Christmas Alaska Style

Many years ago... I think either 1995 or 1996 I spent a Christmas to remember... Diving.
  Scott and I had teamed up diving for Abalone for the month of October. We met other divers who informed us that there were other options to keep us busy for most of the winter. Diving for Sea Cucumbers.
  During those years of Abalone diving, the season for Cucumbers did not open until the first of November and would go into January as the quota of harvest remained strong.
  It was mid December by the time the close to town quota was harvested forcing us to make a two day run from Sitka to a Bay on the far side of Chatham Straits, called Tebenkof. Scott was called by a friend just days before we left asking us to haul a complete camp of tents and other supplies as the dive group had no boat and planned on staying for a full month until the dive season closed. We ran with another friend and troller, Jay, who had a boat named the Lillian Ann.
  It was bitter cold and Jay talked us into hauling some old scraps of carpet with us. That would come in very handy we were to find out.
  Chatham Strait was unusually calm for our trip down and we made great time. We cruised into Tebenkof early in the afternoon the day before the opening. All our dive ares were on a Monday - Tuesday dive time.
  Scott and I were diving off an eighteen foot aluminum skiff that we towed behind Scott's big troller, the Elizabeth Ann. We had an old fisherman for our tender, Bill. Bill was in his seventies or eighties, strong as an ox and a mechanical genius. Anything that broke, Bill could figure out how to fix it. A real blessing to have on a dive operation.
  We anchored the Elizabeth Ann in a quiet bay and enjoyed a relaxing evening.
  To bed early in anticipation of a grueling hard day tomorrow.
  At about one or two in the night we woke up to a horrific sound. A grinding crushing sound of wood being ripped open.
  "We mush have dragged off anchor and are crashing into the beach!" on of us shouted as we bailed out of bed and fired up the boat spot light.
  No shore close, but what we saw was unbelievable. The bay had frozen over and the out going tide pulled all the solid ice right into our anchored boat.
  "Quick, get the skiff untied and break ice so it does not cut the wooden hull in half!" Scott shouted.
  Bill and I raced outside to biting cold. Back inside for more clothing and then to the skiff tied to the back of the boat.
  Scott had the Elizabeth Ann's engine fired up and was pulling anchor rope in as quickly as the winch would wind. He needed to get to the heavy chain before the ice sliced the poly line in two.
  Bill and I drove the skiff around the Elizabeth Ann to its bow and began weaving back and forth in front of the boat to break the huge bay of frozen ice racing to the helpless boat.
  Scott was quickly getting the carpet scraps tied to lines and hung over the side and into the water. The carpet would protect the wooden hull... if he could get it in place quickly enough.
  Back and forth, back and forth Bill and I ran the little metal boat grinding and breaking ice. It was a nasty sound to anyone who cares about boats and motors. We just hoped the ice would break before the thin aluminum hull. Throughout the early morning we would switch running the skiff to come inside and warm up.
  Darkness gave way to dawn at about eight thirty and we were still grinding away in the little skiff. Hands and feet were frozen, as was ears and noses, but we could not stop, our lives depended on us making this work.
  At daylight the last of the ice moved past us and we tied the skiff to the mother boat. Exhausted, we staggered into the warm house and fell into soft seats.
  "Well boys, Bill said, "Diving starts in about an hour so if you guys want to get into your dive suits, I'll rummage up something for breakfast.''
   Starting a six hour dive day totally exhausted is not the way to do things, but we had no choice... and we were young.
  Scott and I dove in that freezing cold water all day, and the next one as well. Sometimes Bill would have to use the skiff to break ice as it drifted towards our yellow dive hoses. He did not want a big slab of ice to cut our air hose and leave us on the bottom airless.
  We spoke to Jay while selling our catch at the tender. He too had found a bay full of ice, but had thought ahead and had his carpet hanging the night before. They were able to sleep through most of the grinding knowing that at least his hull was safe from cuts.
  The group that we hauled the tent for opted for staying on Jay's boat as it was much warmer than staying on the beach in a couple feet of snow in a tent.
  We Dove for a couple of weeks in Tebenkof before the quota was caught.
  Christmas morning found us tied to a dock at a little waterfall, hot springs place called Baranof Warm Springs.
  The snow was a few feet deep and blanketed the entire place. A huge waterfall plunged out of a high mountain lake in a boiling sheet of white water. Ice coated the edges of the falls making this Christmas morning one of the most beautiful any of us had ever seen.
  We soaked in some hot tubs we cleared of snow and filled with the natural running hot water. Talk about a great time.
  I found a small branch from a pine tree and made us a small Christmas Tree to put on the table of the boat. We shared a meal with Jay and the other divers. I think there were eight of us. All of us thanking the Good Lord for His blessings.
  It certainly was a Christmas to remember, Alaska style!

Shower Dance

  Commercial fishing has a certain poetic appeal to the outside world. The real story is much different to those brave enough to attempt to make a living chasing ocean fish.
  I lived on a small boat for seven years. The house living area would be about the size of a camper on a Volkswagen. Always damp, even with the stove going, I learned to stack my clothes and sleeping equipment out of the constant leaks developed by a wooden boat pounding daily on the North Pacific Ocean. Romantic... hardly! To bathe one had to heat a kettle of water on the diesel stove and pour into a pan to take a sponge bath, crude at best.
  The cold storage provides free showers and pay laundry facilities... and therein lies the problem. The two do not mix! The washing machines are next to the shower stalls and compete for the same water.
  I was fishing off Cross Sound and doing my fish selling, fuel, and grocery restocking in a small board walk town of Pelican.
  Here is on of the stories of the difficulty of just taking a shower after a full week of hard work and sweating.
  I made a turn-around in Pelican the other evening. It was a routine event in the line of delivering the fish and taking on new ice. Also routine was the practice of my dance steps.  I know you're wondering what dance steps a crusty ol' fisherman could possibly have... Let me tell you.  I call it the one legged, screeching, eyes shut shower dance. 
  It starts like this; After a week on the ocean I am very ready for a real shower. I love to stand and feel that first blast of warm water course down my  body. Invariable a big, "aaahhhh" escapes my lips, of its own account. It is hard to explain the feeling of a hot shower after a full week of sweat. Sometimes I would find myself laughing out loud at the great pleasure of hot water.
   I stand there and smile real big for a while.  As I start getting used to the water I begin cranking up the heat to steam the weariness out of my bones.  Shampoo in the hair and a bar of great smelling soap on one leg hiked up in the air.
  It is very difficult to stand on one leg after being on the sea for a week and doubly so with one's eyes closed. The motion of the ocean continues while on land.
  Then it happens. Some one outside must know all the pleasure I am feeling right now and decides to put a damper on it. They put a load of laundry in the washing machine.
  I have tried for years to tune my ears in to the sound of a coin feeder being pushed forward and released to spring back starting a load of wash. I still miss most of them.  
  Here I stand wobbling around in a small shower room, one leg in the air, shampoo running over my closed eyelids when suddenly all the hot water is sucked into a washing machine! 
  "oooohhhh! sshheeessshh! ugggghhh!" I stammer as I dance on one leg trying to get out of the stream of glacier fed cold water.  I reach back and crank the hot water up to a tolerable luke warm to rinse the soap suds off me.
  I stand there trembling watching the goose bumps slowly recede to the size of oranges. 
  Alright, now I've been warned. I know there is a washer in operation.
  The tricky part of the shower is now underway.  I must time the water temperature fluctuation in order to finish this fine shower. 
  Even with that knowledge,I get lulled into a false sense of security. I forget.  
  I shampoo the hair again and begin soaping the other leg. 
  POW!
  "Iiiieeee!" I shriek as the now warm water turns scalding hot.
  I dance around in the shower room banging off walls in an attempt at keeping some hide left un-scalded.  The washing machine just went to cold water rinse. 
  "ouch, ouch, oweeee!" I mutter as I start adjusting the water to a once again luke warm temperature. 
  I give up on trying for another shampoo. I'll just stand here and enjoy the water.  The machine now goes into the spin cycle blasting little bursts of hot or cold water. 
  I dance around the shower until at last I am weary from all the dancing and water adjusting. 
  Back in my clothes I open the door and step out of the shower room to see a guy sitting on a washing machine reading a book. He looks up and smiles. "Wonderful shower, huh? he asks. 
  "Bah!" I reply as I walk back to the boat.  "What's wrong with that grumpy guy?" I hear him mutter as I walk out of earshot.

Dinner and a Movie, Ocean Style

  I'm recovering from yet another eye surgery, so thought I'd go back into some of my earlier years of commercial fishing to recall a story or two.
  I know my mind is as sharp as a tack... ok, maybe as sharp as the top of a large globe! I guess what I'm saying is that some of the details may be a bit fuzzy or not quite as accurate as when it happened.
  I was talking to my buddy Scott, who is in many of my writings. He informed me that when I write about him he has a hard time remembering it the same way I write it.
  "Was I really there?" he asks me.
  "Of course you were. You are the star of the story," I tell him.  "I may embellish a few things just to keep the story exciting. Our normal boring lives would not impress many people."
  Scott and I were commercial fishing late in August. It had been a long season and we had pounded day after day 19 to 20 hours each day. Scott owned and operated a beautiful boat named the Elizabeth Ann. she was a large horse shoe sterned 43 foot wooden vessel that had plied the Alaskan waters for many years.
  I owned and was fishing off a smaller 36 foot double ended troller named the Col. Lindy.
  If I remember right we were fishing off Cape Spenser. The Silver Salmon run was tapering down a bit on the open ocean but we were dragging our hooks from dark to dark hoping to land on the mother lode and fill the fish holds.
  Day after day we would pass each other as we fished. We would pause fishing to wave at each other. Our radio traffic was constant as we broke the daily boredom chatting about anything we could think of. Growing up in the same area and even attending the same high school gave us many topics to chat about.
  "one two, one two, Scotty are you there," I spoke into the radio mic.
  "Hey, I've got you," came the static voice over my scrambled radio.
  We had purchased voice scrambled radios so we could speak freely without the entire fleet hearing what was being said. The big trick of commercial fishing was to try and break other groups scramble code so you could listen in and get fish numbers without them knowing. Scott and I were not "High liner" boats so we doubted that anyone else really cared where we fished and what we caught, but it was still nice to know most of the fleet could not hear your conversations.
  "I've got a couple of steaks for supper tonight," I told Scott. "If we could figure a way to get together we could have a nice dinner."
  "I've got a good movie from my last turn around in town that we could watch," came his reply over the radio.
  We had been fishing hard all day and then just shutting our boats down and drifting at night. It saves the fuel of running a few hours to the shore and picking ones way into an anchorage by radar and spot lights. You then have to wake up in the dark to make your run back out to the fishing grounds early the next morning.
  "It is a beautiful ocean, maybe I could pull in close and you could jump on my boat for a meal and a movie," Scott planted an idea in both of our minds.
  We fished until the ocean was gobbling the sun in darkness before Scott brought up the crazy plan again.
  "You still up for dinner and a movie?" he asked over the radio.
  "Wow, thought you were kidding," I replied back. "Just how is this going to work?"
  We had both pulled our fishing gear but our 40 foot long poles with stabilizers were sprouting off the sides of both of our boats. When we tie together in an anchorage we would both pull a pole so we could lash the two boats together for the night. It takes very calm water to keep a couple of twenty ton vessels from grinding and crashing each other to pieces.
  "I think I could come up behind you, nose the Elizabeth Ann to your stern, you could hop aboard and I could back away," Scott planned.
  There was a large gentle swell running on the ocean that evening. A large swell would bring our boats into a very tricky situation. If Scott came in too close his bow could raise over my stern and crush my smaller boat. If my stern came up hard under his bow it could rip a gaping hole in his bow planks.
  "I guess we can set it up and see how it looks," I said with just a bit of doubt in my voice.
  I grabbed my steaks and moved to the stern of my now drifting boat. Scott edged the big Elizabeth Ann in close. The mild swells now looked like roaring waves smashing things to bits in my mind.
  I stood on the back of my boat under a cover called a hay rack. As Scott's boat neared I had to look up to see the top of his bow rail. I would be crushed in between his bow and my hay rack.
  I raced back in to my radio. "Not going to work. Your bow it to tall for the hay rack," I told Scott.
  "How about standing on your hay rack?" Scott questioned back.
  The playing field just got substantially more tricky. One thing to stand on the deck of a rolling boat, another to stand on the top of a flat roof on a rolling boat.
  I climbed up the hay rack moving my buoys, shrimp and crab pots, and other items stored out of the way up there. I tried to stand but learned quickly it was just not secure enough footing. Wow, this was going to be tricky!
  Scott once again maneuvered the big Elizabeth Ann in close. The bow of his boat and stern of my boat were not at all in sync. My stern would rise up while his bow dropped deep in the swell. We would have to have perfect timing to pull this off.
  The swells leveled just a bit and Scott throttled forward, as his bow and my stern evened out I jumped!
  I could hear Scott full throttle reverse as I left the hay rack of the Col. Lindy. I landed in the center of his bow deck and rolled onto my knees. I jumped up to see if we were clearing my stern. The tall bow of the Elizabeth Ann slowly backed away from my stern.
  We did it!
  I watched my boat grow smaller in the distance with just a little drifting mast light glowing in the darkness. My boat was now up for official ocean salvage. Once you abandon a boat on the ocean, the first one to come upon it can claim salvage rights. Not a good feeling at all to think about that.
  Scott drove us quite a distance from my drifting boat to make sure we did not drift into it as we watched the movie.
  We fired up the barbecue and had the steaks sizzling in no time.
  We shared a great steak dinner while watching a movie on the high seas of Alaska. When you have not had contact with a real person for days and days, it is just nice to be able to carry on a conversation without keying a radio mic. We visited into the pitch black of the night.
  "Well, I'd better get back to my boat for the night," I told Scott.
  We turned on his radar and waited for it to warm up. He adjusted the distance to a half mile. No blips on the screen. One mile. Still no sign of my boat. I was looking out the windows with Scott's binoculars and could not pick up my anchor light at all.
  We had lost my boat on a huge ocean!
  Scott cranked up the distance on his radar again. Three miles. The sweep went in a complete circle. No blip to indicate a boat. Unbelievable!
  The radar was completing its second sweep when a tiny blip showed up.
  "There! Is that my boat?" I asked.
  Scott brought the bow of the Elizabeth Ann around to point in the direction of the blip on the radar. I kept scanning the horizon with binoculars. We cruised a bit before the light of my boat became visible to us.
  "Whew," I let out a big sigh, "I sure am glad to find my boat again."
  Scott motored his boat to my stern again. Once again we played the fragile game of bumper boats. With perfect timing of waves and boat control, I was able to make the jump from Scott's bow to the top of my hay rack.
  "Hey we did it!" I exclaimed to Scott, over the radio. " Thanks for the dinner and the movie!"
  I fired up my boat and slowly gave distance between our two boats.
  "Happy drifting," we both told each other as we shut down our boats for a night of drifting sleep on the wild North Pacific Ocean.

Man Overboard

    "I'll meet you at the boat," Mike texted me early in the morning.
  I grabbed my rifle, back pack, and then layered several layers of cold weather gear before heading out the door to where Mike was hooking up to his skiff.  Daylight was just thinking about breaking through the sky.
  "Wow, it's freezing out here," I mumbled to him as I stuffed my things into his truck. Clouds of steam puffed around our faces as our breath vaporized in the morning air.
  Winter had its strangle hold on South East Alaska. The cold snow on the mountain peaks was here for the rest of the year, maybe to melt off by next June, July, or even August.
  "This is going to be a very cold boat ride," I commented to Mike as he drove to the boat ramp at the end of the road.
  "Sure is, Hope we dressed warm enough," he replied back.
  We were boat excited to run the beaches one more time in search of Sitka Blacktail deer. The snow level was not quite enough to move the deer onto the beaches, but with the constant cold and the November rut in full swing, we were hoping to catch the bucks chasing does onto the beaches.
  The boat ramp was frozen in a sheet of ice but Mike did a good job of keeping the sliding truck lined up with the boat until he reached the unfrozen tide line.
  "Wow, good job keeping it straight," I said. I unhooked the boat and grabbed the tie up line as he continued backing the boat into the water.
  I fired up the 35 hp outboard to let it warm up as Mike parked the truck and trailer.
  We struggled into our float coats, ear warmer hats, and mittens. Each item seemed difficult to get on as we were so bundled with clothing.
  "Not a day I would want to go swimming," I said to Mike as I pushed away from the dock.
  "It's froze up!" Mike said.
  "What?"
  "The shifter is frozen. I can't get it into forward or reverse," he said while working the shift lever gently back and forth.
  Not uncommon in such cold weather. We had ran the boat yesterday and the water had frozen on everything since then.
  At last he managed to get it moving a bit forward.
  "There," he said, "I got it to shift into forward. let me try reverse." Slowly he shifted from forward, to neutral, and then into reverse.
  "All good to go," mike beamed a smile at me.
  We made a freezing run from Sitka an hour to the North to Salisbury sound, I was huddled over keeping my two hoods pulled over my stocking cap, but even then the cold seemed to reach inside and squeeze the warmth out of my ears.
  Mike slowed the boat to an idle.
  "Need to hit the beach for a warm up," he said. I was more than ready myself. All my morning coffee was sitting hard on my bladder.
  "Wow, I haven't been this cold since the last time," I told Mike as I wrung some feeling into my fingers. We both danced about on the beach a while until we warmed a bit. I guess we could call it the "deer dance". It is more a bounce shuffle than a real dance, but on slick low tide rocks it can be interesting.
  We cruised into a Big Bear Bay, then around and into Little Bear Bay, dodging skiff ice in both of them. You know its cold when the bays start freezing in salt water.
  We rounded the corner near Surgis Narrows and decided to hit the beach for some muskeg hunting. We bungee anchored the boat. Mike has a long bungee cord attached to his anchor. We drop the anchor about twenty feet from shore, then motor into shore. We keep a long line from the boat to a tree high above the tide line, and then allow the boat to spring back over the anchor on the bungee. It is a great system for quick anchoring in tidal water. There is nothing worse than anchoring a boat while you hunt, to come back and find the tide gone out and your boat high and dry on the beach. You have to sit and wait for the next high tide swing before you can float the boat again. Yup, I really do like the bungee system!
  Mike and I hunted for a couple hours with no luck. Back at the boat we decide to cruise the beaches at low tide on the way home.
  We drag the nose of the boat onto the beach and get into our float coats and warm weather gear, wrap up the shore line, shove off and let the bungee spring us off the beach out to deeper water.
  "Hey, I can't find my ear flap hat," Mike said from the front of the boat. He was looking around near where his float coat had been laying in the boat.
  "I'll look back here," I said and turned to look in the back of the boat.
  Mike hauled in the anchor hand over hand and I heard it clunk into the bottom of the boat with a rattle of chain.
    I felt the boat lurch sideways and glanced up in time to see mike's legs following his body overboard and into the freezing ocean!
  "Mike!" I shouted as I dropped the gun I was holding and raced to where Mike had been in the boat.
  Mike's hands shot up out of the water and I grabbed the top of his float coat and pulled as hard as I could. He had a death grip on the side of the boat and was trying hard to climb back in. We got his elbows locked over the side of the boat but with all his now wet clothing, could not get him up over the side of the boat.
  "I can't get you over the side!" I shouted the obvious to him.  Mike raised a booted foot and locked it over the edge of the boat. I grabbed his leg and his shoulder and pulled as hard as I could while he rolled into the boat.
  Mike laid in the bottom of the boat panting and I stood in total disbelief.
  "I can't believe what just happened," Mike exclaimed. "I fell in!"
  "Are you soaked to the skin?" I asked.
  "No, I have so many layers of clothes on the water is only from my knees down. My boots are full," He answered back.
  "Ok, this hunt is over," I said, "Let's get you back to town. If you feel at all numb, if you feel like your teeth are chattering, we are hitting the beach for a nice warm up fire! Agreed?"
  "Yup, let's get out of here!"
  Mike started the skiff engine and pointed the bow towards home. It would be a good hour run in very cold temperatures.
  We hardly glanced at the beaches on the way back to the truck. I was constantly asking Mike if he was overly cold.
  "Only my feet," he kept answering.
  We raced back to the dock and Mike hobbled up the boat ramp to his truck. Cold feet makes you walk like a duck.
  The next morning Mike and I sat drinking coffee and talking over how lucky and blessed we had been.
  We discussed how quickly an excursion can go bad in Alaska. Had Mike been alone... he may not have been able to get back into the skiff. By getting his upper body out of the water quickly we were able to allow the layers of clothing to ward off the bone chilling water. We learned to always put our float coats on before getting into the boat, as you never know when it may save your life.
  Mike had stepped on a dock bumper buoy which rolled under his feet flinging him backwards over the side of the boat. One minute he was fine, the next he was in a survival situation.
  Mike was thankful he had placed his gun into the boat and not slung over his shoulder as he normally has it upon entering the boat. That would have been one lost gun, or at the very least a salt water drenched gun.
  We are both thankful that this situation turned out good. It could have gone so much differently. Thank the Good Lord for watching out for us!
                                              
                                                   heading back to the anchored skiff

Old Duffers, Steep Mountains, and Smart Critters

  "Hey Mike, it looks like tomorrow is going to be a good day for a hike up the mountain," my text read.
  "Sounds good. Six in the morning?" came his instant reply
  "Wow, sun up is only at 7:50. How about 6:30?" I wrote back.
  Interesting how we used to phone each other now we rely on the impersonal way of reading texts. How times have changed.
  One thing that has not changed... how incredibly steep these mountains are.
  "Let's take another breather," Mike huffed.
  I acted like I could take it or leave it, but I was more than ready to stop for a nice break.
  "Not much further," I said, but looking up the face above us we both knew it would be quite a while before we broke out on top.
  We had been hiking for nearly an hour by head lamps in the dark of the morning. Our theory being one must sneak up on the deer critters in the dark. If they can't see us coming, they won't know we're there.
  Mike and I were breathing like two fifty-something old duffers, trying desperately to climb an impossibly steep mountain before daylight caught us in the act. If a deer had been born totally deaf, was almost blind, and had no smell olfactories in its nose... we might have a chance of sneaking up on it. Other than that... not a chance!
  Daylight broke, spilling light down the mountain. The two old duffers were nowhere near the top.
  "Hey, at least we are getting exercise," we both agreed at once.
  "A few years ago I used to leave the truck about an hour later and get to the top to wait for it to get light," I told Mike. "You know, when I was young."
  "Hmmm..." was all he said back. I could tell by his look, he could not imagine me young.
  With a big groan Mike and I picked up our heavy packs and guns for a bit more climbing. Oh wait, those are empty packs. Oh well, they sure feel heavy. I did have a bottle of water and a candy bar in mine.
  For some reason, we climbed a few ridges further to the right than we usually do, and found ourselves mired in waist high brush. All brush in Alaska grows thick and lays down hill. To climb through it you have to either part it with your hands, or just lean far forward and bull your way through it.
  The top of the mountain found Mike and I with our coats stuffed in our empty but heavy packs, sweat streaming down our faces in the freezing cold morning air.
  "Whew, we made it," Mike panted.
  "I knew we would," came my smug reply.
  We hunted hard looking in every place deer usually are found, Of course by now all the deer were safely bedded down for their noon naps.
 Many time during the day Mike or I would comment about what beautiful views we have from high on top of the mountain. What we really meant was that we took so long to make the little climb that we missed the morning hunt and might as well find something good to brag about.
  Taking advantage of the time with no deer bothering us, I snapped some nice pictures with my cell phone.
  I received a text from one of my hunting buddies in Idaho. "Happy anniversary," it read.
  I quickly sent him one of my newly taken pictures and replied back, "On top of a mountain, deer hunting."
  I was more bragging to him that I made it to the top of the mountain than anything else. I expected a "wow, good job," or something like that, but no... nothing.
  After enjoying a nice lunch consisting of a candy bar and a bottle of water, we decide to head back down.
  Steep mountain downhill is almost harder than the up hill climb. Somewhere on the way down hill we again stopped to take off our coats, to slow down the sweating. We hiked a while when one of us exclaimed that he had forgotten his gun, leaning against the tree, while removing the coat.
  Back up the steep slope to find the tree the gun was leaning against. It was quite an Easter egg hunt in a forest of thick trees and brush to find the lost gun, but at last we spotted the run away gun and got it returned to its happy owner.
  "Couldn't be old age, could it?" one of us reminded the other.
  I wanted to tell a story of one of us leaving a spotting scope laying on a mountain while sheep hunting, but I refrained myself. By the way, the scope was never found even though I spent the best part of a day looking for it. Or how about a camouflaged shotgun was left lying in the grass of a parking lot... Nope, won't go there... too painful.
  Well, I must admit that the two old duffers made the climb all the way to the top and back to the truck... all in the same day.
  I received a text that night, "Want to hunt tomorrow?"
  I slowly moved my arm to retrieve the phone, then stiffly typed, "Don't know if I can tomorrow. so sore I can hardly move tonight!"
  "Me too," came the reply back.
  Oh the joys of old age and hunting critters.
                                         
                                                Mike heading down the mountain

                                                     fresh snow on the peaks

the view from the top

Cucumber dive page three

  After a good long hour break (closer to two hours) Mike and I idle up the bay a ways to some marks I have on the computer from years gone by.
  "Hope we find something here," I comment to Mike, shutting off the engines and letting the boat drift to a stop.
  "I guess We'll know in a bit," he quips back. "At least we have enough on board to make our trip paid off."
  Mike helps me back into all my dive gear and I once again plunge below the surface.
  I drop into the inky depths and right into a bottom covered in sea cucumbers.
  "Wow!" I shout into my regulator. It sounds like some space alien to my ears, gurgling and burgling. I have to laugh.
  I find myself talking alot under water. During hour long dives I will talk, hum, and sing. The weird bubbling gurgle sounds tend to amuse me and break the long lonely time underwater.
  For years we have talked about getting a dive system with com (communications). This would allow the tender on the boat to hear the diver and the diver to hear the tender. Sounds good in a perfect world... this is not that perfect world. I suffer major cramps in my legs while diving. When the "charlie horses" lock my legs up I crawl along the bottom with my arms but find myself screaming into my regulator. "Owe! You stupid cramp, let me go!" The screams are sent upwards in a swirl of bubbles never to be heard by anyone but me. I kind of like it that way.
  If I were linked to the boat by com and did my charlie horse screaming I fear my tender would think the Loc Ness monster had ahold of me and would either jerk my up by my air hose, or... cut my air hose and get himself and the boat far from the danger below.
  That settled I like the no com system.
  I am picking cucumbers as quickly as I can move. They are all over the bottom, but most of them are in huge piles of kelp. With the kelp leaves is powdery silt. I can see a dozen or more cukes in one kelp but by the time I have grabbed five or six the silt has me blindly feeling for the rest of them, the braille method. I can usually get a fix on most of the ones I see, and finish them by blindly patting the kelp and silt, but every once in a while I grab a crab, a fish, or star fish.
Cucumbers have no movement at all when I touch them. When something starts moving, jerking, or squirming in my hand I always Jerk away and quickly move to the next batch of cucumbers, outside of the silt!
  I am popping corks and Mike is hoisting bag after bag into the boat.  I keep watching my dive computer as it counts the minutes of bottom time. I know I should have about three hours on the bottom before the dive day ends at 3:00 p.m.
  I have swam quite a bit down the shore and have come to a creek area. Even though I am way below the surface I can tell when I get to fresh water coming into the ocean. Cucumbers do not like fresh water. They will stack in masses on each side of the creek flow. I have found that these areas are the best picking, but once you get through the big batch of product you must swim to the far side of the creek to begin the next big gathering of cucumbers.
  I realize I am going to have to swim a long ways on already cramping legs. For almost an hour I have been battling cramps in my thighs and calves. I have screamed, whined, bitten the regulator till I'm surprised it does not leak water, and crawled with my hands and arms.
  I decide I've had enough for this day and slowly head for the surface. I like to make my final accent of the day very slow to make sure I do not blow the dive tables. I trust my dive computer, but it does not hurt to go a bit extra.
  My head breaks surface to rain. Mike helps me back on the boat and I inform him that I'm done.
  "Good job, man," he says while shutting down the machines. "I'm guessing we have eight or nine hundred pounds."
  I agree with him as I have kept track of the bags I have been sending up all day.
  "Sure not as much as I had hoped for, but I guess not bad for a decrepit, one eyed, old guy," I comment, while wriggling out of all my dive gear.
  I struggle out of all my wet dive gear and into some warm dry clothes. I turn the boat heater on high and pour steaming hot coffee.
  Mike cleans up the deck and stows all the dive gear.
  while he is still tiding the deck I start the engines and idle in the direction of the tender.
  Glacier Bay Seafood's normal tender(A commercial boat usually a crabber or seiner) notified me last week that he would be out this week, installing a new transmission in his boat, but there would be a replacement tender, and gave me the boat name.
  I call on the radio to find where the tender is anchored and arranged for off loading our day's catch.
  "I'm anchored close to the beach near Appleton Bay," the packer's voice comes booming over my radio.
  "Sounds good. I'll see you in just a few minutes," I reply, turning the boat towards his location.
   Mike readies the deck, removes the tarp cover, and has the tie up lines ready by the time I pull up to the packer.
  "Looks like a purse seiner," I say to Mike as we tie to the lines tossed to us.
  "Hey guys, how's it going?" I shout over the deck to the crew on the packer waiting for us to off load. "Have you got a price for us?"
  Fishing in Alaska is a lot like farming. You grow the crop, weed it, water it, then harvest it. As the load of crop harvest starts getting old in your trucks, the farmer finds out what price the buyers are willing to pay. Most of the time you are disappointed at the low price offered you. Your choices are dump the load for compost, or sell to the person so willing to cheat you out of your hard work.
  Diving is the same way. All week before the first dive we are getting calls from the buyers.
  "Earl, are you diving this year?" I hear over and over. "We sure hope you will sell your cucumbers to us."
  "Yeah, I plan on diving, what price are we looking at this year?"
  It's always the same... a long silence, followed by much throat clearing... stuttering a bit... "Ummm... Well... Ahhumm... Well, you know, cough-cough, the market is not all that strong this year. The Yen to dollar is not looking good..."
  Oh come on guys. You are begging for our product. You need it, but you are trying to pay the lowest price known to man to the divers risking their lives to harvest it for you.
  "We have not been told the price yet... we'll announce it on the grounds on Monday," is the response always given.
  The price echoed over the radio just happens to be about a dollar a pound less then the year before. The divers start calling each of the buyers complaining about the low price... as the evening wears on the price will start crawling up to where it should have been at the start.
  I can sure see why unions were established. If all the divers could work together and hold out selling until a fair price is offered, we could save all the games played each year.
  A couple years ago, some divers flew to the orient and arranged to sell directly to the guys who want cucumbers. The price they came back with was more than double ever paid for cucumbers. As soon as we started committing to these diver friends the other big company buyers jacked the price above them to make sure and get our cucumbers. It made for some very lucrative years... until the little guys faded out and now it is back to the big company guys again. sigh...
  Mike and I bucket cucumbers out of my fish holds and into brailers, which the packers raises up and weighs. As the girl calls out the weights I write it on my grease board. One can never be too careful. Once the product is dumped into the hold of the packer it is gone.
  "689 pounds minus 39 pounds tare weight," the buyer calls out.
  I write it down, then get back to my bucket and more unloading of cucumbers. 
  We have done fairly well on our first dive. If I had been able to spend about one more hour on the bottom we would have been about half way with our poundage... but, as usual, it seems I'm just a tad bit behind schedule.
  We pull into Appleton cove and drop anchor. We wait for Scott and CJ to sell. They drop by for a quick visit. We make plans for the next day's dive. It is always good to be able to get together with another boat while working on the ocean. It is like the old days where drop by visitors were always welcome.
  Scott heads back out into Peril Strait and we head back into Rodman Bay.
  "Good luck, tomorrow!" We shout as they pull away, "Be safe!"
  Day two finds us picking up where we left off yesterday. I swim hard and pick like crazy, knowing that I only have four hours to dive.
  I have put on my newer dry suit for today's dive, but find it is leaking badly through the chest inflator valve. Each time I hit the inflator button to pressurize my dry suit, water gushes in with the air. I feel the bite of ice cold water flood my chest little by little, as the day progresses it fills the entire suit.
  By eleven I'm freezing cold and swimming in water from the flooded suit. I can feel my arms slosh in water.
  My teeth chattering on my regulator, I head for the surface, done for the day.
  "I'm freezing!" I shout to Mike as my head breaks surface.
  "Let's bag it," he replies. "Our deal is safety first. If you are wet and cold, the dive is over. We've done alright for this opening.
  We pack up and head for the tender once again. We find that we are just a couple hundred pounds shy of our quota for the dive. Not bad for a couple of old guys.
  We head back to town wore out but contented. We have made our first dive without too much trouble. And... lived to tell about it!

                                      Scott and C.J. swing by to visit

 

2014 Cucumber Opening page two

  Rodman Bay remains relative calm all night. We had one blast of wind come through around two in the morning. I get up to make sure the anchor holds. All is well, back to bed.
  Our morning starts at five thirty. We have cold boiled eggs and cold bacon for breakfast. We have learned over the years this is the easiest way to get the day going quickly and still have good protein for a hard day's work.
  Mike works  quickly getting all the machines warmed up. The new dive compressor is fired up and ran to the pressure settings, the hauler, that lifts the bags over the side, is warmed up. The kicker motor is fired up and left idling.
  "It looks like everything is good to go," Mike exclaims over the roar of all the engines.
  "Ok, I'm going to start getting into my dive gear," I reply back.
  Time vanishes so quickly in the morning. One minute is it six, and it seems only a minute later it is seven o'clock.
  At seven thirty I'm in my dive suit and beginning the process of attaching the dive gear. My pony bottle is hefted on by Mike. I arrange the shoulder straps, tighten the belt, and plug in the dry suit inflater.
  "Ok, ready for my 'best friend'," I say to Mike. My "Best Friend" is what I have named my very heavy dive weight belt. I have never weighed it, but I can assure you, it is heavy. By the end of a dive day it feels like it has bored through my back and is planted into my kidney.
  In a morning I will put on a heavy duty set of smart wool long johns, a top of expedition weight polar fleece, two pair of smart wool socks, and then the heavy full body suit of hallow fill material, which is like putting on a form fitted sleeping bag. Trust me, it is very warm, but also very buoyant.
  All these under garments, plus a crushed neoprene dive suit, has to be weighted to get me below the surface.
  I groan as I tighten the weight belt onto my back. "Just as heavy as last year," I grumble to myself.
  Two pair of gloves, one light weight under glove and one pair of heavy weight neoprene with enforced fingers go on with much tugging. My wet suit hood and my mask are in place. I sit on the back of the boat with a bag in hand waiting for Mike to count down the minutes to eight o'clock.
  "It's time," Mike shouts over the roar of the compressor motor.
  I glance at my wrist out of habit to check my computer. It's not there.
 "Mike, I need you to get my dive computer out of my dive bag. I forgot it!" I shout over the roar of the machines.
  He races inside and then back with the computer. He has to strap it on as I am so bulked up in dive gear.
  "Ready?" I shout to Mike.
  He gives me the thumbs up signal.
  I jam the regulator into my mouth suck in a sweet breath of air and push off the boat.
  The bitter cold water of the Alaska ocean bites my face and hands.
  I give Mike the OK sign and he OK's back. I deflate my suit and slowly sink out of sight into the dark early morning water.
  I pinch my nose every ten feet of depth and clear my ears. I want to make sure I get them good and cleared on the first dive.
  The water is not super clear as the rain from Saturday and Sunday has murked up the bay. Visibility is still about twenty feet.
  I see the white shells gleam on the bottom as I descend into the inky depths. I constantly check my computer to make sure it is reading properly as I descend. All systems go.
  I unroll my cucumber bag and start swimming to the clumps of kelp I see close by. Nothing. I swim a bit further, still nothing.
  Thirty feet. Drop to forty feet, still no cucumbers. I look up and cannot see the surface or the boat above through the dingy water. I start to feel a little panicky...
  "Come on Earl, you've done this a thousand times. Just put your head down and find some product," I tell myself. "Slow and steady breaths."
  Tug, tug, tug. Three tugs on my air hose. That is Mikes signal that something is wrong and for me to get up as quickly as possible. I look at my dive computer, I've only been down five minutes.
  I tap my chest inflater and head for the surface.
  Mike pulls me to the boat by my air hose.
  "A hose broke on the compressor!" Mike shouts above the roar of the machine.
  I give him the cut throat signal to turn off the noisy machine.
  "What's up?" I ask in disbelief. "This is a brand new machine, nothing should break."
  I drop my weight belt and get out of the bulky gloves and then out of my swim fins.
  Mike is holding up a hose that goes from the compressor to the reserve tank. It is broken off cleanly.
  "You've got to be kidding me," I whine. "How can a brand new hose like that snap off in the first five minutes?"
  "There are extra hoses inside the left hand compartment in the cabin of the boat," I instruct Mike. He races in to find them.
  I stand and watch him unscrew the broken one and replace it with a used hose from years past.
  "Hope that one holds up," I comment, more to myself than to Mike.
  "I was a tad bit panicky down there," I inform Mike. I've never been this way before.
  He stops his work and looks at me. "Are you alright? Sure you want to do this?"
  We have always said that we will never push ourselves if something does not look good.   "Safety first" has been our motto from day one.
  "I think I'll be fine. Kind of crazy though..."
  Mike had the hose installed and fires up the compressor. It pumps out air into the reserve tank. All systems look good.
  Back into my dive gear and into the cold water.
  This time I get to the bottom and feel totally comfortable. I guess I needed that little break to settle me down.
  I swim and pick cucumbers for nearly an hour when I get the tug, tug, tug signal again.
 "Now what?"  I say to myself as I head for the surface.
  Mike helps me on the boat, informing me that the pressure relief valve is malfunctioning on the new compressor. It pops and then allow the air pressure to drop way to low before it re-sets and brings it back up to the 110 pounds of air I need to breath at depth.
  Another hour delay as Mike fixes this problem. At last he announces that all is well and I am holding at one hundred and ten pounds of air in the reserve tank.
  Back to the bottom.
  The cucumber picking is very slow. I fill my first bag and look at my dive computer. It has taken me nearly an hour. I need to pick at least twenty minute bags in order to get my two thousand pounds in the day and a half opening.
  "Not good," I say to myself and just keep swimming.
  Noon rolls around. I am chilled through and tired from hard swimming and very little picking.
  I come up and Mike helps me on the boat.
  "Hey at least nothing broke down for a while," I said.
  "Isn't it amazing how new stuff breaks down so quickly now days," Mike comments. "It seems like the old stuff is just built better."
  "I'll take an hour's break and then let's find a different place to dive," I say to Mike. "Let me warm up a bit, and then we'll go from there. At least I've found enough to pay for our fuel and food!"
  Our goal each week is to just pay for the trip. Once the expenses are met, then all money from there is a bonus.
 continued...

                                           the new dive compressor

 
                                        Mike working a bag of cucumbers

Sea Cucumber Opening 2014

  I get up at five and look out the window. I can hear the wind in the trees but I need to see. Sure enough, the trees are leaning over and shaking limbs like they want to rid themselves of every leaf left from the fall droppage.
  Wow, I think to myself, it is really howling.
  I fire up my Ipad and check the ocean weather; "forty knot winds increasing to forty-five by noon, then diminishing in the afternoon. Seas 12 feet, building to 22."
  It is truly dive season. The rain is pounding down like it can only do in October.
  I text Mike, my dive tender. "Looks horrible outside. We might want to wait until later in the day to make our departure from the dock."
  "Sounds good," he texts back.
  We had been planning on taking some shrimp pots with us to set out prior to our dive season and then picking them up on the way home. It would require running through a big wide open span of water that we now feel would be howling with wind. Leave the shrimp pots behind.
  Mike calls in a bit. "Did you see in the paper that the Coast Guard is going to enforce a blue and white international dive flag this week?"
  "No, I've never heard of a blue and white dive flag. All the divers fly a red flag with a white stripe."
  "Yup. The article says that this year the Coasties will be enforcing a blue and white flag with a fine of up to $4,000 for not having it."
  I grab my trusty Ipad and start doing research. The Alaska state law says a red and white flag, but most states do not have any laws in place regarding a diver down flag. I go the the Federal Government sight. Red and white flag is good for them. Then I go to the Coast Guard sight. They are enforcing a blue and white international dive flag for diving on inside waters, even though the State of Alaska claims ownership of all inside waters in Alaska.
  I call Scott, my old dive partner and ask if he had read the article. "No, but we'd better get blue and white flags ordered right now and then take pictures of the order conformation to show the Coast Guard in the event of us being boarded. That is our best hope of not being ticketed with the outrageous fine."
  The crazy thing is that we don't think any person running a boat here in Alaska would know what a blue and white flag means. For the past twenty years we have all been flying red and white flags.
  "We'll get run over by every boat on the water, except the Coast Guard," Scott comments before hanging up.
  Scott calls me back in about an hour. "Hey, I'm here with Michell at the old dive shop. She has two blue and white flags we can buy. I've got one set aside for you."
  Our dive shop in town closed its doors a few years ago and just yesterday they had an out of business sale.
  We quickly cancel our order online and my good wife races to the dive shop to get the last remaining flag.
  I'm wore out and have not even left town.
  We chatted later about how all the divers have an organization and send e-mails back and forth all the time. Wouldn't it have been in the divers best interest for the Coast Guard to simply send one e-mail to the dive fleet a few months ago, instead of placing an ad in the local paper, which most of us refuse to read as it is so slanted.
  That makes way too much sense and you are dealing with the government. They never make sense or do things the best way for others.
  At noon the wind has calmed to a roaring 30 knots and we untie to head for Peril Strait, our dive area this season.
  The wind pushes us for the next hour as we motor northward. We are very uneasy about turning the corner into Peril Strait.  Peril is known for being nasty at times. Wind pushing against the tide can really stack it up at the corner.
  Past Poison Cove, Down Dead Mans Reach, and then around the corner and into Peril. No wind at all. The Strait lays glass calm.
  "Wow, can you believe this?" I comment to Mike.
  "Hard to believe, but I'll sure take it," He comments back.
  For sure!
  We race down the strait and into Rodman Bay, where we have decided to dive the following day. We anchor for the night and listen to the gentle lap of the waves against the hull.
  Tomorrow is dive day. Oh Boy.
  
Continued...

Last Day of my Guide Season

  August 31 and the wind scheduled to blow like crazy on the ocean.
  I gather with the other guides waiting for lodge to bring the clients and lunches to us. We are all a little nervous with the weather forecast calling for the 30 knot blow.
  "If its a true 30 at the Cape, it will be un-fishable," one of the guides commented.
  "There are just no fish anywhere else but the Cape," another commented. "Usually at this time of the year we can hide behind some islands to get out of the big blows."
  I was finishing a group and, fortunately, we had caught lots of fish over the past couple of days.
  "Let's stick our nose out and see what the ocean is really doing," I informed them as we idled out of the harbor.
  All the other guides were dragging their feet not really wanting to take a pounding by a nasty ocean yet another day.
  I lead the fleet out past "the Rocks", and then past Bird Island. Still not too bad of an ocean.
  "Hey, this looks doable," I said over the radio. "At least we can get one pass in before it drives us off. We might have to make the big loop around Kruzof Island, but at least we should catch our salmon."
  I reached the corner of the Cape and dropped my lines on the downriggers. Almost instantly the line snapped out of the clip.
  "Fish on!" I shouted.
  The clients were hardly ready for such quick action. One finally made it to the pole and was locked in a battle with a late season giant Silver Salmon.
  As fast as we could get our lines in the water the big Silvers hammered the baits. 
  Mike made a quick pass down wind and then beat his way past us to get in a quick second pass.
  "Mike the fish are very shallow," I informed him over the radio. "I'm getting them good on my surface line and one at ten feet."
  "Thanks buddy," Mike's voice boomed back over my radio. I could hear the pounding of his boat in the back ground as he beat into the building waves.
  In record time we had our limit of silvers on board.
  "No halibut today," I informed the clients. "I would not anchor in weather like this as it will be getting impossible in the next few hours."
 They all agreed, as it was a bit nerve wracking even fishing salmon in the building waves.
  I stowed the fishing rods and gear and fired up the two main engines.
  It took almost an extra hour to pound our way back to the dock and the waiting van to whisk the clients back to the comfort of the lodge and a nice long hot shower.
  The weather was bad but the fishing had been incredible!
  Ah... now to take a winter off.... well, after a month and a half of diving.

            Mike busting through a wave

             Nice catch of fish

Summer's Grand Slam

  Guiding has many ups and downs. We battle weather, commercial boats, other guides, and sometimes even clients.
  Some days you just feel like you should have slept in and let someone else run your boat.
  But then... there are those incredible days where everything goes just as planned. I call those the brochure days.
  "Wow, this is just like the lodge writes it up in the brochure!" I will exclaim, as fish come pouring into the boat. "Well, except in their brochure they have sunny Sky's, blue ocean, and girls in bikinis. All I have today is you scroungy guys and rain!"
  We all get a good laugh out of that one. I've found that it really doesn't matter what I say if the fish are hitting every hook put down.
  Nearing mid season, the King Salmon are still found in abundance, Silver Salmon are showing up, Pink salmon are here. The North Pacific Ocean is in full bloom.
 We take a moment in the day to watch a pod of four humpback whales bubble feed on a huge school of herring. It is a sight that never gets old.
  I have a woman on board who is a good fisher person. She has been reeling in salmon after salmon working on her daily limit.
  She catches her King for the day, then a nice silver, and of course several pinks.
  We limit on our Kings and head to the halibut grounds. I drop the anchor and clean our salmon and bait their halibut hooks.
  I always let the clients pick the place on the deck they would like to fish halibut from. There is usually one or two places on the boat that will out fish the other places, due to ocean currents and where the fish smell the bait and approach from.
  When I have children or women on board I will usually cater to them and arrange for them to get one of the down current rod holders. I never mention it to the clients just bait a hook and then suggest they come and grab this pole.
  Today I just let the men and women take any place they wanted.
  I did warn the men that the women will always out fish them. Guiding has really opened my eyes on the difference between men and women. As a group, us men will always think we know the better way to do something. I will tell the men to let their lines to the bottom and then reel them up until there is no slack in the line, making the bait hang a foot or more off the bottom. I can stress it over and over, but as soon as I turn my back they will drop the line completely to the bottom like fishing for catfish back home. Many times I hear them whispering to each other, "Get it on the bottom. These fish are bottom feeders. He really doesn't know what he is talking about." What they don't know is that we fish very rocky bottom and almost immediately after laying a two pound weight on the bottom they are snagged tight. I just leave them snagged while the ones who listen catch fish around them.
  Now, get women on board and tell them the same thing. They will drop their weights to the bottom then crank them up four or five cranks and then almost every time they will call me over to check and see if it is the right distance off the bottom.
  Who do you think is going to catch the fish?  I have hunted these bottom dwellers for fifteen years and tried every way known to us to catch them better, quicker, and easier. I fish them one hundred days a summer. Every day. I can tell you by the tap on the rod when the fish starts biting what species it is and if it is a halibut, can usually guess within a few pounds of how big it is going to be, just by watching the tap of the first bite!
  So now Mr. Attorney or business man, or whoever that fishes maybe three times a year is trying to improve on my methods... good luck, my friend.
  It is not long until the lady is hooked into a good fish.
  "That bit like a Yelloweye Rockfish," I tell her as she reels it up.
  Sure enough, it is a nice yellow eye.
  I bate her hook and send it back to the bottom.
  Another bite. This one just eases into the bite like a fish above the bottom hanging onto the hook.
  "Give that a little time," I instruct her. "Now go ahead and reel it up a crank. Another crank..." The rod bends over and I cheer her to, "reel, reel, reel".
  A nice keeper Ling Cod comes aboard.
  "You probably don't realize this, but you are one fish away from and Alaska Grand Slam," I say to her as I re-bait her hook. "If you can get a Halibut you will have a grand slam with a bonus.
  Many years ago we used to conduct the Pen International Pacific Tournament with the host Ronnie Kovach ( he passed away this past year due to cancer.), and the anglers got a 40 point bonus for the grand slam of a King, a Ling, a Yelloweye, and a Halibut.
  We needed one more halibut for a daily limit. My lady was still needing to catch one to finish her grand slam.
  Her rod dipped towards the ocean. "There you are, get it, get it, get it!" I shouted out the door of the boat. I had been catching up on my log book paper work.
  I could tell instantly she had a halibut on her hook. I didn't' want to spoil the surprise so I just let her reel until I could gaff it on board.
  We had a good time high fiving each other as her grand slam fish lay on the deck.
   I did have to dig the guys a bit on the way home, reminding them that I had warned them that the woman would out fish them that day.
  I was proud to lay out the grand slam, plus a silver salmon, for a nice photo shoot. 
  Well done, and I guess what they say was true this day.... Girls Rule!!

Storm Day Kings

  The clients were struggling into rain gear when I arrived at the boat with the lunches.
  "What's the weather going to be out there today?" one asked.
"Believe me, you don't want to hear it," I replied. "But... I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
  "Hit us with the bad first," one grudgingly said.
  "Ok, bad news it is supposed to be blowing gale 35 knot winds today!"
  I hear a big groan from all three of them. There was supposed to be a fourth but he looked out the window of the lodge and opted to stay in the warm and dry, instead of brave the wild rain soaked big waves of the north pacific ocean. Smart man, I must admit.
  A guide is never looking forward to a bad weather day. The decisions you have to make can mean life or death. Big, nasty ocean is nothing to play with. I would much prefer to just take the day off, but that is not an option when clients have flown all the way to Alaska to fish for only three days. I must take them somewhere and try to catch something.
  "Ok, the good news is that I had a friend tell me where we might get some King Salmon if we can just get there." Want to try for them? It will not be pleasant," I say the understatement of the day.
  "Let's do it" they chime in.
  I am needing to get to Bird Island where I have heard of some kings, but just past the end of the airport runway we hit blasting winds and a big lump of an ocean.
  I battle the waves to Vitskari Rocks and decide on stopping and fishing there. I have three other lodge boats with me so we lean on each other for finding fish quickly.
  We all run up wind and make a trolling pass with the blasting wind pushing us troll speed without a motor running. No bites at all.
  I call Casey and C.J. to learn that they have not had a bite either.
  "Ok, guys, put on your big boy pants. We are heading to Bird Island to see if we can even make a pass there," I tell the clients as I stow the down riggers and the rods.
  It is a very nasty ride getting to Bird Island. The waves grow from six feet to a towering ten. My little 25 foot boat rides up and down like a little duck.
  Behind Bird Island we take a breather in flat calm water.
  "Let's fish here," one client comments.
  "I would, but there are no fish here. The Kings are just on the outside of the island," I answer.
  ''Hang on, here we go," I say as I throttle up for a short mile ride.
  That mile takes a long long time. Everyone on board is white knuckled as the big rollers pound the boat. Spray from the thirty knot wind crashes over the boat in blinding sheets. I drive more by electronics than by sight.
  As soon as my depth finder drops to a deeper depth I throttle back and race outside to get the kicker motor running.
 The wind is shrieking through the fishing rods on the top of the boat, making a dreadful moaning sound.
  I quickly get the lines on the down riggers and get them down to fishing depth.
  "Fish on!" I shout as a line pops out of the down rigger clip.
  I help the client to the rod to make sure he does not take a fall in the mountainous waves.
  He battles a big king to the net and we have our first fish on board.  Two more to go.
  The fishing is great. In no time at all we have three nice Kings on the boat and I ease back through the monster waves to Bird Island.
  "We did it!"   We high five each other and take pictures.
We are back to the dock by 10:00 a.m. with limit of Kings on a very nasty storm day.
  I send happy but wet clients back to a dry lodge for hot showers and relaxing in front of a TV with their golf channel.

                                       The guys back at the dock with their Kings

Bears, Bells, Beauty, and Smoking Volcano

  "Should we get these bored dogs out of the house for a walk," my wife asked. It was more of a statement than a question, as the bored dogs were driving us both crazy with begging and whining.
  I looked out the window to rain.
  "It is raining right now, but it probably won't get any better, and the dogs sure don't care," my wife commented.
  We grabbed our coats and boots and headed for the car. Steady rain plastered the windshield as we drove up the hill to the trail head.
  Living in Sitka has the advantage of some wonderful trail systems for walking, jogging, or bike riding. Needless to say, the dogs of town love hiking with their owners as much as anybody.
  "Let's go by the high school," my wife said.
  "You know that is the closest trail to the bear country," I answered back. She was driving and the car made a quick turn left to head to a different part of the trail.
  Bears. This time of the year all the sows with cubs escape to town to get away from hungry boar who will try to eat their young. The battle of spring takes shape just after snow melt.
  One does not want to meet a sow with a cub any time any where. If you are lucky enough, you will just be charged at by a jaw popping, growling, slobbering angry bear. If you are unlucky, you become a target for a mauling, ending in weeks of recovery and at worst, death.
  Slow moving dogs, like our old Labrador can become great targets for these bears. A few years ago our town vet was walking his pack of dogs and his old lab lagged behind. After waiting for some time, the dog did not come catch up so he headed back down the trail to find a bear killing his old dog. The bear would not scare off so he climbed a tree and called fish and game. They came and dispatched the trouble bear.
  Events like these are always on your mind while walking the trails.
  After the dogs, my wife, and I reached the trail the noise began.
   "What in the world?" I asked.
  I looked at my wife to see a bundle of car keys and two big bells jingling like crazy. It was like being in the middle of a heard of bell clanging sheep!
  "Hey, at least the bears will know we are coming," she smiled.
  Wow, I guess so... as long as the rest of town!
  Clang, clang, jingle jingle... here we come... every bear clear the area.
  Everywhere we looked the wild flowers were blooming. It was just a spectacular time to go hiking in the woods.
  Coming to a scenic overlook carved out by the trail builders, we found a nest of purple flowers.
  "If only the clouds were not in front of the volcano," my wife said, "we would have a flower framed photo of the greatest sight in Sitka.
  Mt. Edgecumbe is the highlight of this little fishing town. The big volcano perches over the ocean and is the crowning jewel of the incredible beauty of this place.
  Just the other day, while out fishing, I was able to capture a fun photograph of the mountain.
  "Hey look," I told the clients, "that cloud on the volcano makes it look like it is smoking."
   I stopped the boat and we shot several photos of it.
  I thought back to that day and the great shots, and wished I could frame it with the flowers of today's hike.
  We made the hike without seeing any bears, much to the delight of my wife. We may never hear the same again, but no bears spotted.
  I had to remind her of the story I tell my clients when they ask about the bears around here.
  "There are two types of bears in S.E. Alaska," I tell them, "Brown bears and black bears. When hiking in brown bear country you carry bear pepper spray and put bells on your shoes."
  "The way you tell the difference between the black bears scat (poop) and brown bear scat is that brown bear scat smells like pepper spray... and .... has bells in it!"

 

 

Octopus, Salmon, and More

  "Hey Mike, grab the net. We don't want to lose this one," I said, as I baited a hook waiting to be sent to the bottom for halibut.
  Mike and I are back in Alaska getting our boats ready for the upcoming fishing season. Jimmy had just flown up to "help" us get the boats and gear ready.
  "Tough job, but someone has to do it," Jimmy told me with a beaming smile as we drove from the airport to my condo.
  "It sure is good of you to drop all that easy work in the lower 48's to help with this ugly, hard, no fun job of shaking out the boat and reels!" I responded with a smirk on my face.
  We both will do such miserable things for each other in the name of friendship.
  Why, years ago I "had" to fly to the Virgin Islands to help Jimmy with some construction work he had down there. Once I arrived in the Islands I found that through some strange happening my swimming trunks and snorkel items has mysteriously appeared in my luggage.
  "Shoot," Jimmy consoled, "don't want to waste those poor airlines peoples efforts lifting that stuff in your luggage... Let's go diving!" Many lobsters later we felt like we had justified the efforts. I think we even managed some construction as well.
  Jimmy's Halibut rod was bending but not under the weight of some monster halibut, but rather something strange, like maybe an octopus.
  Mike and I had to laugh. We have watched way too many rod tips through the years. When you start calling the type of fish on the hook 500 feet below just by the wiggle of the bite on the rod tip, you know it's probably time for an occupation change.
  We had both guessed this as an octopus. The bite had pulled down hard. "reel, reel, reel," we had cheered Jimmy as he bowed under the effort. As soon as the "fish" got off the bottom there was not the smallest wiggle.
  "Must have got off," Jimmy said while dropping the bait to the bottom.
  The instant the bait hit the bottom the rod bowed in a big pull. No little wiggles, just a very hard pull to the bottom.
  The tug-a-war went for a few times before Mike and I decided he had an "Octo" on his hook.
  "Reel it all the way in this time," I said.
  We had the net ready as Jimmy's bait approached the surface. Octopus are known for hanging onto the bait until they break the surface. They will then let go and drift back out of sight. Mike and I have both tried grabbing them by hand and they will get just one tentacle on the side of the boat and quickly pull out of your hand and scurry under the bottom of the boat. You can't manage a good enough grip to pull him off the boat.
  A net is the only way.
  Sure enough, dark orange greeted us as Jimmy's bait neared the surface. I had the net ready as Mike grabbed for the octo.
  Mike swung the small octo on board and we all laughed and high-fived. I think it was more of Mike and I calling the difficult bite more than the catch.
  Jimmy had to struggle to hold the octopus for some pictures, as it just seems to shrink right out of your hands and slither across the deck and into any hole it could find. They are the Houdini's of the ocean, for sure. Suction cups plastered his rain pants as he determined to hold it out for a good photo. We all got a good laugh.
  Jimmy was forced to try out some of my new salmon reels as well.
  "I see fish at 140 feet," I shouted out the door of the boat to Mike. He raced to the downrigger and quickly dropped the line to that depth. It had no sooner gotten down then the line snapped out of the down rigger clip.
  "Fish on!" Mike yelled to Jimmy.
  Jim raced to the rod and began the task of fighting in a big King Salmon. He worked hard trying to make this look like work... almost convinced Mike and I... almost.
  The Kings were stacked in a little area near Cape Edgecumbe and we circled the school time after time. Mike and I were able to catch three kings each and Jimmy, as a non-resident, was able to catch two a day.
  It took us a couple hours each day to limit on salmon and then we raced out to our halibut spots to see where the halibut were staged.
  Mike and I like to do these pre-season trips to get a feel for where the fish are before paying clients arrive in a week. Jimmy likes to do these pre-season scouting trips with us as well... hmmm...
  We had a great week getting the boat and engines in top working condition. We did have to stop and bleed the steering systems, change fuel filters, do some battery maintenance, but among friends early in the year, it is just pauses in a day of fun times.
  The weather was some of the most beautiful one can have in South East Alaska. Bright sunny sky's and calm ocean. It just seemed almost too perfect.
  We talk much of making sure we do things we enjoy with family and friends. Life is very fragile. There are no guarantees of tomorrow. While we have health, and the opportunities, we need to take advantage of each moment in time we can.
  I feel this whole world system is winding down quickly. So many laws, rules, regulations... so many freedoms being taken away by those in charge.
  We need to live life while we can. Not just breathe air, but live life. Go fishing, hunting, camping, or just driving. I feel like these are the areas of life that can be taken away at any time. I doubt the freedom of watching TV or sitting inside your home will every be frowned upon. It seems the big crunch is going to come in the outdoors.
  I am so thankful that Jimmy's wife, Kristi, encouraged him to come and spend a week with me. These are the times we have logged into our memory banks forever. Our photo's will hang on our walls probably until we pass on and the "kids" have to find a box for them.
  I'm not sure if his wall will include a photo of an octopus, but it sure will make this blog!
  Well done Jimmy!

Hook in the Eye part 2

   Each hour that drags by becomes more painful and discomforting.
  "When is this nightmare going to end?" I keep asking each person who comes to my bedside. No one has an answer.
In the waiting room we had some ding-a-ling intern doctor come in and ask me what alloy the hook was made of. He then instructed the nurse to find some dikes as he was going to clip the hook shank as it stuck out of my eye. The nurse could find nothing (thank God) and he went to cover the eye again. He pressed some metal plate on the hook and pressed down hard. I was writhing in pain telling him he was really hurting me. I am convinced he pushed the hook further into my eye and damaged some of the retina due to his goofiness. I demanded he leave me alone. Rene and our good friend Jim were about to jump up and take the doofus down. We could not believe what had just happened. We did report him to the superiors at the hospital. 
  Seven hours roll around. I am begging and pleading for someone to get me on the life flight plane and fly me to a hospital that can began the surgery to get the hook out of my eye. Poor Rene and Jim have to sit and listen to me whine.
   The night is crawling by. I am in torment and increasing pain. At one o'clock in the morning I am finally wheeled into the operating room, but must wait one more hour with the staff saying we might get the room if no other person comes in.
  I have been insisting for the past several hours that I want them to find another hospital with a surgeon and fly me there. I could have flown all the way to New York in this length of time. It seems the torture will never end. I know Rene is completely drained. She is such a trooper, guarding me like a wild animal against any more crazy interns who may want to practice stupidity on me.
  As I'm being wheeled in for surgery, Jim asks if he can take a picture of the hook in my eye. "Have at it," I tell him in my pain crazed state. He takes the only picture I have of the whole incident.
  I am in surgery for six and one half hours.
  Rene says when I "came to" in recovery I was trying to get off the bed and kept repeating that I needed to get the fish cleaned and boxed for the clients. At last she convinced my foggy mind that all was taken care of.
  Wayne and Mike took care of the fish for the clients, then cleaned and stored my boat for me. I am so thankful for such great friends.
  I was in the hospital for the next two days. The surgeons did a remarkable job removing the hook. Healing would require 6 weeks with stitches in and no infection.
  Rene and I flew back to Seattle at the end of the six weeks for reconstruction surgery. I opted for just local anesthetic and to listen to the whole procedure. I was not prepared for the seven hour ordeal it would become.
 I was fitted with a new lens in my eye, the oil, which held the retina in place while healing, was suctioned out, and a form of eye fluid was pumped in.
  Once again I returned home bruised and battered, but the eye was healing in remarkable ways. I was gaining very limited vision, but excited that I was even able to keep my own eye.
  It is now four years after that crazy day. My eye was doing great unit just this year. Now it seems the cornea is dying. I have just flown back to the Seattle surgeon and have been informed a cornea transplant is the only way to cure the blistering I am dealing with now.
  Sometimes in the heat of the battle with the painful popping blisters, I tell Rene I'm ready to get this eye taken out of my head. Just get it done and over with. Then I sit in the waiting room and read material on the great gains of the medical profession.
  The cornea transplant may last ten years at the most. I am hoping by then something will be discovered that will be able to restore all of my sight.
  Until then I will just keep on living life and trusting that everything happens for a reason. God knows my needs. If He sees fit He could heal my eye. If He chooses not to, I will still live trusting in Him,and continue on as best I can.
  I have had to fight the frustration of having no depth perception. I can not do little detailed projects that used to be so simple. I can hardly put fishing line through the eye of a hook, or string line through the eyes of the rod. Doing boat project that require me to lay on my left side and look around objects is no longer possible. I have had to lean on others more than ever in my life. All have jumped to help me and I'm so thankful for them.
  I have re-learned to shoot guns. Day after day, week after week I have had to put a gun to my shoulder and learn to look down the barrel with my right eye. It does not feel good. I am still very clumsy and dis-jointed, but am getting progressively better. As long as I've got time, I can make the shots. In a quick situation the gun still comes up on my left shoulder and I look down a blind barrel.
  In the fishing industry my situation has rippled fear through the guys. All are now wearing safety glasses while landing fish. Even the commercial guys are wearing glasses to ward off hooks.
  I was stopped in the parking lot just last summer by a fellow guide. He called me to his truck and showed me a nasty hook mark on his forehead.
  "I just want you to know, Earl," he said, "Because of you getting that hook in your eye... saved me today. I had my glasses on, because of you, and the hook bounced off my glasses and stuck in my forehead. I would be heading to Seattle in a life flight plane right now, but for you. I just wanted you to know."
  I thanked him, and am reminded that even through my ordeal there can be good come of it. We will never know how many other eyes will be saved because of my mishap.
  Life goes on. We live and breath. Never take for granted your eye sight. I am so thankful for two eyes. One is now gone, but I can still see very well with my good one.
  I will never be without glasses protecting my good eye now.
  To anyone reading this who fishes, hunts, mows lawns, uses weed eaters... wear eye protection. Harbor View Hospital is swarming with those who have put their eyes out with such devices.
  And... every day be thankful for the wonderful gift of vision!

Fish Hook In My Eye

  All the names have been changed to protect privacy. 
If you are a bit squeamish don't look at the photo at the end of the post. :-)

There are days in a person's life that leave scars both mentally and physically...forever. August 10th of 2010 is one that marked me forever.
  The clients boarded the boat at six o'clock sharp. They were excited, and so was I. They had been fishing with another guide until I could finish up the group I had been guiding, but now their final day was with me, the captain they had requested through the lodge. We were all excited. I had guided these guys before and we had had a great time together.
A father, his two sons, and a family friend. The dad and sons were firemen and police.
  We raced out to Cape Edgecumbe and dropped our fishing gear. We were trolling for Coho salmon, and the fishing was very good.
It was nearing ten in the morning and we had a good pile of salmon on board.
  "Let's get one more salmon and then we're off to fish for halibut," I told them, and they were all in agreement.
  "Fish on!Get the rod, Sam," I shouted, pulling the shift handle into neutral.
  Sam was onto the fish and it looked like a good coho salmon. For the past couple of days the guide they had been with had been yelling at them to, "get up the rail and not behind him" in case the hook came out of the fish. They teased each other as Sam reeled in the fish.
  I had the net ready and held it up in front of myself and the client to protect in case the hook came flying out, which is common while fishing silver (coho) salmon. The fish steadied on the surface and I dropped the net to net it. The client (who was directly behind me) pulled hard on the rod to get the fish closer. I watched as the silver went into a roll similar to an alligator in a death roll. I lunged to get the net under it.
  A smashing blow hit me in the face. It felt like a club. Instantly I dropped the net and jumped back.
  "It's in my eye! the hook is in my eye!" I shouted.
  Sam dropped the fishing pole and the heavy metal flasher dropped to the end of the leader and "set" the hook even deeper.
  "Owe,owe, owe!" I shouted,"You can't let the flasher dangle on my eye!"
  I grabbed the rail of the boat with one arm and the flasher with my other hand. I knew I was in big trouble.
  "Inside the boat under the driver's seat in the drawer is a pair of red handled snippers. Someone go get them and cut this leader," I instructed. The pain was overwhelming if I tried to open my good eye as both eyes move when I look.
  Firemen are also paramedics so I was in good hands. They cut the leader and then found the first aid kit and bandaged the eye with the hook protruding from it. They also bound my good eye to stabilize both eyes. I was now flying blind.
  I felt my way inside to the radio and felt the proper mic for our group of guides.
  "Hey guys," I said as calmly as I could over the air, "I'm in trouble. I have a hook in my eye and I'm going to need help."  I didn't have to identify myself as we all know each others voice over the air.
  Don, fishing a boat called the Mist, answered back. "I'm pulling my lines now. I'll be right there, Earl, hang in there."
  I know hearing a call like that over the radio is like a bomb dropping. We hear may-day calls quite often and it is like a hush hits the radio.
  "Hey Earl, I've got my gear on deck and was heading for halibut, I can get to you before Don," Scott's voice crackled over my radio. Scott and I are long time friends. We went to the same high school and ran together for years commercial fishing, as well as diving together for nearly ten years. There is no one I would rather have in an emergency than Scott.
  "Thanks Scott, I'll get the boat ready for travel," I replied back.
  I felt my way to the back of the boat and climbed over the stern to lift the kicker motor, then stumbled my way back inside and fired up the motors.
  I could hear the radio airwaves burning with the guys telling those who had not heard that I had a hook buried deep in my eye.
  "One of you will have to drive the boat and just follow close behind Scott," I told the guys. It was decided Bill, the policeman, would do the driving, and the dad, Joe, would be the radio person, relaying messages of my condition and making plans for when we reached the dock.
  It is an hour's run from the Cape to the dock.
  I felt the boat roll hard in a boat wake. Scott had arrived.
    "Bill, you need to use the thumb trim switch to make sure both motors are trimmed down and then just key start both of them," I instruct.
  Joe, is on the radio with Scott going over the plan of keeping our boat right in the wake of Scott's boat. There are some nasty rock piles we have to run through to get back to town.
  "Tell Scotty we're ready to go," I told Bill. He radios the information to Scott. I then stand by Bill giving him instructions of how to run the throttles and the trims on the outboards. I feel that the boat jump out of the water and the bow lift as Bill hammers the throttles and trims the outboards. It feels like the boat is leaning to one side, probably everyone is on one side of the boat, so I feel the side trims and level the boat out.
  The outboards are screaming as we race behind Scott. "What RPM are we showing on the tac?" I ask Bill.
  "Right at 4,800," he replies.
  "That is way to hard on my old engines," I reply. "We don't need to blow a motor up right now."
  "Joe, tell Scott to back off a few RPM's," I instruct to our man running the radio.
  I hear the chatter on the radio and feel Bill back off the throttles a bit. Much better.
  Scott is talking to Robert at the lodge on the radio. I have Joe tell Scott to remind Robert to have a van waiting at the dock to take the clients to the lodge. I hear the radio transmission and the conformation.
    The guys inform me we are now at St Lazaria Island. I can feel the difference as the water smooths out quite a bit. The boat has been pounding in the ocean swell and I can feel it on my eye.
  In about fifteen minutes the guys tell me we are nearing Vitskari Rocks. Cell phone range.
  I ask the guys to find my cell phone and give some numbers to Scott. I want him to call my wife, Rene. They find her work number and Scott calls. She is not there, nor is she at our house. I'm thinking she must be with our friend Patsy who is visiting us. "Find Patsy's number and give that to Scott.”
  I hear the number being spoken over the radio. Scott says he has arranged for Rene to meet us at the dock.
  I ask the guys to have Scott call Wayne. He is back from commercial fishing and I know will be a good steady person for Rene to be around.
  Scott says Wayne will also be at the dock. I ask the guys to clean the blood off me so Rene will not freak at seeing me all bloody. They do a great job.
 It seems to take a long time to get to the harbor. I listen as Scott tells Bill the plan for docking. I tell Bill that I'll walk him through it as well.
  I talk Bill through the steps of bringing the boat to the dock. I feel it bump and then the guys are leading me out. I can smell the harbor. I feel hands help me over the rail and to the waiting arms of Scott, Rene, and Wayne.
  All the clients on Scott's boat and my boat wish me well as Wayne and Rene lead me up the dock. Patsy is there as well as one of my commercial fishing friends, Mike.
  They walk me down the dock and up the ramp to the waiting car. I offer to drive but don't get many laughs. Everyone knows it is serious.
  We are at the Sitka hospital in a matter of minutes. I am in some emergency waiting room.
  They offer me some pain killers but I don't feel pain.
  I can hear the doctor come in. "This might hurt a bit as I unwrap your head," Dr. Hunter says. Rene insists they give me morphine. I can feel it course through my shoulders and neck. Dr.Hunter unwraps my eyes. I can see everyone with my good right eye. Hunter then tries to pry open my eye with the hook in it. He is telling a nurse the findings. The eye is deflated, the fluid is gone. The lens is punctured and the inner eye.
  He wraps me back up and informs Rene that this is way over his head. "You guys need a good eye surgeon" he gives us the choice of Juneau, Anchorage, or Seattle.
  We ask him which he would go to and he will not commit.  When Hunter leaves the room, we ask the nurses which place they would go. All quickly say Seattle. That is settled. We inform Dr. Hunter of our decision and he leaves the room again to arrange to have an eye surgeon waiting when we arrive. That would be nice.
  They arrange for life flight to come and pick me up. We have just purchased Guardian Life Flight insurance. What a great thing.
  The jet is in Ketchikan and will take about 20 minutes to get here.
  The nurse asks, "How's your pain?" "It is not hurting at all," I respond.
  Patsy will stay with our daughter, Brooke. They will take care of the dogs and anything needed from Alaska. I blindly hug them both as I'm lead out the hospital door.
  After what seems a very long time they load me on an ambulance and head for the Sitka Airport.
  I get to ride on my first Leer Jet. I never get to see it but I can hear it.
  The pilot of the jet leans close to me and informs myself and Rene that this will be a very noisy flight to Seattle. Because of the eye draining fluid the pilot is going to fly the jet "right on the deck", meaning right on the ocean. He tells us the sound of the jet engine will bounce off the waves making it a noisy flight.
  "Go for it," I say, not really caring much about sound right now.
  I can feel the hook in my eye all the time. As long as I do not try and move my right eye it does not feel too bad.
  On the two hour flight to Seattle someone is asking all the time my pain on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst. Zero to one I say each time. I learn that Rene is up front telling them to keep the morphine coming. She thinks I'm trying to be tough, but I really don't have much pain.
  I am trying to keep my mind active. I don't want to go into shock. I think about anything and everything. But in reality I am thinking about how I am going to have to adjust to being blind in one eye. Not just an eye, but my best power eye. I am a hunter and have shot guns, bows, slingshots... everything left handed using my best eye. It now has a huge hook buried deep inside, no eye fluid, and not much hope at this time of even saving the eye.
  We get to Seattle and are whisked away on a waiting ambulance. It takes about ten minutes to get to the Seattle hospital.
  We roll into Harbor View hospital and they wheel me into an emergency room waiting room.  
  Rene and I sit there for the next seven hours waiting for a surgeon to show up. A good friend, Jim, comes and sits with us. He is very calm and helps Rene so much. Even the hospital staff is going crazy at the lack of service. Nurses come by and start giving Rene their names and phone numbers. "When you sue this place we will be witnesses for you. We have never seen it take this long to get someone into surgery." The discomfort is almost more than I can stand.
  "Let me get back on the plane and fly somewhere else," I keep telling everyone. "I just want this hook out of my eye...Now!"

To be continued...


laying in hospital waiting for the doctor to show up