of your experience.  I love showing people what we do, and how it all works – you guys were great to have aboard, even if only for a day!  Check out their blog at http://piratesoftheinsidepassage.wordpress.com/

   

And last, but by no means least, came nephew James, from White Rock, BC.  Never on the ocean before, but game to learn, he helped us remember the good parts of having a teenager around.  You can come back any time, James – we just might have to work on that fish-cleaning speed, but a couple of thousand fish should get you there…! 



Many Thanks and good sailing to you all! 



And there’s a hand my trusty friend !
And give us a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

Summer of 2012–Sitka Style

He was looking at a big stretch of empty

Wondering just what was up next….

The sun rose hot in the cloudless sky, its rays burning relentlessly onto the deck of the True North.   Whoa, whoa, wait – wrong story!  Ok, the first day we were at Sitka this year, and one or two of the others actually had the sun shining, but “hot”, “burning”, and “relentless” really weren’t in the picture.  Aside from those few days, the weather was 54, light rain or 54, heavy rain or 54, fog.  Still, sun or rain, it is a beautiful place.

This season is already over for us, at least the summer part.  Due to some timelines on a project at my programming business, we had to delay our fishing efforts until mid-July this year, and returned to Kalispell in late August.  A bit different than the last two years, but necessary and overall very encouraging. 

I’ve had more than a few readers tell me that last year’s blogs were depressing, and I have to admit they are right.  It was all true (fisherman true anyway…) and the sentiments expressed were pretty much right on.  I began to question my judgment regarding the whole commercial fishing thing and had made up my mind to have an enjoyable experience or else call it quits.  So there; a make or break year.

We arrived as I said on a beautiful, sunny day.  The walk down to the True North at her new moorage in Sealing Cove brought a weight of emotion and anxiety – but there she was, firmly tied to the dock and looking as pretty as the day we left her last fall.  She’s such a solid little beauty that if does a person good to look at her, knowing just how tough she really is.  We opened the cabin door, half expecting the funky smell of rotting whatever that seems to happen on a boat left for long, but no!  Our efforts to leave things in good condition, along with the attentions of our reliable boat-watch man had paid off.  A little light mold on a couple of things in the fish hold, but by and large all was in good shape.

I spent the first week torn between checking out all the systems, getting gear and equipment ready to go, and finishing up Phase I of the programming project for the team to test and train on.  Split like that, it was hard to get much enthusiasm going; it began to rain the second day and I had a good view of the surf breaking on the rocks out in the Sound.  My mind kept telling me how big the waves were, how likely things were to go wrong – just hard to get going.

Then, things began to change.  Emery and Todd came to spend a few days with us.  Their enthusiasm worked its usual magic.  We took the boat onto the grid to paint the bottom and install new zincs, which was fun to see them get involved with.  Simon and Philip came in on the Sea Fever, a little 22 foot boat they were taking from Juneau to Tacoma, and similarly livened things up.  Finally, nephew James from BC came for a week, and we had a real blast.  I’ll cover each phase in the near future on this, but for now – the jury is in – we had such a great time that we plan to continue.  Lots to do, lots still to learn, but we’re in!

Fish On!

Life, The Universe, and…

I sit here tonight with the brown  dog lying on my feet.  He’s freshly bathed, so upstairs on the carpet is acceptable this evening.  I’m listening to songs from the sixties, by artists like Gordon Lightfoot, Peter,Paul,and Mary, and John Denver.  Mellow stuff that brings nostalgia, but tonight it’s comforting.   There’s something about the loss of yet another friend that cries out for the comforting, the familiar.  Yeah, another friend is gone.  That’s three in less than a year.  Wes, Val, and now Troy.  All younger than me.  Guess this life isn’t going to last forever, after all.  So, in the memory of Troy, whose heart just decided to quit Wednesday, tonight I reminisce, and smile, trying not to listen to the clock ticking steadily on the wall. 

To the good times, Troy.

I first met Troy in Elfin Cove, on a blustery afternoon.  We were only a few days in the area, and were still pretty wide-eyed with the grandeur and vastness of it all.  In for a blow, we were safely tied to the dock, and the tide was coming in.  I heard the soft “whump-whump”  of a 671 Jimmy idling, looked out, and saw the Bonny Jean sliding  up to Connley’s dock.  At 48 feet long, the classic looks of the Bonny were impressive.  Drawing over 8 feet of water, she is a real blue-water boat.  It wasn’t too long and the little dingy she carried was pulling up alongside our dock.  Kirk made the introductions, and I first saw the good-natured grin the Troy always seemed to wear.  He had caught a few fish, and he and his deckhand were glad to be tied to the dock again.

I soon learned that this was his  first year as skipper of his own boat – an undertaking that is both heady and terrifying.  We had the bond of being first-year skippers, and often compared notes about the fears and freedoms we had found.  At first glance, he seemed to be a part of the seascape of wooly-headed, rough-clad seafarers that habited these corners of the world.  A few hours spent together leaning on the rail looking out the mouth of the Gut in Elfin Cove, with that sporadic, sparse conversation that fishermen enjoy, and I learned that he was just as green and scared as I was.  We both were optimistic of the lifestyle, agreeing with the bravado of the committed that there was no greater life than the one we had chosen, the life of a commercial fisherman.  We both admitted we had a lot to learn, and both were just as aware of how unforgiving the trade can be.   

Thereafter, it was a comfort to see the old BJ rising and falling on the waves as we followed the currents in search of coho off the northern coast of Chichagoff Island.  I don’t know how many times in the last two years I have followed some illusive current eastward, hoping there would be that golden bounty of fish trapped in the juncture of green glacier water and deep black ocean, only to see Troy on the same tack, working the same waters.  There were times when we would pass in the light fog, only a few hundred yards apart – 3 or more miles offshore, with no other boats on the horizon or radar, and there would be no sign of a skipper or deckhand – confidence in his autopilot, I suppose, or attending to some task.  There were those wonderful days when we would pass on the opposite tack on a drag, both of us back in the pit, pulling in coho after coho, with just a moment for a wave of the hand – nothing to say, both happy that the other guy was enjoying the same harvest.  There were also the days when my 34 footer would be rolling from side to side, or bashing thru the steep chop, and we’d see the stately old craft slowly rolling back and forth as if nothing more than a breeze was blowing.

Troy loved company.  His boat had the most substantial anchor system I’ve ever seen on a boat that size.  Quite often when we pulled into Hoktaheen Cove, he’d be there with the hook already set, and often with one or two boats tied to him, all relying on his  anchor.  He’d be on the radio, offering us a place to tie up for the night, always room for one more.  We didn’t always, but the times we took his offer, there was always some sort of good food involved.  The deck of the Bonny Jean is enormous, and we would spread the grub out on his hatch cover, all sit around eating and telling stories about the days significant events.  Boots the beautiful tri-colored cat timidly came up from below, and looked us all over.  Good times out on the edge of the world.

His luck wasn’t always the best.  I don’t recall all the incidents, but there seemed to be a a number of times when I’d hear his voice on the radio, asking Connley or Kirk about how to fix an overheating problem, an oil pressure problem, a rigging issue, or something.  I remember the blow we all got caught in, getting the snot beat out of us, when he got sideways in the wave troughs and dipped the tip of a pole into the water – look at the pictures, figure out the angle the boat had to be to accomplish that, and tell me YOU wouldn’t pull into Elfin Cove, walk straight up the dock past all your buddies, not saying a word, straight to the liquor store, buy a bottle of whiskey, and head straight back to the boat, still not saying a word, and disappear below for a couple of days!  But, he surfaced, took a deep breath, and went back out again, wiser. 

After our dysfunctional start last year, the new engine that broke, and all the delays, we didn’t have enough money to get enough gear to attract fish like we should.  When we got to Elfin Cove, the guys all pitched in and gave us enough gear to make a decent attempt.  I’ll never forget the kindness and camaraderie of these wonderful men.  Troy gave us a bag of flashers that I really don’t think he could spare, and wouldn’t take no for an answer when I questioned him about it.  He just had a big grin, and I could tell he really got a kick out of being able to help us out.  Thanks to you all, again.

One of the last times I saw Troy, he was almost defeated.  We were coming back into Hoonah one fall evening; Jager, True North, and Bonny Jean.  We’d been over to Homeshore for the day, and hadn’t done too well at all.  We were all spread out – Jager far to the northwest, us in the middle, and Bonny Jean further southwest.  The tide was moving west at a pretty good rate, and we were pulling our gear for the last dash into port as darkness fell.  Troy, fishing alone with no deckhand this year, didn’t see the buoy of the crab pot until too late – before he could pull his lines in or turn, he was washing over it.  One line tangled, and he kicked the boat out of gear.  This let the other 3 lines settle, and they all tangled around and around each other and the crab pot cable.  He worked as best he could to get the mess to break free, but to no avail.  We had already rounded the last buoy and were tying up when he came on the radio telling his plight.  Kirk and Jason were near, and came by to lend a hand.  Not much could be done, it was dark by now, so he had no choice – snip, snip, snip, snip – 800,1600,3200.  Dollars.  There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea… it’s where your money goes when you lose your gear.  Back at the dock, he was sure he was done.  A bad season had just turned a lot worse.  But, some of the kindness he had shown to others earlier was able to come back to him – his buddies all pitched in and donated gear, so by the next morning he had enough to continue fishing.  Still bummed, but back at it again.  In fact, he was so upbeat that when Kirk and I finally decided to head back to Sitka, he opted to stay for a few more weeks, maybe even for the winter, trying for winter kings.  That didn’t happen, but the optimist in him thought it might.

I know, I really didn’t know the man.  I don’t know really where he came from, who he loved, what his goals were, where he wanted to be.  All I really know, is that we were comrades in a place where comrades are dear.  I really will miss you, Troy.  Fish On.

El Canto del Viento

Sometimes, the wind blows here.  There are only two full days left in this year of 2011, and today the wind is blowing.  I’m not sure what that means, but it just needed saying.

When I was just a little boy, wind played a big part in my life.  I remember riding in a car with Mom and some other ladies, pulling to the side of the road as we watched a tornado cross a mile or so ahead, wondering if it was going to strike the base where my Daddy was working.   I wasn’t very old, but I remember the awe I had for that dangling dark carrot of cloud and the force of the wind in it.

Not too much later, I spent several years in Western Oklahoma.  Red dirt, cotton, and wind.  Like most everyone else, we lived in some houses that were built before super-insulation and weather barriers.  The wind always found a way to whistle its tune thru some crack or another, and when we went away to visit other, stiller places, we would find ourselves stopping to listen, wondering what was missing – ah, it was the song of the wind!

I still have a scar on my back,  small and faded now, where a bicycle, a big cardboard box, a barbed wire fence, and the wind all came together in a wonderful brainstorm that almost worked.  It seemed a grand plan – strap the huge moving box to my back with a couple of belts, get on my bike, and let the wind propel me down the dirt road with no effort on my part.  All went well, until the barbed wire gate approached at a nice clip – the handbrakes just wouldn’t quite do it, and I wound up nicely stitched up in all 4 strands of wire. 

When Orin was in Iraq, he told of the wind that brought the dust, of the time they barely made it to a safe landing spot in the middle of nowhere – the things a parent ponders in the darkness, listening to the murmur of the wind past the eaves.

Fishing, the wind hardly ever ceases.  There is always a breeze of some sort – that much uninterrupted space just cannot lie still.  On shore, we hardly notice a lively breeze until it begins to throw things around and make a lot of noise.  On the water, the constant motion of the wind over the ductile waters has its effect, adding little waves on to bigger ones, building, whipping, singing.  When the rigging sounds overcome the engine sounds, you know it is really blowing.  At anchor or in harbor, there is nothing so mysterious and lonely as the sound of wind, singing thru the stays.  Promises of gales beyond our care to imagine, the mysteries of boundless power that might be building; one never knows, but the song hints at it all.

The old year seems to be leaving with that same sense of haunting, boundless loneliness that a gale on a dark night hints at.  The world is in a strange flux – changes all around, many core values now only a memory, uncertainty in everything that once was strong and secure.  Even me.  I try to hear the promise of spring, the hints of gentleness in the breeze, but it’s not working as well as I would like.  Maybe it’s time  to just hunker down, be glad for good, strong anchor lines, and wait.  Summer really IS coming, and life is still good!  Just a little hard to see for all the stuff blowing in the wind.

Fish on!      

Happy Holidays to you all!

Well, it’s that time of year – when you can justify letting go of all the stresses of the year, and slow down for a day or two and just consider how really fortunate you really are.  Breathing in and out, most of us – life is really a good thing.  Hope this finds all well – we sure have a lot of wonderful friends.

Willie had just experienced all these new-smelling tennis balls cascading down the stairs – you can even see the ecstasy in his eyes!

Stay tuned.

Bits and Pieces

The transition back to normal life has been interesting this year.  A beautiful fall, and no work.  That stinks for paying bills, but life is made up of a whole lot more than the rat race.  I breathed deeply of the crisp, pure air and gave thanks that I was alive to enjoy it.  Lost two friends, both younger than me since returning – makes you sit up and take a fresh look at things!  It’s a shame, though, to be so afraid of  dying that you don’t really live. 
This post is just a few thoughts that have collected with no real forum to launch them into, so here seems to be the place.
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Where the crazy life began – Lovie with Ed Jolly on the Hoxie in Cook Inlet, longlining halibut in 1978.
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Commitment.  Some folks commit to a greater degree than others.  Country, occupation, sports, whatever, they just aren’t afraid to make the statement – wear the company jacket, put on the “Proud To Be” bumper stickers, plaster the team’s logo on everything.  My favorite is a local fisherman in Sitka.  A younger generation fellow, he approaches life at high speed, with a degree of reckless abandon that borders on the extreme.  Rumor has it that the level of chemicals in his bloodstream is a little higher than most, and not all of them legal.  I don’t know, but he took commitment to his lifestyle to the ultimate.  A deckhand from a young age, now a boat owner, he goes by the nickname of “Red-Green”. 
All vessels are required to have operational navigation lights; a red light visible on the port side (left side, facing forward), and a green one on the starboard.  This way,  if you see a vessel at night, you can get an idea of which side you are on, and their direction of travel.  All good practice, although not as necessary on the sidewalk as it is at sea.
Red-Green wanted to be sure.  He shaved his head, and had the port side tattooed Red,  the starboard side Green. 
This is for real.  That, my friend, is serious commitment.
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Brahams Lullaby.  I was listening to the iPod the other day while working on the computer.  My music collection is a huge pile of miscellaneous stuff I’ve collected over the years – my kids have contributed, as have many of the soldiers who deployed with O, people that Em worked with, the boys in the band, relatives, etc.  I love music of all sorts, so I have all types.  When you play the songs alphabetically, you never know what you’ll get, from Hank Snow to Abba to Metallica. 
So, I listen.  And, just after”Boulevard of Broken Dreams”, came a silence.  Then a slow piano began.  A simple melody played on a nylon stringed guitar.  My memories whirled, work stopped, everything seemed surreal.  The simple tune played on.
I was transported back, to the years in the little cabin at Ashley Lake.  Life was not always so easy there either, but it was good.  The kids were at those magic years where they always stay in my mind when I get nostalgic.  Hectic days would come to an end eventually, and almost always, we would tuck them into the safety of their beds, stuffed animals to guard for the night.  And almost always, Lovie would sit and softly sing the words to the song that has stopped me in my tracks, and brought me to a bleary-eyed, runny-nosed halt -- “Lullaby.., and good night…”  All’s right with the world.  Miss you kids.

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Hands.  Ever think about them?  I was sitting in the autumn sunlight last week, with nothing to do but listen and think, looked down, and saw my hands.  Hoyt Axton wrote a song with a line, “If that cat could talk, what a tale he’d tell”  which seems appropriate when applied to hands, also.  Mine are no longer the smooth, unblemished tools of youth and they bear the marks of 50+ years of front-lines exposure. 
They started off pretty smooth and clean.  Then there were the bike wrecks, the garage experiments gone wrong, the knuckles busted fixing motorcycles…

I can still see the marks of early Alaska, the bowsaw rip on the left hand; halibut hooks, burns from welding at the sawmill..
Then there  are the countless scars from building houses, pulling wire; smashed fingers, cuts, splinters, abrasions of all sorts; the unseen damage from handling frozen lumber and tools in the Montana winters;
Then, the climbing years..

Hanging from tiny ledges by two fingers; jamming them into crevasses and flexing a fist to hang from when no other hold would do; rope burns, and all the rest.
They’ve had a workout, those miraculous little guys – I can still hit these keys with them, and I can still coax a little music from the strings of my guitar.
Best of all is when they get to hold my wife’s – hers seem to have a similar tale to tell. 
It is getting harder to pick my nose, though… not sure why.
Weird thoughts, weird time of life.
Stay tuned.
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There, and Back Again

Bilbo’s book – the title so succinct – how much lies in between “There” , and “Back Again”!! 

As I sit in the sunshine on the back deck, safely home again in Montana, the events of summer are already feeling like the aftermath of an intense movie I watched somewhere – profoundly moving, but now safely insulated from present reality.  We made it home.

Everybody we see has asked, “How was it? How’d you do?”  Weirdly enough, we ended the season with a very optimistic outlook.  This year we became indebted to a degree we’ve never been – so many tangible and intangible kindnesses and assistance received – my lesson for the year has been one of humility.  I don’t like to admit I need help of any sort, and over and over again, others have seen our needs and helped in so many ways.  If you read this and can see yourself in any measure being one of those, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.  In fact, just reading this account helps more than you know!!

We put in the new engine, worked thru the accompanying problems, upgraded our rigging, hayrack, and gurdies.  Not a small undertaking by any standards, and poor planning on my part lost us the first month of the king/coho prime time.  That hurt.  Weather seemed to hammer us over and over, cutting fishing time by 30 percent at least.  Fish were smaller, even the biologists were publicly pondering the fact on the radio before we left; the schools were smaller and more scattered.  I heard all these complaints numerous times, from numerous sources as we waited for our plane ride out.  So, financially, the season was a bust.  Can’t wait to do the books… 

The weird part – the optimism?  The boat runs great!  the rigging works fantastically! Gurdies – wow! New places to fish – cool!  New species to target next year – yes!  All these things somehow cancelled out the negatives, and leave us with that farmer-style hope for next year, should that be on our path.  Meanwhile, it’s survival mode in Montana for the winter – anyone need diesels rebuilt, fish cleaned, songs sung, or stories written? Will work for food…!

Time – such a blur.  One day in Hoonah, Lovie was talking about something that would happen, and she asked, “What day is this?”  I told her it was Saturday, and she, very startled, looked at me with wide eyes and with panic in her voice, said “WHAT HAPPENED?”  Somewhere, somehow, Thursday and Friday had slid right off her charts, and she thought it was Wednesday.  Yeah, back to the land of cell coverage, internet, calendars, cars… 

Gotta love it all.  Stay tuned!