Part 2 of Mayday

"I'll Keep coming your way until I know you are safe," he replies back.
  "Thanks so much," I quickly reply.
  My second engine roars to life!
  I throttle it forward and it causes the boat to jump forward.
  We are under both engine power!
  "Mike, I'm going to try and get on step. Keep a close look in the fish holds to see if we start taking on water," I shout to Mike.
  The boat jumps out of the water just like normal and we are on plane!
  "Looks good back here," Mike yells above the noise of the outboards, especially the one without the cover.
  "Juneau Coast Guard, Samantha," I say into the radio.
  "Go ahead Samantha."
  "We are now running on both motors and are on plane. We can see no water coming on board, so we will attempt to run back to Sitka."
  "Roger that Samantha."
  I call the crabber and let him know we are leaving the area and thank him again for his willingness to help out.
  "Good luck," he says.
  Another boat has now pulled along side of us and informs us he is running back to town right now and will follow us all the way to make sure we make it alright. Coast Guard Juneau affirms that they also heard the offer.
  "Slow down a bit and let the bow come up," he asks over the radio, "I"ll make a circle around you and have one of my guys look the bottom of your boat over with binoculars."
  I slow so the bow of the boat is lifted high. The Samaritan boat cruises in a slow circle around us. I can see a couple of his guys looking us over with binoculars.
  "Looks good, Samantha," he says. "Lots of gouges, scrapes, and scratches, but we see no holes."
  About an hour and a half later Mike and I wave goodbye to our escort boat and idle into our home harbor.
  We tie the boat to the dock. I call the Coast guard and inform them that we have made it back and are in good shape.
  I race to the truck, race through town, hook up my trailer and then back to the harbor. I breath a huge sigh of relief when the boat slides onto the trailer. We have officially made it.
  We haul the boat out and examine the bottom. It is roughed up quite a bit. There are some deep gouges in some areas but I am very impressed with the fact that no rock penetrated through the hull. I whisper a prayer of thanks to the boat manufacture for building a very sturdy boat.
  To stop that many tons of boat, traveling 20 plus knots on a pile of rocks, have it thrash around in waves and wind for quite some time, and not puncture the hull is incredible.
  Mike and I also are amazed that the engines were both able to run. At the dock I could not get one of the engines to shift once it stopped. It would not restart or shift again.
  We are so thankful for all those involved in helping us. Even just voices over the radio. All helped us in more ways than they will ever know.
  Now we have to pick up the pieces and see about a rebuild. Not in the plans this winter, but something that will have to be handled. 
  The above was written the day after the crash. It is now April. After a long winter of rebuilding, the boat is once again in top shape. The local fiberglass repair man did an incredible job.
  The fuel tank had to be removed and the bottom of the boat cut out. He had to replace stringers as well as just bottom repair.
  Right now the boat is sitting in the outboard motor shop getting a brand new pair of Yamaha motors.
  It has been a long stressful winter, but spring is here and the fishing season upon me.
  We will survive, we are thankful for the fact that no one was injured in the crash.  There was just enough water to bring the boat to a sliding (Ok, maybe a crunching, bumping, grinding stop) but just an hour more of tide and we would have cleared the rock completely.
  It has been an eye opener for me as I share my story around town, to learn how many people have also crashed boats into rocks. The resounding words I hear is, "If you run a boat long enough up here... You WILL hit a rock!"
  I hope and pray that I have gotten all of my misadventures out of my system.  I'm ready to just work hard, earn money, and buy beans for the rest of my working life!
  Hey, this is Wild Alaska so you just don't know...
  I'll keep you posted.

                                          repairing the bottom of the boat

                                          the motor damage.. just the skaggs.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

  I know many of you follow my cucumber diving adventures and this year they suddenly stopped after our first dive. Well... here is the reason. Not that I'm proud to even share this with you, but it certainly is why I call this blog Living Wild Alaska. There is nothing in this state that comes easy, and this land and water will devour you if you relax for even a moment.  I have omitted the names of the vessels who assisted us that day for their privacy, especially the commercial crabber (We never like to give away our secret fishing areas).


"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!"
  I never thought I'd hear my own voice over a radio calling Mayday to all boats around.
  Mike and I started our day early, texting about our up coming cruise.
  "Let's get the shrimp gear on the boat about nine and then see what the weather is doing, and leave from there," I texed Mike.
  "Sounds good," he immediately shot back.
  We drove to the harbor and spent almost an hour packing shrimp gear and our hunting supplies to the boat. I had to run back home for outboard oil, kissed my wife goodbye, waved off her words, "Please be careful,"  and raced back to the boat.
  "Untie, and we're out of here!" I shouted out the door, while firing up the computer and the navigation gear.
  Mike and I were going to make a combination trip. We would take the weekend for shrimping, crabing, and deer hunting, and then roll right into the next dive opening at the bottom end of Peril Strait. That is the way to have a commercial opening pay for our play time. Fuel in Alaska is so expensive that one can not afford to just go on an only play weekend.
  We chatted and poured coffee as we traveled down  the quiet water channels. We had decided to make the shrimp and deer trip up to Hoonah Sound. Mike and I had not been there since last year when we filled our freezers with beautiful, great tasting shrimp.
  I steered the boat past Poison Cove, and headed down Deadman's reach, realizing that I was not heading to our dive area of Peril Strait, but rather, Hoonah sound, I corrected hard to the port and laid out a new course.
  Mike had been out on the deck baiting our shrimp pots. He must have felt me turn and came in the door. I zoomed the chart out and asked if we needed to cut inside Emmons Island or go around the end of it.
  Mike zoomed out the chart to where we needed to go set our pots.
  "Looks like we can cut inside the island," he said.
  He went back out on deck and continued getting the pots ready for setting.
  Mike finished up and came back inside.
  "Coffee?" I asked, as I handed Mike the thermos of steaming hot coffee.
  "You bet," he said and poured himself a cup.
  We settled in for a nice smooth ride.
  I started hitting some tide and wind chop and backed the throttle a bit. A South wind was pushing against a North tide and was stacking about a two foot chop on the strait.
  I was in a big wide open stretch of water, land a good mile away on each side.
  Crash! The boat lurched hard as the back of the boat smashed hard into something.
  "Log!" I shouted as I backed the throttles into neutral.
  Crash, bang, smash! The big boat smashed to a halt.
  "Rock! We've hit a rock!" Mike shouted. He raced outside and was looking over the side of the boat.
  I looked out the back window while trimming the outboards up out of the water. I could see an engine cowling floating quite a ways from the boat. I thought it was one of our engines.
  "I've knocked an engine off the boat!" I shouted, racing to the back deck to look. Both engines were attached to the boat, but the starboard engine was missing the cowling. We watched as it floated away and later as it sunk.
  We are both stunned.
  The wind is blowing the two foot chop and the boat is bouncing up and down and rolling sideways, crunching and grinding on the rocks.
  "We've got to get off the rocks!" Mike shouts. "Should we get out and push? How about we both go to the bow and see if we can float the stern off the rocks?"
  "Mike, this a a huge boat, weighs tons. We are not going to move it or float it with just us two," I said to him, but did not have a better plan.
  "We have the kicker motor to give us power if we can get off this rock pile," I said to Mike.
  The boat was rolling and crashing constantly as the wind pushed the waves against us.
  "Mike this boat might crumble out from under us," I said. "should I give out a Mayday call to the Coast Guard?"
  "Yeah, I think we'd better," mike quickly answered back.
  I grabbed the radio mic and gave out a mayday call. Nothing.
  "You're using the wrong mic, Mike informed me." I look up to see that I'm using a back up radio  that is not on the hailing channel.
   I grab the mic on my other radio and calm my nerves.
  "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! I calmly say. "Juneau Com center, this is the vessel Samantha we are at position 57 33.39 north 135 32.80 west. We have hit a rock and and are in need of assistance. Do you copy Coast Guard?"
  "Samantha, Juneau Coast Guard. How many persons are on board?" I hear a broken voice on my radio. I crank up the volume to hear better.
  "Two persons on board," I say back. Juneau, I see a crabber working across the way in Deadman Reach, if we could get him to help."
  "Roger that," Juneau says back, "Break, break. Pan (pronounced pawn), pan calling the crab vessel in deadman reach, do you copy?"
  "Yeah Juneau," comes a new voice over the radio. " this is the crabber ( he gives his name, but I'll call him "Assurance") I have stopped working and am on my way. I see the Samantha from here."
  "Samantha, did you copy that?" Juneau Coast Guard asks me.
  Mike is shouting things on the back deck and I'm running in and out trying to access our damages.
  "Mike!" I shout out the door. "Open the hatches and see if we are taking on water. No wait, Get our survival suites out and on the back deck first, then check for water!"
  Mike is scrambling to get things done.
  "Juneau I copy I can see the crabber headed our way. I am not seeing any water coming aboard but the boat is really taking a pounding from the rocks with the waves smashing us about."
  "Copy that, Samantha. What is your on scene weather, the color of your vessel and your life saving gear on board?" Juneau Com Center radios back.
  I fill the coast guard in on our status, "We are a 25 foot light brown vessel we have survival suits ready and also an inflatable skiff ready to deploy should we need them."
  "Good copy,Samantha," the coast guard calls back.
  Two other boats are on the radio letting us know they are also in route to help us.
  Mike yells in the door, "It looks like deep water on this side of the boat. I think we are floating off the rock!"
  We are still pounding, crunching and grinding with sounds you hope you will never have to hear again in your life. It is hard to describe the sounds of a fiberglass boat being pounded to pieces beneath your feet.
  The grinding stops. It is eerie quiet.
  "We are off the rock!" Mike shouts to me.
  I race outside and look into deep water, not a rock in sight. I race back inside and grab the radio mic again.
  "Juneau Coast Guard Samantha," I say, "we have just floated off the rock. I am trimming down my engines to see if they will run and go into gear."
  "Good copy on that, Samantha," the young man says back.
  I fire up my starboard engine and it roars to life sounding like it is in bad trouble. I look back to realize that without the cowling to quiet it down, it is running good, but just very noisy without the cover on it. I throttle forward and it seems to go into gear.
  I try and try to fire the other engine. It turns over but will not start.
  "Juneau Com," I say, "I have one engine running and it seems to be in gear. I'm going to idle to point Marie in case we need to beach the boat."
  Good copy on the Samantha, Assurance, did you copy that?"
  "Yes Juneau," Assurance comes back on the radio, "I can see him idling towards the point."
  "Thanks Assurance," I say on the radio, "It looks like I have power on one motor and we still see no water coming on board."

  To be continued...

                                 Some of the damage on the bottom of the boat

                                    The damage on the bow where the initial impact was

Snow Goose from Russia

  One last Snow Goose story.
  I had been getting some good snow goose action and was sending texts to my hunting buddy, Larell. One that really made the guys drool was me holding a banded snow goose.
 That night Larell text'd me wanting to hunt the next morning.
  "You bet. I'll see you at O dark thirty," I replied back.
  Larell was already at the blind and had the decoys hauled out. I could tell he was excited.
  We made shooting hours with minutes to spare and then began the long day of waiting.
 The Snows were being typical snow geese with most of them flying over squawking at us but totally ignoring our decoy spread.
  It was nearly mid day when we had our first real flock decoy in. They started in the stratosphere and slowly circled their way into gun range.
  "Let's let them make one more circle," I whispered to Larell. His dog, Charlie was shivering with excitement waiting for the shots to signal her burst from the blind.
  The big flock slowly drifted around the spinning decoys and straight at the blind.
  "Ok, when they get close... let's get them... remember to shoot your side of the flock, I'll shoot mine," I whispered. I think I was quivering as bad as Charlie.
  "Now! Take 'em!" I shouted, rising out of the blind to shoot.
  The flock was right in our face low.  I picked a bird on my side and fired, to my surprise, it dropped. I picked another one and it also fell.
  I could hear Larell blasting away on his side, but being on my nearly blind side I could not see if birds were dropping.
  The flock quickly back peddled out of range and Larell and I were left high fiving and congratulating each other on a job well done.
  Larell had a couple on his side and I had my two. We strolled out to help Charlie retrieve them.
  I picked up my second bird and there on its leg was a metal band. My second banded bird of the season.
  When Larell was back in the blind I showed him my treasure.
  "No way!" he exclaimed, " The second one in two days for you! You lucky guy!"
 "You can have it if you want it,'' I told him.
  "No it was on your side of the flock, you got it," he gracefully replied.
  I tried a couple more time during the day to have him take it home for his treasure chest, but he stuck to his guns and insisted I have it.
  We had a good snow goose shoot that day and made it home late that night.
  I raced for the computer to enter my goose band into the national band data base.
  I filled out all the forms and gave the harvest information, location harvested condition of the bird, and condition of the band. some of that information is not asked, but I like to let the banding persons know the condition of the band to reward their hard work.
  I clicked the mouse on "enter information" and sat back waiting for the results.
  In minutes I was staring at a form I could hardly believe... it said:
  "Lesser Snow Goose, hatched in 2011, female, banded on Wrangel Island Russia, Russia!"
  I sat back stunned. I had no idea the Snow Geese migrated into Russia, let alone any banding program going on there.
  I looked it up on Google Earth and learned it was above the Bering sea. A little island sitting in the Chukchi Sea hundreds of miles west of the coast of Alaska and our known place of Point Barrow Alaska
  I crunched some numbers to see how far this bird had flown to make it to my hunting area.
  If the goose flew from Wrangel Isand to Mexico, where a lot of geese winter it would have made a trip of about 4,300 miles, from Mexico City to Boise Idaho is about 1,900 miles.
  Now, if I do my math correctly the goose hatched in 2011, meaning it made round trips from Russia to Mexico four times. A round trip from Russia to Mexico is about 8,600 miles, times four... a crazy 34,400 miles.
  Watching the snow geese fly on a daily basis is also crazy. They lift from their night roosting ponds and spiral up into the high clouds then fly 30 to 50 miles out to the fields to feed. At about noon the birds come flying back at the super high elevations and back into the ponds to rest until about three in the evening where they repeat the same flights.
  This back and forth flying happens every day of their lives.
  No wonder these birds are so tough. If an athlete accomplished such a feat  now days he would be on every news page in the country.
  My respect for the little Snow Goose went right to the top!
  Larell text'd me that night to say that he had reconsidered my offer of the band and would like it for a mount... but then he saw where it came from... "I guess you won't be giving that band up, will you," He text'd me.
  "Not for a million bucks!"  Well... maybe for a cool million!

 

More Snow Goose Action

  My vacation in Idaho was still in full swing. Snow goose hunting from daylight to dark every day is tiring for an old duffer like me.
  My good friend Jim was down with his boy, Kyle, and I was wanting to get my other nephew, Nick, in on a good snow goose hunt.
  Nick was the lucky one to team shoot our only snow goose of the very first spring season Idaho offered. We often laugh about the way it came to pass.
  We were hunting Wayne's farm and had cobbled together about two hundred cardboard decoys, changing the paint from black Canada decoys, to white snow geese. We were so excited to finally get a chance at snows.
  We set up early in the morning and had Nick, his dad, Gary, a friend of ours, Larell, and Wayne and I for the hunt. Snow geese flew in waves over us but totally ignored us the entire morning. At noon Wayne suggested we make a lunch run into town for burgers. I was happy to break the boredom and accompany him.
  We took our time and returned to the blind in a couple of hours, greeted by cheesy smiles from the remaining guys.
  "We got one!" they announced as we handed burgers and fries to them.
  "Yeah right, and I'm the king of England," I replied back.
  Nick reached down and produced a sparkling white snow goose!
  "No way!" I responded
  The story was that a flock of swans had come straight at the guys and they were having fun observing the big birds as they flew past. Suddenly a very small "swan" broke out of the flock and sailed down into the decoys. It took them totally by surprise, and at last they realized it was a lone snow goose that had been flying with the group of swans. They opened up on it and between them all had our first snow goose, and... it was the only one we shot the entire season.
  Nick has the brag of getting our first and only snow goose that year.
  Things have now changed.  The boys have helped make dozens and dozens of snow goose decoys. It did not take long to realize that a couple hundred decoys just doesn't work for the white birds. They fly in flocks of thousands, and ignore a field with just a sprinkle of decoys in it.
  Nick had to work around his baseball schedule and asked to bring his hunting friend, Harry.
  "You bet. Bring him in the morning. Jimmy and your Uncle Jim will also be there to help with the shooting.
  The snow geese had been migrating through and the numbers were gaining each day. It should be a good shoot... but snow geese are so unpredictable, time would tell.
  Jimmy was waiting at the field, and Jim showed up with the boys shortly there after. We raced in the darkness setting the decoys.
  It seems there is never enough time to get all the decoys ready for opening light, and as I raced around I told the boys to get shells in their guns, shooting hours was just minutes away.
  Nick now set with a flock of more than a thousand decoys around him. A good change from that first day years ago.
  The Snows trickled in all day and we shot till our barrels nearly melted down.
  Big flocks would circle around and around until it seemed they were right in the blind with us. It was exciting and the best day of the season so far.
  The boys did some good shooting and the geese were piling up in the blind. Text messages and pictures were streaming out of the blind to family and friends as the day progressed.
  We took a break at noon, and unlike that first hunt had a nice barbecue near the blind. Each day it seemed we had to race into the blind as snows came decoying in with smoke billowing from the barbecue. As long as we stayed hidden we could shoot geese while making lunch.
  What a great time we had that day. Nick finally getting in on a good snow goose decoying day.
  Jimmy was also enjoying himself as it was his best hunt of the year. It seemed one of those magical days when things just lined up right.
  Oh sure, we should have had many more birds on the ground, but it seems that snow geese are the toughest of all waterfowl to hit. I can shoot and shoot at those birds with very limited results. I need to go to snow goose shooting school to learn with I'm doing wrong.
  I've learned to just bring a blind full of young hunters and they make you look good with the birds dropping in front of them!
  At least I now feel like I'm getting the snow goose bug into my Nephews. Some day when I'm old, I'll just show up in the morning just as shooing hours roll around and park my nice chair in their blind and tell them to "Bring on the birds. I'm ready for a good hunt!"
  I'm so thankful for the chance to be able to do all these great things with family and friends.

                                      Harry, Nick, Kyle, Jim, and Jimmy

                                          Harry, Kyle, and Nick

Idaho Blue Goose

  The Idaho Snow Goose season was in full swing. I was working hard to get everyone involved in some of the hunts. It seemed each day in March the birds responded better to decoys.
  My nephew, Luke, had gone on a hunt in Feb to be greeted with a long day of dark to dark hunting for only a couple of geese.
  "I think it'd be worth your time to come now," I told Luke over the phone. It was like twisting someones arm to put money in their bank account... "I'll be there," Luke quickly responded.
  I also text'd another young man who is bitten badly by the hunting bug, Colton.
  "I'll be there for sure," He text'd back, and early the next morning his truck rolled into my driveway.
    A quick stop by the Parma fuel and handy mart and we were off to the field.
  Luke arrived at the field with his Uncle Jim, and special needs cousin, Kyle.
  The geese were roaring in the ponds behind us, usually a good omen.
  We raced through the early morning decoy set up and had things ready to go come daylight.
  I was really hoping to have a flock or two decoy. It is one thing to shoot a single or a pair, but the thrill of snow goose hunting is to have a flock drop from the bright blue stratosphere, and into the decoys.
  The morning dragged by without much excitement. We shot at a few birds but still no flocks.
  "Ok boys," I said, "it is getting close to prime decoy time."
  The field we hunt is between feeding grounds and resting area ponds. From about noon to three is prime time. The feeding birds are trickling to their resting area ponds. It seems there are always a few flocks that have not fed enough in the morning and are willing to check out our corn field on the way over.
"Peep!" I heard a snow goose from some distance away.
  "I hear one," I said to the boys, " look around and see where it is."
  "High, way up high above us," I said as soon as I saw the little white dots above us.
"They are locked on our decoys and coming in," I tried to conceal my excitement. "Sit back and enjoy the show."
  "Hey, is that a blue? Luke asked.
  "It is!" Coloton replied. Colton has the best eyes of the group. I could hardly tell they were birds, but as they dropped near we could all see the blue colored bird with a bright white neck and head.
  We have to be very careful that it is a blue goose and not an immature speckle belly, as the season is closed on specks.
  All through the morning we had talked about a blue goose. As many snows as I've seen shot in Idaho, I had never seen a real blue. We have harvested quite a few young snows which have a lot of grey feathers, but a real blue has the pure white head and neck.
  As the birds dropped and dropped from their incredibly high elevation the boys discussed how they were locked on the blue.
  We all enjoyed watching the dark bird in the flock of white.
  The birds were in range now. "Take them this time?" whispered the boys.
  "No, let's let them make one more pass to be sure they are in good range," I whispered back.
  It is so hard to keep letting snow geese circle again and again. Many times we wait for that one more circle only to have the birds fly away never to be seen again.
  Hunting Canada Geese the birds drop into the decoys in one or two passes and try to land. Not so with the snows, around and around without loosing very much elevation.
  The snows made a big circle around the blind and the decoy spread.  "Ok guys, this time. Take them when they come over this time," I whispered as gun barrels poked out the top of the blind.
  "Remember to shoot your lanes," I commented as I always do just before we lunge out of the blind to shoot into a flock.
  Shooting the lane in front of each hunter seems easy, but is,  in fact, very difficult.
  In a flock of birds there will always be one that stands out. It is usually the one that is the closest to the blind, or very large.  Your eyes are just drawn to that one bird. If a group of hunters do not force themselves to shoot the birds in front of them, closest or not, we find everyone shoots at the one that draws the eye and all the others escape untouched.
  "Now! Take them!" I shouted, while rising to shoot.  I picked a bird on my far end of the flock and promptly missed all my shots at it.
  Jim was faring better on his end of the flock, dropping a few geese.
  "Got it! Got it! Got it!" shouted Colton and Luke.
  "We got the blue!"They shouted, as they raced out of the blind to retrieve the bird.
  I had forgotten all about that blue goose.  It had come in the center of the flock right in front of Luke and Colton. Those boys concentrated their shots at it and we had the first real blue goose any of us had ever seen.
  Pictures were snapped over and over. The smiles were huge on those two guys faces. I have to admit I was sure proud of them as well.
  "Great shooting guys," I told them over and over.
  We harvested a few more snows that day, but that blue was certainly the highlight of the day, if not the season.
  Now there is talk of getting it mounted. Luke and Colton might have to take turns hanging it on their walls just to be fair.  I am very confident that both of the boys it that blue at the same time. It really is a shared treasure.

                                                   Our first blue goose

 

Jim, Kyle, and Luke

 

First Snow Goose at 95

  I called my folks house to speak to my Dad.
  "How about coming with me for a snow goose hunt?" I asked. 
  I received the reply I expected... "When? What time in the morning?"
  In all of my hunting years one solid thing I have counted on is the immediate willingness of my Dad going with me.
   "Let's do it Monday,"  I said to both he and my mom.  "No can do on Monday," my mom replied over the top of Dad's immediate "yes" reply.  "Have a doctor's appointment on Monday. But... Tuesday looks open for him," I could hear my mom reading off the wall calendar.
  When one gets old life doesn't center around a work schedule, but rather, a doctor's appointment calender. In their 80's and 90's there seems to always be some tuning up to do on the old bodies, eyes, ears, muscles... something.
  I picked up Dad at 5:30, and he had his stuff in a pile waiting. Just like every other time, I have never had to wait on him getting ready. 
  I have to laugh, in my mid 50's I find it hard to get up and going, I can not imagine at 95.
  We drove to Wayne's farm to set up in the dark.
  "I have never shot a snow goose," Dad informed me on the way. I knew I had taken him last year but had forgotten that he had not shot a white goose.
  "Maybe we can change that today," I said, as we bounced into the little dirt lane leading to the corn field we were hunting.
   I parked the truck and found my way to the blind by head lamp. The ducks and geese were greeting the morning full bore! In the ponds next to Wayne's farm the birds were almost deafening.
  "Man, listen to those geese roar," I commented to Dad.
  Many times I have wondered how many morning my Dad and I have shared the waking of a new day by listening to waterfowl greet the same early dawn. 
  I think back to my youth. Dad was so good about taking my brother and I on hunting and fishing trips.
  As I matured my love for the outdoors grew with my age. I loved the early mornings and found myself  spending most of them with my Dad.
  Daylight was breaking the Eastern sky, and even a blind person would have known by the ever increasing roar of snow and speckle belly geese in the ponds.
  "Ok Dad, it's shooting time, let's get some shells in the guns," I told him as I raced getting the sound system and the moving decoys going.
  Daylight came with a biting chill in the air. Dad's hands were so cold he could hardly get shells stuffed into his gun.
  The old blood vessels just don't work like they used to. I can remember most of my hunting life of how warm Dad's hand were. My brother and I would be freezing, he would slip off his toasty warm gloves and place them onto our little hands, giving us instant warmth. Now it is my turn to do the same for him.
  "Here comes a single snow goose," I whispered to Dad, "This will be your bird."
  The goose sailed right into the decoy for a great shot.
  "Ok, get it now!" I told Dad.
  He shot and the bird did not fall. Now it was fare game for me as well. I shot and shot with Dad and the goose flew away untouched!
  "Wow, what a lucky bird," I told Dad, while stuffing shells into my gun as well as his. In hunter's language that means, "We sure shot poorly"!
  A bit later in the morning I finally got my wish of a flock working into the decoys. I have wanted to show Dad the thrill of seeing those white birds circle and circle lower and lower. They seem to always be floating just out of gun range as they look over the decoys and blind.
  This time they decided to come right in.
  "Ok, let's get them," I said rising to shoot. I would shoot my side of the flock,  while Dad would shoot his side.
  Bang, bang, bang! We opened up on them. I expected to see geese raining out of the sky, but  typical snow goose hunting it seems I miss more than I hit. Dad was faring no better.
  One goose fell on my side and I stopped shooting.
  Bang! one last lone shot came from Dad's gun and a single goose fell out of the flock.
  I was surprised. Those birds were way out there when Dad hit it.
  I ran out and retrieved the birds.
  "Well, you got your first snow goose ," I informed Dad.
  He did his best to blame it on me.
  "I don't think I got that one," he said.
  "Well, unless my last shot took a long long time to reach the birds, you had to have hit that one. I was done shooting and it fell right when your gun went off," I explained to Dad.
  I could tell he was still not convinced.
  We hunted the rest of the day with little results, but that one flock had made it worth our day.
  At Dad and Mom's house I cleaned the two geese we had gotten. In my bird I found number 2 shot, and then in Dad's goose I found BB size shot, just what we each had been shooting.
  At nearly 96 years old my Dad had gotten his first snow goose.
  I am so thankful for the time I have with my Dad and Mom. I treasure each moment like this day.
  I am very blessed.
  And... way to go Dad!
 
                                          Dad with his first snow goose

Thieving Rascals

A new fisherman had joined our fleet of trollers. His name was Donnie.
  I must say here that Donnie passed away after a fierce battle with cancer some years ago. He would smile if he could read this today. No, he would have a beaming smile, wave his huge hands in a come here sign, and offer you a big chunk of cheese cut right off a big Costco block. With the cheese would come a hot cup of coffee and a very wonderful day of visiting. That was Donnie.
  He was a good friend of Wayne and myself, and also came from the tournament bass fishing world.
  The lure of Alaska proved too strong for Donnie and he retired from his business in the lower 48's and talked (conned) his wife into letting him purchase an old wooden troller. His boat was long and narrow and tended to roll a bit in the ocean, but Donnie didn't mind one bit. It added to the wildness of his new adventure.
  Donnie was so excited to get into salmon fishing. He had made many sport fishing trips to the Oregon coast and considered himself a fairly knowledgeable fisherman. Trolling was something different indeed.
  I had ran a small load of King Salmon to the fish buying plant in town, shoveled a ton of ice, cleaned the fish hold, re-iced, and fueled up.
  I now put-putted my way into the harbor and to my slip. Big Donnie was standing waiting for me to toss him a tie up line, a big smile on his face.
  Tomorrow I was going to lead him out for his first solo day of fishing on the wild North Pacific Ocean.
  "Hey Donnie!" I shouted out the wheel house door, "Are you ready for tomorrow?"
  He made a quick job of tying up my boat as I shut down the pumps, electronics, and engine.
  "Man, I can hardly wait!" his voice was almost shaking with excitement.
  As Donnie was speaking I looked past his head at a huge black Raven flying towards us.  It had something white in its beak.
  "Look at that Donnie," I said, "that raven has a marshmallow in its beak!"
  We both laughed at how funny it looked as it zoomed past us to land and eat its stolen booty
  Donnie and I stood chatting, leaning against the bow of my boat.
  Just then another raven came flying by with yet another marshmallow looking thing in its beak.
 "Ha, must be having a raven camp fire across the harbor," we joked with each other.
  It is not uncommon at all here in Sitka to see ravens flying around with food in their beaks. They are very bold and like to dig in trash all the time. We called them "Sidewalk Eagles".
  Here came another raven with white in its beak, then another...
    "I just did my grocery shopping," Donnie casually remarked, "so I'm ready for a week of fishing.
  It suddenly struck me.
  "Donnie, did you put your groceries inside the house of your boat?" I asked.
  "No, I laid them on my hatch cover to come help you tie up your boat," he casually said.
  I took off running for his boat, directly in the fly path of the ravens!
  I got to Donnie's boat ahead of him to find all of his groceries scattered on his hatch cover.
  "What the Hell?" exploded Donnie. Why those Thieving Rascals have gotten into everything!"
  Those "marshmallows" we had observed flying by were two dozen of his newly purchased eggs!
  We had only caught a few of the thieving rascals flying by. Most of them had been sitting happily on Donnie's boat eating the bounty of a new fisherman.
  "I can't believe it," Donnie sputtered, I left all my groceries in bags so they would be safe.
  "There is your mistake, my friend," I told him, "these Ravens have learned to dig open bags, and can do it so quickly that if you just turn your back they can sneak off with a slice of bread... or an egg!"
  After Donnie cooled down a bit he was able to laugh at himself. I don't think he ever made peace with the ravens of Sitka. He would go out of his way to make one fly if it were sitting minding its own business.
  His "thieving rascals" gave us hours of conversation and laughter in the summers to follow, as we fought off the boredom of trolling by ones self waiting for a salmon to bite a hook.
  We will always remember Big Donnie and his thieving rascals.