Reba Dog

                                 

 

I watched as the 93 year old bent down to pet the white headed lab lying in the pen. The old dog had been watching for “Dad” to come home for some time. Something was wrong.  The once powerful  hind legs could not find the strength to stand. Great effort was made the legs shook with effort the old dog began panting. I could see love in both eyes, the old man and the old dog. Re, as Dad called Reba,  will look right past anyone at her pen gate, and look for only Dad. 

“I guess you might have to take her to the vet and have her put down,” Dad said to me once inside the house. “I just don’t think I can do it myself,” he continued.

A big lump lodged in my chest.  I fight back the tears. I Don’t want to have to do that either. One of us has to as we both are not willing to watch such a great friend and hunting pal suffer so much.
 Dad and I have been away on a week long deer hunt. This is our welcome home greeting when we arrived. The hunt is forgotten, now all my thought s are on this great dog.
 I think back over  the past nine years and the many, many hunts we have been on. I drive into Dad’s drive way to see Re jumping up on the top of her plywood dog house cover and back to the ground. She is so excited to see me and know we are going on another duck hunt.  I park the truck and open the tailgate for my dog, Jasmine, to jump out. Jaz races to Re’s pen and they both get each other hyper  as I go to let Re out. Re races out of the pen, and straight up into the back of the truck. She then jumps back out and races around the yard with Jaz. We get such a kick out of watching them race around before an early morning hunt.
Dad and I walk down the brushy trail, through the trees, to our favorite hunting blind. The two dogs race around, disappearing in the dark for a short while, then come racing back to check on us. Re is very attentive to Dad. If he stumbles and falls in the big heavy waders, Re is right there beside him making sure he gets up. She seems to be out racing around but she is always right there when Dad might be in need.
 Re put her whole heart into retrieving ducks.  She bails out of the blind and launches into the air to hit the cold river water swimming. Jaz  is not so eager. She runs from the blind to the river’s edge and then eases into the water for her swimming retrieves.
Dad would have to tie Re on a rope in the blind as she would power ahead of Jaz and make every retrieve. It was just her nature. She is just such a good hard working dog wanting to please.
On blind retrieves both dogs would disappear into the thick river brush and tulles to seek out a downed duck. Jaz would come back in short while giving up, but not Re. That little yellow lab would keep at it. She would crash and splash and almost always come back, covered in mud, but proudly bearing a duck.
Dad is 93 and to keep in shape takes a early morning walk. He cut across my brother’s yard and into an empty horse pasture. At the gate he gives Re a half a dog treat cookie. He then jogs about 400 yards to some berry bushes and then back to the gate. Re races around like a rocket burning off the nights pent up energy. She chases fox, deer, and any other wild creature that might be lurking around the pasture.
At the gate Dad had the other half a cookie waiting as a bribe to get Re back and headed to home. Re is always right there to get her treat and finish the walk with Dad.
 If  he falls on the jog or walk I’ve always known  Re is right there to make sure he gets up. I wonder who will do that now? 
I now face the task of breaking this great companionship, friendship of an old man and an old dog. My heart is breaking. I am not ashamed of the tears that flow hot down my cheeks. It just seems so unfair that they both can’t just live forever. I know Dogs are short lived pals, but it is never easy to say good by and especially to a really good one.
Good by Re, my friend and hunting partner. May the gentle wind always blow in your face. May you run in fields of warm sunshine forever. May all your rivers be grand to swim in, and ducks catchable.
An old man and myself will really miss you. There will be a huge hole in our hearts each time we pass your pen, or see a green head mallard duck fly past. We will move on. We may own other dogs, but I can assure you none will be like you. You are a once in a lifetime dog.

Re you were the best.

dads deer

                                            Dad’s Deer

Down from Alaska into the state of Idaho, I had traveled to meet up with friends and family for their annual whitetail deer hunt.

 I was just a tag along, help out where needed guy on this trip. I did not have a deer tag or carry a gun.
Hunting whitetail deer is quite a challenge. I watch the hunting channel where the stars sit for endless days in tree stands waiting for some unsuspecting deer to walk the trail below so they can shoot. That is definitely not the way we hunt here in Idaho. Can you spell Boring with a capital B?
We get out and hunt hard in Idaho, sneaking along ridge tops or into the deep dark forested canyons hoping to catch a glimpse of the deer before they hear, see, or smell you. It is one of the greatest rewards in hunting to know you have hunted well enough to sneak up on a monster whitetail buck.
The challenge this year was to see if we could get my 93 year old Dad a nice deer.
 Mom’s instructions when we were leaving was, “Now, don’t you go and shoot a rank old rutting buck that is not fit to eat! We want a young, good eating deer to fill the freezer.”
The hunter in me finds that hard to abide by. I am always looking for the biggest deer with the largest antlers.
Dad and I hunted hard for a couple days, but came up empty. I am still amazed at how far Dad walked on some of those hunts.  I would get back to the truck tired and ready for the hot fire and big meal. At 93 he just seems unstoppable.  
Snow is a key component on this hunt and so far nothing had hit the ground but the liquid kind… Rain.
 On the third day we finally saw some snow hit the ground the deer seemed to be moving a bit more. They were not responding to rattling horns or grunting on our calls. It looked like just spotting one was the way to hunt this year.
We were driving along a little logging road chatting and have a good time. I looked over and spotted deer ears peaking above a log off to the side.
 I stopped the truck and asked Dad to hop out, never mentioning that I had spotted a deer. I wanted to keep him as calm as possible.
Dad clamored out of the truck and I followed out his side with his shooting sticks. I know he is a good enough shot, even at 93, to shoot without the stick but that is the sure way to get a solid rest.
 I walk dad around the truck to the side of the road, still not telling him that there was a deer laying in the brush just a ways away.
I had him kneel in the snow and then set up his sticks. With gun in place I pointed out the still bedded deer. Dad was locked on. I could see the gun weaving from side to side, and even though the deer was close a head shot is never easy.
 Just as he was about to shoot, a nice young doe stands up right beside the bedded deer.
“There’s the one you want to shoot,” I whispered in Dad’s ear. I slowly swung his gun to the right so he could pick up the deer in his scope.
“Are you on it?” I whispered.
“Yeah, I am right on it,” he responded, and I could see he was much steadier on this deer.
“Shoot when ready,”
 I watched through binoculars as he squeezed of his shot.  Perfect. The deer went down.
 No sooner had that deer gone down then two more stood up. Dad levered in another shell thinking he had missed.
“Don’t shoot!” I said, “You’ve got yours down.”
 Dad took the live round out of his gun then aimed at the still standing deer and said, “Pow.  You’re dead.”
We walked over to claim his prize deer. A very nice young doe, just what Mom had ordered.
At  camp everyone was very proud of a 93 year old being able to harvest yet another deer. I was so thankful for being with him when he accomplished such a feat.
Good shooting Dad.

Hawaii

                                                                            Hawaii

We are on our way to Hawaii. I must admit, it is not my planning that is getting me to the island of paradise.  I told Rene if she wanted to go to plan it and I’d tag along.

 There is no easy way to get from Alaska to anywhere, let alone half a world away to some place sunny.

 We Leave Sitka at six in the morning,  take a quick flight to Juneau, change planes and head to Ketchikan. After a short stop without leaving the plane, we head to Seattle.  Another plane change and we are off to Sacramento. A short stop there and we are finally on our way to paradise.
Five and a half hours later we are at last seeing the lights of Maui. As the big plane drifts down for a landing we are seeing a sight that makes Alaska island dweller’s hearts skip beats. There is solid traffic bumper to bumper as far as we can see.
 Now, coming from a town of 8,500 people the last thing we need is to try and navigate through bumper to bumper traffic for nearly an hour to get to our condo for the night.
 Rene grew up around big cities so when the traffic gets stuffy, I leave the driving up to her.
 “Looks like you’ll have to take this one tonight,” I comment to her still peering out the plane window.
 It is 8:30 p.m. when the big bird touches down on the hot Maui runway. Well, hot to us, not to the locals.
 We leave the plane and stroll into the airport to find people racing to get luggage and get out the doors. Not to uncommon in airports and probably everyone in a hurry to get into their shorts and tee shirts to keep from melting in the sweltering heat.
 Rene’s phone cheeps that a text came in. She stops in her tracks. “Tsunami” is the only word written. It is from our daughter Brooke, who is in Sitka holding down the fort as we play.
 We get to the car rental window to find a cardboard sign hurriedly written telling all to go take the shuttle to the lot for car rentals tonight.
Now we are starting to hear the word. Tsunami is coming for Hawaii! It is now nine at night and it is supposed to hit the island at ten thirty! Everyone is racing to get out of the airport, especially the employees, and to get to high ground. The airport is just about at sea level and expected to take a good drubbing if the wave reaches here.
 Rene is in touch with Brooke who is informing us that a quake in British Columbia might have caused a tsunami that is supposed to reach Alaska and then Hawaii. Brook then informed us that the wave did not hit Sitka even though they were under the Tsunami  warning there as well. That was good news. Our little condo up there sits on ocean front and will be one of the first to go if a good wave washes that place.
 We get to the car rental yard and people are racing around everywhere. We check in to get our little compact car. When we go to pick it out the help in the parking yard are shouting, “Just pick a rig, any one you want! If the tsunami does hit all these cars will be destroyed.  No extra charge, just pick one and get to high ground!”
 We are in a row of small SUV’s so we just race to a gray one and jump in. On the way out the girl scans the car and hands us the paper work.
 “Where do we go?” we asked her. “This is our first time on the island.”
 The girl rushed into a route we should take to get to some highway to get us out of town and towards a mountain.
 “You’d best be getting out of here as they are going to close all the lower roads and highways in one hour,” she admonishes as she races away to save herself.
 Pitch black darkness, in some strange rental car, in a place we have never seen, no maps, no g.p.s. this is a great start to a week’s vacation.
At last Rene finds her way out of the airport and into the bumper to bumper traffic heading somewhere. I am giving her my best navigation advice, “I don’t know where we are. I don’t know which way for you to turn. I don’t have a clue where we should go.”
  Following my close directions in that manner we make it to the highway. We race along at snail’s pace to wherever these people think is the right place to go. Now we know what the Lemmings in the middle of the line must have felt when heading to the cliff! “Wonder where all these guys are going. So many surely can’t be wrong, I’ll just fall in line and see where it takes me.”
 At last my crafty navigation (Rene might tell it another way) gets us heading to distant lights we see up on a hill. Right now we are liking to see lights way up on some hill.
 All the locals are zooming around like they know where they are going, turning down this street, and off into that house. We imagine they are just getting off work and racing home to save their trinkets before they race themselves up some secret mountain where they will be saved from the big wave and the lost tourists.
 We are up some hill getting into houses but the cars behind are going crazy trying to push around us in our floundering.
“Pull over into this driveway,” I shout with great navigation knowledge. It seems there has been a tad bit of shouting going on inside this rental car. Seems like a family vacation now, lots of shouting and just a little bit of driving.
 We are trying to decide what to do when a girl comes out of the house to see who the crazies are in her yard.
Using our best Hawaiian we inform her we are tourists ( That was no surprise as most everyone on the island is as well) and don’t have a clue where to go to be safe for the night in the tsunami.
 The gracious girl has only been on the island a short time, but she grabs a neighbor from next door and the kind man gives us good directions on how to get to a rescue center just up the way from where we are parked. He even gives us a route around most of the traffic.
 Rene drives the little SUV through the subdivision and into a shopping mall of some sort, and we pull in with a kazillion other people and settle in for the long, long night.
We were not informed of the proper way to spend a tsunami night in a parking lot. These local people were well versed in the proper educate of tsunami survival. The little trinkets they had raced home to save from the wave, were cases of beer! The parking lot was a roaring party.
Rene and I were so exhausted from flying for the past 15 hours that the last place we wanted to be was the parking lot tango. At about midnight we drove to a quieter place and drifted off to sleep in half reclined seats, just one notch better than a plane.
Nothing like a romantic night in a car with my wife!  It was so hot outside that we couldn’t leave the windows down for air so we had to keep starting the car for some air-conditioning.  At about two thirty in the morning we woke from our spotty sleep to find the parking lots empting out. It must be over.
We (Rene) drove an hour to our place of abode and finally crawled into bed at about 4:40 A.M.        Welcome to Hawaii!   

diving for cucumbers part 2

  Mike and I race to town after selling our catch at the tender. We are racing time to get in before the stores close. We need new belts on the compressor and I need to try and glue a new neck seal on my dive suit.

  As soon as I get cell phone reception I am on the phone with Ketchikan dive shop ordering a new dive undergarment. I have a spare dry suit but once my undergarment is wet I am done diving. Lesson well learned. I have a new undergarment on the way before we even reach town. I love the modern world of cell phones.

  The compressor belts are a quick fix and it is up and running. I spend all evening and  into the night working on replacing the neck seal on the dry suit.
  Five in the morning Mike and I are once again on the boat heading to Neva Strait.We race through the staging dive fleet and arrive on our spot about an hour before the eight o’clock dive opening time. 
  I don’t trust my neck seal repair so I squeeze into my back up suit. It is a custom made suit for a time when I weighed quite a bit less. Mike helps me wiggle, tug, and strain myself into it.
  Just before eight. The machines are running, Mike has me in about 25 feet of water. Hovering just outside us is the trooper boat, glasses trained on the divers, making sure no one enters the water one minute early.
 “Time!” Mike shouts.
 “Give me a couple more minutes in case the troopers watches are off from our cell phone time,” I shout back.
   “Three after!” Mike yells and I bail off the boat into the frigid Alaskan waters.
  Cucumbers are everywhere. They are stacked over themselves in what we divers consider the best picking. I am grabbing and stuffing bags as quickly as possible. The sweet air from the compressor is filling my chest as I pant from exertion.
  Good picking for me is about 20 minutes per bag. Right now I’m sending them up every 10 to 15 minutes… great picking.
  The seven bags I have taken down with me seem to vanish in no time. I slowly ascend to the surface with my last bag. I hand it to mike, spit out the regulator and shout above the noisy machines.
  “You doing OK?”
   “Great!” mike yells back.
  “I need a new stack of bags.”
   Mike helps me up on the back of the boat as he stuffs my dive bag with seven new bags. We are both giddy about the great picking.
  We only have untill noon today on this opening. Not much time considering how far behind we are from yesterday’s mishaps, but we are sure giving it the old college try.
  It seems in no time at all I feel the tug, tug, tug on my air hose signaling me to come to surface. Mike wants to talk to me.
  “Time is up!” he shouts when my head breaks water.
  I know I have sent up a lot of bags but I am not sure how many.  I’ve replenished my seven bag stock several times.
   “I think we’ve got them all,” Mike says once all the noisy machines are shut down. “I’m pretty sure you’ve picked enough to make 2,000 pounds for the two days.”
  We clean up the deck and motor to the tender. We are the first boat in line. We bucket our catch into his hoist system to be weighed.
  Sure enough, we have just made our total poundage for the day and a half opening. Two thousand pounds!
  It is an exciting run to town chatting about the past day and a half. Who would have thought a couple of old duffers could have made up that much ground after being behind so much on the first day.
 We are both exhausted, but do a good clean up of the boat before heading home.

 It will take a couple of days for both of us to get over the sore muscles, but with money in our pockets and smiles on our faces… life is great!

Diving for Cucumbers

Cold water seeped from my neck, down my chest, into my right arm, and finally down my legs. Bitingly cold. Sea cumbers were everywhere. I was picking as fast as I possibly could trying to ignore the cold that was quickly taking over my body.

  Mike (the guy I hire to tend my dive boat) and I left Sunday evening to race to our secret spot, drop anchor, and spend the night guarding our opening dive area. When we approached the dive area we were greeted by a wave of anchored boats. “I guess we were not the only ones with this idea, “ I grumbled to Mike as we cruised our way between the boats.

  We found our little niche spot without a boat on top of it and dropped our hook. We enjoyed a meal as darkness fell on the quite ocean world.

  Monday morning we were up at five getting things ready for the dive opening at eight. Boats were jockeying for positions, but all left us alone. A  big tug came through towing a barge and barked on the radio about not having much room to navigate through the dive fleet. “This might get interesting,” we commented.

  Mike counted me down to the final minute of eight while a big Alaska State Trooper boat idled through making sure we did not start one minute too soon.

  I found great picking right off the start and picked five bags in a hurry. Mike tugged my air hose to signal me to the surface. The kicker motor control cable had snapped.

  We spent a good hour repairing the control cable and at last I was back on the bottom searching for sea cumbers. That is when the cold water began seeping into my dry suit.

  Forty degree water saps ones strength in a hurry. I know a lot about hypothermia, and am very careful to keep myself in check. I needed to pick 2,000 pounds of cucumbers in a day and a half to get my quota, but time out of the water makes it nearly impossible to get the poundage. I pick one more bag and send it up. I am shivering like crazy and my teeth are chattering on the regulator.

  “Just a couple more bags and I’ll go up,” I keep telling myself. I pick hard trying to work my body to keep the heat up, but each time I press the equalize air button on my dive suit a new blast of cold water enters to chill my core again.

  At last I cannot feel my fingers. Time to come up.  I inflate the suit and watch my computer to make sure I don’t ascend to quickly and get the bends. My feet hit bottom. I look down, not believing what I feel. I have gone down and not up! I press my air button again. I feel air rush out my neck seal but still I am not heading for the surface.

  My fingers are so numb I am using the back of my thumb knuckle to push the air button, and I’m swimming hard to get up. At 13 feet I come to a standstill. It is crazy. I could drop my bag of cucumbers and get up or I could dump my weight belt and blast to the surface, or I could one hand climb my air hose… Just then I am yanked up by my air hose. Mike is hand over hand pulling me in! Super!

  Mikes eyes are big as he shouts, “ The air compressor belt broke, you have not air!”

  He helps me on board and we shut down the machines. I find my neck seal has blown out completely. I am soaked and freezing cold. I ask Mike to keep and eye on me as I warm up to make sure I don’t become overcome with hypothermia. We decided to sell our meager catch and head to town for repairs.

  Dive one is half over.

LUCKY TO BE ALIVE

  My wife and I watched as the big blow hit town. The weather service was calling for 40 knot blows out on the ocean. "Should have the commercial fleet scurrying to town," I commented

Little did we know the drama that was unfolding at that time on the ocean just a short 20 miles from our comfortable house.

  One of my friends who charters, dives, and dabbles in commercial trolling was, at that very time fighting for his life.

  Stonie (we call him Mac) and his deck hand, 19 year old Ryan were trolling off Cape Edgecumbe when the weather blew up. They knew the forecast, but due to some problems with the troll gear delayed their run

to town. Once they got things squared away the wind was pushing some large waves into their path to town.

  They were fishing out of Macs 28 foot bow picker aluminum boat, the Kaitlin Rae.

  As the wind pushed the rollers into breakers, they battled their way into the growing sea. They took a big wave over the bow filling the front to the house in an instant.

The boat started foundering only to be hit in the stern by another huge wave. The boat rolled over before they could get a Mayday call on the radio. They tried getting their survival suits out but the boat

sank out from under them. It was about 1:00 pm Friday.

  One of the fish totes from the boat floated by and the two men swam to it. Mac helped Ryan get into the tote but could not get himself up over the three foot side himself. He found a tote lid nearby and clung to that

Then a fortunate stroke of fate happened, one of the survival suits became dislodged from the sunken boat and floated to the surface near Mac. He was able to swim over and retrieve it.

  As the waves reached 8 foot in height, and the wind howled, the two became separated. As they drifted apart Ryan shouted to Mac, "We're not going to die here!"

  Mac was able to get into the survival suit in the water, not an easy task in a calm swimming pool, let alone a raging ocean with wind tossed waves.

  The long drift had begun. No one was aware of their problems until they did not return home that evening. At midnight the families declared an emergency and called the coast guard. A rescue helicopter was dispatched to the general area the men were supposed to be fishing. They could be anywhere.

  Daylight Saturday a massive hunt was underway. Sitka's search and rescue was called upon, troopers were out as well as the fishing fleet and the coast guard in their choppers.

  I received a call from my friend, Scott, saying Mac was in trouble. I turned on my radio and we listened for hours as the search continued.

  Our thoughts were that no one could survive that long in the water. If they made it to the beach they might have a chance, if there were no hungry bears getting to them first.

  After 24 hours a trooper boat spotted someone on the beach waving his arms. Mac! He had drifted from the corner of the cape to Point Amelia, about 12 nautical miles.

  Some 26 hours after the boat went down one of the fishing boat happened upon a floating fish tote. The captain of the Nerka motored up to it with high hopes only to find it empty. He scanned the sea again to see another fish tote floating... this one had a young man waving frantically from inside it! The captain contacted the coast guard chopper and they swooped over to pluck a freezing Ryan up to safety.

Ryan had drifted about 17 nautical miles straining to keep the tote floating upright in the raging waves. His hands were blistered and he could hardly straighten his legs from the long strain.

  I am so thankful these two good men survived.

  Living on the ocean is fraught with danger. We all face it on a daily basis. One can never take the ocean for granted. You must respect its raging power.

  A happy ending to a harrowing ordeal.

  We all breathed a, "thank you Lord", when we heard the chopper pilot radio com center Juneau with the report, "Roger Juneau, we have the survivor on board and are heading to Sitka Air station."

Drop By Visitors

  It seems rude nowadays to perform a drop by visit on someone, as used to be common in days gone by. Now one must call, e-mail, or text to obtain "permission" to stop by and see someone. Kind of sad, in my opinion, as those used to be some of the best visits one could have.

  Things are very different on the ocean. Drop by visits are common, and most of the time welcome. The interesting part of the drop by visits is that you never know who or what your visitor will be.

  I was sitting here trying to think of all the visitors we had around the boat this summer. Of course, the big whales come to mind first. They seem to get your attention by bellowing out a monstrous plume of air and water... hard to ignore. Killer Whales are not as boisterous, but also get your attention right away. When you see a six foot tall fin cut through the wave, you tend to take notice.

Sea Lions seem to be constant visitors, but they are certainly not a welcome guest, as they are looking for something on your hook they can steal for an easy meal.

  We had a little seal pup come around the boat for a curious look, but he did not give us time to film him before heading back to his hiding place in the kelp.

  Then there are the birds. Each day I drop the hook to anchor for halibut the birds come. Sometimes it will be one lonely bird, but most of the time they swarm around the boat hoping for scraps and kibbles to eat. The clients and I really enjoy these drop by visitors. We have the usual gulls, terns, one day a frigate bird, murres, storm petrels, shearwaters, fulmars, and the graceful flying albatross.

  I must say the albatross is one of my favorite visitors. They are a friendly bird and come right next to the boat.

When an albatross takes flight off the ocean he must run on the water to gain speed. It looks like a big B52 bomber lumbering down a runway gaining air speed to fly.

Once the albatross is in the air it transform into the most graceful glider you have ever seen. The spread their long wings and skim the ocean surface with a wing tip

just caressing its surface. Even in rough ocean these wonderful birds can skim the surface and never crash into a steep cresting wave.

Albatross are some of the worst begging birds in the ocean. They will sit at the back of the boat for hours on end hoping for a scrap of fish meat.

The albatross will not eat the guts of fish. I have tossed them out into the ocean and the big birds lunge on them, sample them, then spit them out. They always

then wash their beaks out in the ocean as if to say,"yuck, why did you toss that stuff out!"

  Albatross are meat eaters. They can eat a floating rock fish in no time at all. the big beak rips meat apart in a hurry.

  One day this summer we had our usual gathering of birds doing their drop in visits, when a client commented, "Hey look, one of these big birds has a band on his leg."

  sure enough an albatross was wearing a bright band on his leg. I grabbed my camera and snapped a few photos trying to get a close up to read the band number.

I'm sure the birds are banded on the nesting grounds north of us for some type of research.

  As we watched the banded bird we soon realized that he was banded on both legs.

  I snapped a few more pictures and then it was back to fishing.

  I am always thankful for the drop by visitors on the ocean, but when I really think about it, I am more thankful for the drop by, unannounced visits from friends. It  does not bother me at all. If we are too busy to take time for friends, then we really need to reorganize our lives and make room for a friendly visit every once in a while.

A SPLASH OF COLOR

                Rain. It seemed this summer was made of rain. Each day started with pouring rain, but ususally settled into a mist or just a drizzle.
Soggy attitudes seemed to develop among the guides as days of rain turned into months.
  Out on the ocean there are only three colors during the rain, sky gray, mountain gray, and ocean gray. Each has a little different shade of gray.
  It is now August and still the rain continues. The clients and I finish a good morning of salmon fishing and I drop the hook (anchor) for halibut.
I quickly clean the slamon, using the salmon guts and gills for halibut bait.
  Each client drops a baited hook to the bottom in hopes of a halbut.
  I am inside the cabin filling out the log book for the morning salmon fishing when I hear a client exclaim, "Look at this bird!"
I glance out the window and there is a beautiful splash of color bobbing on the ocean behind the boat.
  "It's a Puffin," I exclaim.
  The little puffin is very close to the boat diving for the needle fish I had washed out the scuppers when I cleaned the salmon.
We all race for our cameras and click away. The little puffin seems to know he is the star of the show.
The rain is now forgotton as we ooh and ahh over his majestic head color.
  It always amazes me how one little splash of color can turn a drippy seeming summer into something bright.
  The clients and I chat about the little bird all the way back to the dock.
  If your world seems three shades of grey, look around for that one little splash of color. It sure can brighten your life.

Fireweed Signals The End of Summer

We are blessed in Alaska to have a beautiful wild flower (weed to the locals) which blooms during the beginning of August.

The fireweed blooms in a strange way. It starts with purple flowers at the bottom and slowly progresses to the top. Day after day

we can pass by the fireweed patches and observe the steady progression of the blooms.

  The sad part of the fireweed bloom is that once the purple blooms reach the top summer is over. It is kind of like the opposite

of the ball in New York dropping on New Year's night.

  Right now it is the second week of August and the fireweed has reached half of its march to the top. As August draws to its

close the fireweed blossoms will also reach their end and both close out as the weather of fall descends on Alaska.

  The weather forecasts start leaning towards more extreme winds, much more rain, and the front’s descend in much closer secessions.

  Summer is drawing to a close and the beautiful fireweed signals its farewell in a grand salute.

Surprises

  Every time I think I've seen it all the ocean throws another surprise at me. Today it came while fishing for king salmon.
I dropped the troll gear to 200 feet deep skimming the bottom, when the line snapped out of the downrigger clip. One of the clients raced to the rod and the battle began. The King made an aggressive run burning line off the reel. I was busy clearing the other side
and getting the downriggers out of the way. Jobs done I gave my attention to the struggling client. The big king was now fighting straight below the boat. It did not run, but rather, just seemed like a huge heavy weight bending the rod completely over.
  The client worked and worked on the big king. At last we could see a glimer of king salmon silver slowly coming out of the deep.
  I had the net ready. Something was not looking right. The king was coming up head first with its tail pointing at the bottom of the ocean.
  Kings normally run in long, line stripping lunges. This King just hung straight up.
  Suddenly I realized what I was looking at. A big ling cod had a death grip on the King's tail.
  "You've got a Ling cod hanging on your King," I shouted to the client.
  We all stood in amazement as the pair of fish came out of the depths and into net range.
 I knew I only had one chance to get both fish into the net. One touch of the net on the ling cod and I knew it would quickly release its death grip and head back to the bottom.
 I drove the net deep under the pair and surprisingly came up with both of them.
  We danced around the boat hi fiving each other.
  The King was a keeper but the ling cod was too large under Alaska law and had to be released, after some great pictures.
I love the great surprises the ocean gives to those living the wild life.

Tangled but Triumphant

Once again we were halibut fishing. I had the clients in deep water, over 500 feet.
We had a couple nice keepers on board but were still looking for one more to finish off the day's limit.
  One of the rods snapped down and bowed under the weight of a heavy fish. My youngest client was manning the rod and leapt into action reeling as hard as he could to set the hook.
  After the hook set he began the battle of inches to gain line back on the reel. He would crank a little and the fish would take a lot.
You can tell a big fish almost as soon as it is hooked. The throb on the rod tip is enormous. A little halibut bounces the rod tip in small dips. A big halibut will telegraph a couple feet pull down each time the big fish throbs his tail. I knew this was a big fish.
  The young client would reel the fish twenty feet or so off the bottom, only to have the monster burn line off the drag and race right back down.
The battle had begun.
  Quite some time later the big fish was nearly half way to the surface and things were going well. The young client was pacing himself so he did not burn his arms out reeling in the fish.
  I still had the other clients lines out, as most big halibut are not in our slot limit and must be released once we determine they are not quite over the 68 inches required to be a legal keeper halibut.
  At last the big fish was nearing the surface. I had the line in my hands and was slowly hand over hand bringing it up for our first look. I felt a big throb on the line and knew it was going to make a run.
  "Hang on, it's going to run," I shouted to the client. He braced himself on the rail of the boat and just held on to the rod for dear life.
Line was burning off the reel as the big fish made a run.
Pow! The 90 pound braid line parted. The client fell back as the strain snapped off the rod.
  "No!" I shouted, "It broke the line!"
  Very rarely do I ever have a fish break the line. I have the drags set so that does not happen.
 I was consoling the young man when the clients on the other side of the boat said they had fish on their lines. I went over to assist. Sure enough both rods were throbbing in the usual big fish pattern. Something did not look right. Both of their lines went toward the bow of the boat and merged together. There should be about nine feet between lines, not a triangle look of the lines coming together.
  I raced to the bow of the boat to see where the anchor line was. It was right under the boat where the two lines seemed to be heading.
  "Oh no," I moaned. "That fish ran around all the other lines, around the anchor line, and then snapped off." I grabbed the anchor line and could feel the big fish throbbing on it.
  I raced back to the clients to inform them.
  "We have one option here," I told them. "We are going to have to pull the anchor by hand until we get to the tangle. I'm sure the big fish will break the line before we get to it, but  we have to try."
  I took the young man and one other client to the bow with me and we began heaving the heavy anchor line by hand. We would, all three in unison, "heave" and I would cleat off the line gained.
The next heave and cleat.
  At last I looked down and saw the tangle of lines around the anchor line, and a huge halibut still hanging as well!
  I raced back to the deck and retrieved a shark hook tied to a long line, and my trusty gaff hook.
  Back up front I informed the two guys that once we tried to lift the big fish out of the water to try and shark hook it, it would go crazy and probably break the line, but that was our only option.
  We slowly heaved the anchor line until the big fish's head broke surface. Sure enough, he went crazy. The line held. I grabbed the line with the gaff and the big fish lunged ripping the gaff out of my hand.
"Quick, get the net and catch my gaff," I shouted to the young man. He retrieved the net and made a great snag on the gaff.
"Now I need a knife from the bait bucket," I pleaded.
I was lying on my belly reaching over the bow pulpit as far down off the bow of the boat as I could. When the knife arrived I lifted the big fish up and got the shark hook into its jaw. "Now the knife!"
 I cut all the tangled line and finally had the fish free of the anchor line.
 We battled the fish all the way to the back of the boat and then brought it on board. What a giant. Stretching a tape on it, it measured 72.5 inches, booking out at about 200 pounds.
  I had to go back and free the other three lines from the anchor line by cutting and splicing, but knowing we had saved the big fish for the young man was well worth it.
 With our final fish on board we high-fived and headed for town.

Killer Whales

 Another great day was coming to an end. The clients chatted about catching fish as I motored the boat past St. Lazaria Island towards Shoals Point.
  St. Lazaria is quite an island. It is a nesting ground for many of the sea birds that are in our area. Puffins nest in the grass on the topside of the island. Murres nest on the cliff sides of the big caves on the west end of the island. Thick green grass covers the rocks up to tree line. The thick
Sitkan trees take over and squeeze out the grass on the top of the rock pile.
  I looked ahead and noticed something flash in the water ahead. "Probably a log or some kelp," I thought to myself, concentrating a little more.
  A huge fin sliced out of the water and into the air.
  "Killer Whale!" I shouted.
  More fins broke surface. We had a family of whales headed our way.
  I dropped the throttles into neutral, letting the boat settle quietly to rest.
  Everyone grabbed cameras and crowded the rail.
The big whales came right at us like we were just part of their great ocean.
  There was a big finned bull, a smaller finned cow, and a very small finned calf.
  "A family group of Orcas," I commented to the clients as they clicked picture after picture as the whales broke surface.
  The whales cruised just a few yards away from our drifting boat, never breaking stride in their rhythm of swim, blow, swim and blow.
  "What an incredible sight" one of the clients commented.
I totally agreed. As much time as I spend on the ocean and see such amazing sights, I still never tire of seeing whales, birds, otters, sea lions, and most of all, killer whales.
  As we approached town we all agreed that we had been blessed with one of the most amazing sights of Alaska.

Catch of the Day

 Finishing salmon early, I decided to take my client to one of my favorite deep water halibut holes.
After dropping the anchor in 550 feet I cleaned the salmon to get the guts and gills for fresh halibut bait.
I grabbed as much bait on the big twelve ott circle hook as it would hold.
  "Once that gets on the bottom the big flatties should come running. No good self respecting halibut could turn down a meal like that," I encouraged the client.
 "Is there really a bottom here," I heard him say quite some time later, as his bait and sinker still plummeted towards the sea floor deep below.
  At last his line bottomed out and went slack.
  "Give it four or five cranks up off the bottom, "I instructed, watching as he cranked the slack out of the line. The bait and sinker were hanging nicely.
  "Ok, sit back and watch for the tap on the tip of the rod," I said.
  We sat eating cookies and visiting for a while.
  First came the rock fish. We landed some nice yellow eyes and a tiger rock fish. Off to a good start.
  The first halibut up was a small one. It was legal but not what I was looking for. "Are you sure?" questioned the client as I tossed the small halibut overboard.
  "No guarantees, but I think we can do better than that," I replied.
  The client's rod slammed in a hard bend, "Get it, crank like crazy!" I cheered him on. He was cranking like crazy.
  "OK, slow down and pace yourself," I instructed, "You have a long, long way to go."
  The big fish really fought, but finally we managed to bring it on board. It weighed a nice 108 pounds. Not one we could keep but a very nice fish.
  "That is the largest fish I've ever caught," the client told me as we snapped several photo's. I tossed the big fish over the side and watched him blast towards the bottom as soon as he touched the water.
  We baited the hook and sent it back to the bottom.
  In just a short while the rod once again bowed towards the ocean surface.
  "Fish on!"
  After another long battle on already burning arm muscles another huge halibut head broke the surface. It was a monster!
  I shark hooked it and then asked the client to grab a hook and help. Together we huffed and puffed and muscled the big fish on board.
  It was larger than I had thought.
  "This is definitely a keeper," I said looking at my measurements on my boat deck. We needed the big fish to be longer than 68 inches.
This one stretched to 70.5 inches! A true monster.
  Looking at the tide book measurement chart, the big fish looks to be about 180 pounds.
  "I can't believe it," the client kept saying over and over, while staring at the huge fish laying on deck.
  We packed up the boat and headed for town. Once we hit calm water we paused for some nice pictures.
  What a day, and what a great fish.

The Long Drift

 "Hey what is that over there?" the client asked as he pointed to something in the ocean.
  "Looks red like a jerry jug gas can," I replied.
   Just this morning I had spoken with another one of our guides who showed me a jerry jug he had found floating in the ocean the day before.
  "Look at the writing on it," Paul had said. I looked and then did a double take. It was in Japanese.
  Telling the client to keep the faded red jug in sight, I turned the boat in a wide loop so as not to tangle the lines I was trolling.
It took some maneuvering of the boat, but finally I was lined up and heading to the orange jug.
  I netted the jug and brought it on board.
  "Look at the writing," I commented to the client. His eyes bugged out a little. 
  "What is that?" he asked.
  "It is Japanese," I informed him. I then went on to explain how a lot of the debris from the tsunami was now reaching our coast of Alaska.
  We had a good time looking over the jug and talking about how far this very jug must have drifted.
  We took many pictures of the jug, and then got back to fishing.
   "Sure hope there is not radiation on that jug," the client said some time later.
  I had not even considered that. "I hope not myself," I said as I looked at my gloves I had just been handling the jug with.
  We enjoyed a good day of fishing, but all through the day I would look up and see the red jug and think about it floating from Japan since March 2011 only to be discovered in Sitka, Alaska in June 2012.  Just one tiny piece of rubble from all the destruction that had hit their coast.
  I would love to know where the jug had been washed from. Maybe a marina along the coast. Perhaps it had been stored inside a boat before the boat was lost in the big quake after shocks.
  Who knows? I will keep the pictures of the jug as a reminder that even though an ocean may separate us, we are still connected as humans on this earth.

Some times the big ones don't get away

  We had a great day of halibut fishing today. After limiting on our king salmon we anchored over deep water for halibut.  I had to apologize for the depth of the water... it was over 500 feet deep.

 We had just dropped the four lines to the bottom when the rockfish started pecking at the bait. Twitch, twitch, the rod tips wiggled. We managed three nice tiger rock fish before the first rod signaled halibut.
  Big Halibut! "Wait... wait..." the rod finally bowed to the ocean nearly dipping its tip into the salt water. "Get him now! Reel, Reel, reel!" I shouted, as the client burned the reel handle into the big fish.
  I could see he was reeling as fast as he could but the line was burning OFF the reel and not onto it. I tightened the drag as the big fish continued taking line.
  "Wait him out. It's all you can do," I coached, "get back on him as soon as he stops running."
  At last the big fish slowed and stopped.
  "Now get back to reeling and see if we can turn his head off the bottom," I said.
  The battle had just begun. Each time the line seemed to be coming on the reel the big fish would make another charge to the bottom.
It took some time but eventually the big runs became less and less.
  "You've got him coming up now, just keep his head pointed up. When you stop to rest he will turn over and head back to the bottom."
 We finally had the big fish to the side of the boat and ready to bring on board. As gently as I could I slid him onto the deck.
 The halibut was tired enough that it never wiggled on the deck. We laid it out on my measurements. It was a whopping 67 inches long.
One inch short of being a keeper under our halibut laws of this season.
  We quickly took pictures and slid his huge body back into the sea. With a monster woosh of his tail he disappeared into the inky depths.
 That was our big one for the day. He booked out at 155.6 pounds. We also had a 135 pounder, a 125 pounder, a 77 pounder and a 50 pounder.
All released according to the law.
We did manage to fill our limits of four halibut under 45 inches for the legal limit.
What a great day of fishing.

  Sometimes the big ones don't get away, but rather, are turned loose to fight another day.

Two for One

"FISH ON!" shouted the client as he leaned into the reel handle.

  "Crank, crank, crank!" I shouted back, watching his rod tip to determine what kind of bottom fish he was dealing with.

  We were halibut fishing at Jurassic Park ( a place we have named for the amount of huge fish caught there), hoping for a two hundred  pound halibut.

  Rock fish usually come before the halibut, and the "Park" is teeming with big Ling Cod.

  "Looks like a rock fish," I commented to a client standing near me. The rod was not bent all that far over and was jiggling like  a rock fish wiggle.

  I turned my back to bait a hook of another client when the guy reeling shouted, Captain, the line is not coming in!"

  "It has to be," I said as I made my way to his bending rod.

  Sure enough his rod was bent double like a big fish and the drag was spinning instead of bringing in line.

  "What in the world?"

  "I was reeling in just fine and all of a sudden the rod bent way over and the line stopped coming in," he replied.

I tightened his drag as much as I thought the 90 pound test line would handle left him to his reeling.

  "Use the waves to help you pump the fish in," I offered, "Don't just try to muscle him all the way or you'll burn your arms out.

We were fishing in 350 feet of water and that is a long, long way if you try to muscle a fish all the way as fast as you can reel.

  It took quite a while before the line gave signs of the fish getting close to the boat.

  I grabbed the line with my gloved hands and began gently working the fish out of the depths below the boat.

  "It's a rock fish," said one client, but instantly the other client leaning over, said, "it's a Ling Cod."

  As the fish came into my view there was quite a sight. Two fish in one!

  Sure enough the client had hooked a big Yellow Eye Rockfish, but soon after hooking it a huge Ling Cod swallowed it head first.

  I grabbed the leader and lifted both fish into the boat. The Ling Cod was not hooked at all but refused to let go of his hard earned meal.

I worked the hook out of the rock fish and we took many pictures of the Rockfish Ling Cod combination.

 The Ling Cod was much too large for our slot limit so we had to release him.

  We were catching several Yellow Eye Rock fish so I asked the clients if they would allow me to leave the rock fish in the Ling Cod's mouth so he could finish his hard earned meal. We all agreed.

  It was fun watching the big cod swim out of sight with a big orange rock fish firmly inside his mouth.

  It's not every day you can catch a two for one like that.

Whale of a Tale

I anchored the boat so the clients could jig up some rock fish. Looking at the fish finder I was surprised to see clouds of krill moving under the boat. That could either be a good thing, or have the rock fish so full of fresh krill that they would not be hungry for our jigs.

  We had observed whales blowing most of the day, but it seemed they remained just out of camera range.

  The rock fish were hungry and the clients began a steady jig, set the hook, reeled in rock fish, and back for more.

  Suddenly out of nowhere a bellowing, whistling, scream erupted right off the stern of the boat. We all jumped and had our hearts flutter in our chests. A massive whale had come up right off our stern and blasted his steaming breath in the rain soaked air with

nearly deafening sound effects.

  Rods were quickly stuck in the rod holders and bodies went flying into the cabin for cameras.

  We spent nearly the next hour filming a whale show that was nothing short of incredible.

  There were cows with calves, big bulls, and other younger loner whales working the mass of krill floating near the surface around us.

  The big bull whale was so distinctive with his bellowing screaming blow. It almost brought chills each time he surfaced.

  The whales would skim the surface with mouths open and the upper portion of their faces out of the water, scooping huge mouthfuls of krill. Others would slash the surface with their huge side fins, but one cow with a calf would stand on her head and

send sheets of water flying as she smashed into the krill with her massive tail.

  We burned a huge amount of memory as our cameras clicked and clicked at the show around us.

What an incredible experience it was. As much as I'm out on the ocean and get to watch these enormous beasts, I never tire of the show they put on.

  It was one whale of a show for sure.

Fishing season opens with a bang

  Our charter fishing season opened with a bang. Not as you would imagine, but rather, with stormy weather.
We tried getting out the first day to face 10 foot seas and gale force winds.
  My clients tried to tough it out, but by noon wanted to find the comfort of a solid dock, not that I blamed them. Sea sickness is not a fun event.
  Our second day found the waves and wind down to manageable conditions. We hammered the king salmon, then found limits of halibut, and a couple of yellow eye rockfish to round out the day.

  It was so enjoyable to share the time with two fathers and their sons. It sure brings back my memories of so many trips fishing with my dad.

Feeding the Lion

A friend, Mike, and I took the boat out for a shake down fishing trip yesterday.

The weather was marginal, blowing 25 on 11 foot seas, so we decided to run inside a tangle of islands to fish tucked insideBiorka Island.

  We left the dock at 5:30 am and road the big swells until we could get inside the islands past Long Island. The ride from there was very mild. Sea Otters were everywhere. They floated on their backs cracking shells of clams for their breakfast. 

  When we rounded the corner near Biorka we spotted whales puffing steamy breath into the crisp morning air. Birds were diving for the schools of bait fish swarming beneath the surface.

  "I guess this is a great place to start fishing," I told Mike.

  We trolled for nearly an hour without so much as a bite.

  We decided to head over by the Monkey Cliffs to try our normal fishing grounds. We had trolled only a few minutes when the first rod snapped out of the downrigger clip. Fish On!

  Mike snatched the rod out of the holder and began working the fish.

 "Fish on!" I yelled as the second rod snapped into action. I grabbed it out of the holder and tied into a big King Salmon. It was stripping line off the reel like crazy.

  Poof. Mike's fish came unbuttoned. He reeled in the flasher and bait.

  My fish suddenly went from a good fight to a blistering run with line screaming off the drag. "What in the world?" I questioned.

 This just doesn't seem right.

  I had no longer voiced that thought than the line streaked for the surface. Kings rarely jump so this was not good.

  A huge head broke surface with a very nice King Salmon in its mouth.

  "Sea lion!" I shouted to Mike.

  I was pulling as hard as I could without breaking the line, my thumb pinned the line to the reel as hard as I cold hold.

  The Sea lion shook the fish violently above the surface scattering fragments everywhere. Seagulls came bombing in for easy meals.

  I suddenly was given slack in the line and reeled as quickly as I could turn the reel handle, pumping the rod to gain even more time on the Sea lion.

  I reeled in a King Salmon head on a hook. It had bitten the fish off right behind the gill plate.

  We stood and watched as the huge animal slowly finished his meal of our fish!

  We got the boat back into shape and started trolling, watching for the lion. Sure enough, he was plastered to our boat. He would swim along with us off to one side,

take a deep breath and then cruise down to check our two lines. We would watch him on our fish finder, a big red streak heading down to our shallow line, then on down to our deep line.

  We hooked eight big Kings but with the lion cruising nearby were only able to land one. It sure was frustrating. All we wanted was a couple of fresh fish to eat,

but instead fed five big Kings to a huge ravenous Lion.

  Living wild in Alaska is never easy, but does come with some great adventure.

Sea Otters

   "What in the world?" I was sitting in my recliner looking out over the ocean. It looked like a big log floating through Western

Channel. "That would sure bugger up a boat if they hit that on the way in tonight," I thought, as I grabbed the binoculars for a closer look.

  The "Log" suddenly came to life as I cranked up the power on the bino's. Sea Otters!

  I raced to set up the spotting scope for a closer look.

  "You've got to see this!" I sputtered to my wife, "You won't believe your eyes!"

  She raced over to peer into the lens.

  "Wow! Look at all of those Otters!" she murmured as she squinted for a better view.

  The otters were about a half mile from our window and were moving at a quick pace with the wind and tide. It was a trick to keep them in the

spotting scope view.

  "There must be over 50 otters in that raft," I said, adjusting once again to keep up with them.

  "I've never seen so many in one group," René commented, "especially this close to town.”

  I certainly have never observed a raft of that many sea otters this close to town. I have traveled into bays where thousands of them were rafted for the winter, but that was a full day's run from Sitka. These little buggers were right outside of town.

  Goodbye crabs, clams, and any other shell fish that might be living under them.

  It sure was fun spending the evening observing them. Better than watching Planet Earth for sure.

  I love living in a place where the wild is so close at hand.

Free cookies

I was checking out at our local fishing gear store yesterday when a typical funny Sitka thing happened.
Pat and I were chatting while he rang up my purchase when the door of the store opened and in strolled a fisherman. Nothing strange about that, but as he opened the door a huge Heinz 57 dog burst into the store. He raced for me at the counter, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack. He screeched to a stop then muscled his way beside me so he could stand with his front feet on the counter and look the clerk straight in the eye!
  "Why hello dog," Pat said, not a bit surprised. I was still calming my nerves from the potential dog attack.
  Pat and I both looked at the fisherman who had just walked in.
  "Your dog?" I asked.
  "Nope. Never seen him before," was his casual reply as he strolled back into the store.
  "Ok dog," the clerk said to the huge towering dog leaning over the counter, "come around and I'll give you a cookie."
  The big dog bounded behind the counter to his wonderful treat.
  "Sit... sit, if you want a cookie," Pat told the begging dog.  The big dog plopped his rear down, then received his treat.
He wolfed the big dog cookie down, then stood begging for another one.
  "Nope, that's all you get," the clerk said. "Now get back out the door!"
  The big dog found his way around the counter and headed for the door. He waited until it opened when another fisherman came in and headed out onto the sidewalk.
  "Whose dog is that?" I asked Pat.
  "No idea at all. He just comes in every once in a while for his cookie treat all by himself. He must head back home once he gets back out the door.
  "There are a few dogs in town that come in by themselves to get the cookies," Pat informed me.
  We both got a good chuckle about the beggars in town being dogs, not people.
  "Oh by the way, could I get a couple dog cookies for my two beggars waiting in the truck?" I asked as I headed for the door.
  Sure enough, my two were waiting for the cookies when I opened the door of the truck! Boy, did they enjoy the treat!