Tanner's First Day Skiing

When I received my ski instructor initiation over a decade ago they explained why we must be courteous to all we encounter because skiing is a hassle sport. First you pack an endless list of necessities, most for the expected encounters and others for emergencies or the unexpected. Then you get into your car and drive for several hours. If you're lucky, the roads are clear but the ski conditions are marginal. If there is snow falling, you may be delayed for a number of hours in your car, waiting for the plow to lead you and a thousand other "lowlanders" into the mountains. When you finally get to the ski "resort" of your choice, you're greeted with lines; Lines for rentals, lift tickets, lift lines and then a lunch line to pay $12 for an overcooked cheeseburger. I was always eager to hold the door for a Mom or Dad, arms filled with undersized skis, followed by a little bug in ski clothes either crying or asking pestering questions but I didn't envy their experience in the least. I knew all this and yet we ventured forth in spite of it all, determined that we could beat the odds and still find a way to enjoy ourselves.
This would be my first time skiing in about five years. I'd like to blame it on the kids or Maya with whom my experiment to turn into a ski-bunny failed miserably, but the truth is, I didn't want to come to terms with the fact that I too had become a pitiful lowlander. No longer could I hitchhike to work with my snowboard, lead a charge of screaming youngsters down the mountain and find hidden honey holes of powder at lunch. Gone were the days of hiding from the last ski patrol so we could drop off the backside of diamond peak and snowboard home. Now I was looking to rent ski's at sport chalet and searching the internet for deals of lift tickets.
My wife and I pride ourselves in planning ahead-having "our stuff together" if you will. A friend of ours had been offering his cabin in tahoe-donner for the last few years and so I decided to take him up on it. Better to stay for a few nights than to try and drive the marathon-like 6hr round-trip drive in one day with a full day of skiing sandwiched in between. Next, we rented skis in advance and found that we could pick them up early, use them a day and return them late the following day for a one day rental. Then it was off to the supermarket. We loaded up on snacks, drinks and planned out our meals for the next three days. If all went according to plan, (since we could use our friend's guest pass for a discount, Tanner could ski free and all we (make that I) needed to do was shovel the driveway for a free two night stay at the cabin), we could pull this trip off for less than $200 dollars including gas for my hogging F150.
We ventured forth on the Sunday after school let out. We arrived at the cabin early enough but the driveway was covered in packed "sierra cement" at least waist high at it's lowest point. I parked the truck on the side of the road and mountain manned it to the porch where I uncovered the snowblower and let it rip. A half-hour later, with a sweaty jacket and fleece hat abandoned on the pack ice, I had plowed a path to the street and ushered the family into the cabin. Two hours later I backed the truck up to the porch with inches to spare on each side. I might be complaining about all this if it weren't for the fact that I was lovin every minute of it. Free cabin, fresh air, a great excuse to get two hours kid free doing man chores. Priceless.
We settled into the cabin and made ourselves cozy. The plan was to play in the snow that afternoon but the wind picked up and I forgot how much quicker darkness comes to the mountains. Snow started to fall and it wasn't until after dinner that Tanner and I suited up (or at least I did as Tanner had been wearing his new snow bibs for the last week straight) and headed out to make a sled ramp in the driveway. Of course the practicality of a sled was lost on him and so we had to put on the ski boots and skis and learn how to make a pizza slice shape with his skis. Another advantage to renting in advance was that Tanner could practice and get familiar with the equipment before the moment of truth on the mountain. He seemed to like making "french fry" shapes with his skiis better. When he positioned his skis spread eagle and asked, "what's this called Daddy" I couldn't help but reply.
"That's called CRASHING Tanner."
The next day, even the best laid plans couldn't help us. We couldn't find the resort. The GPS took us to the cross country area. We did find great parking but I remembered why I snowboard, ski boots make my feet and calves ACHE painfully. To top it off, the snow began to fall in flurries and yesterday evening's wind had only come up stronger today. Still, Tanner was game and we went through the drill: get on the shuttle, go potty, get lift tickets, zip up jackets and go. I took my first trip on the "magic carpet" and the slow standing intensified the painful aching in my boots ten-fold. I skied backwards and Tanner hung onto my ski poles for dear life as we slowly waltzed back and forth down the hill. Maya had Sage in "the backpack" weathering the blizzard like a trooper. I didn't think my feet could take another ride on the magic carpet so I took Tanner's inquiry about the lifts as an opportunity. Maya looked at me incredulouosly-"He can't go on that!"
"Sure he can, I've taken hundreds of kids on those things. He'll love it".
And he did. We whooped and hollered for about a minute at the exhiliration of being lifted up a mountain on a flying bench. Our enthusiasm was short lived as the stinging snow assaulted our exposed, pinky cheekbones. I tried to cover Tanner's face but it probably just scraped the protective layer of ice off his face. We made it about half-way down the run before I had to scoop him up and ski. We headed to the lodge for snacks and a break from the hail's stinging onslaught. I didn't feel guilty at all taking up a spot in the cafeteria with our brown bag lunch and mountain of snow soaked ski gear. Feeling defrosted and re-energized, we rounded up the circus and headed out for one more hurrah. This time I put Tanner in front and wrapped my ski pole under his armpits. As long as he kept his hands on his knees, he had the right balance point and I could still steer. I think he felt more comfortable being able to see where he was going. We made two more runs, no carrying this time and we were fit to be tied. I don't think he really "got the hang of it" but he had a blast and thinks he's "the greatest skiier in the world" urging me to announce it to everyone at the bottom of each run.
The next day we headed to the sled hill. The sun came out in glorious fashion, reflecting brilliantly off the six inches of powder yesterday's storm had dumped. For $14 dollars we got to sled all morning on a perfect groomed run complete with banks and an area to walk up. We had a blast. Tanner even took out a few sleds and Maya bruised her right-rear cheek in a terrific crash. We headed home that evening tired and content. Sometimes as a parent I realize that the greatest achievements sometimes are in not trying to make them grow up too fast. I hear they will be before you know it anyways.

Windy Day

The weather report said "breezy" for Saturday and so my pre-dawn ritual was filled with a little more excitement. Instead of just feeding the cats, I sang them a little song in "kitty Lou" a cat-language I devised on my own. "Monties" danced around me in anticipation. I read somewhere that elderly people actually had dancing contests with their labs, teaching them the two-step. I tried a waltz with Montana but she kept stepping on my toes with her sharp claws, ripping away from me and doing prancing circles by the door. I guess it's enough that she retrieves ducks. She knows from the moment my alarm clock goes off early that she's going hunting and she shadows my every move, reading me intently with her ears back, eyes probing for a cue to jump in the truck. Funny how she will crash into my tailgate before I even open it, but getting her to "kennel up" for the ride home usually involves lifting her in. It's not that she's tired, she just doesn't want to go home.
When I arrive at the club, the flags are barely flapping and I'm worried the weatherman has got it wrong again. Just like baseball, the weatherman only has to be right 3 out of 10 times and he's in the hall of fame. We piled coyote brush into the boat to cover our blinds and dogs and set out to cut a wake down the moon tinted canal. Just before shooting hours, a flight of three sprig swung past the outskirts of our spread and came low past heyman. He balked and I made a comment about "triggeritis" even though I was fresh off a frisking with Fish and Game regarding the legal size of crabs. They let me go but I didn't want to tempt fate and commit anything that might even be considered a violation. It's tempting in the dark, in the middle of a thousand acre pond but you never know and it ain't worth it.
The weather man was apparently being conservative today because the "breeze" turned into a steady north wind-perfect for our pond and set up. Teal buzzed my side and I shot instinctively, picking the closest bird and sending it somersaulting across the ponds surface. The rest of the flock did what teal do when they're fired on and went airborne, straight up in an evasive maneuver that had me aiming over my head, past vertical. I missed the next two shots.
Soon our "winduks" were absolutely zinging with the wind and the poles tilted back at an angle, threatening to eject the spinning wing decoys, drowning them forever in the white-capped pond.
Normally, on a more placid day, the ducks will stay at altitude, occasionally flirting with a landing but for the most part these are the ducks who have gained wisdom from the shotgun's boom and the loss of a fallen partner. These same ducks, now grounded to the deck with winds gusting to 50, picked their route through the pond wisely. They skirmished the perimeter and gained altitude over suspicious looking "islands". Ironically most of the guys who normally hunted the less productive outskirts were invited to hunt the middle today, only to watch squadrons of sprig, widgeon and even a few greenheads dive-bomb their normally unproductive spreads.
I got up from the pits and pulled the spinning wing decoys in, they just didn't look right spinning so hyper actively. It paid off as a large flight of sprig and then another worked their way east, side winding in the wind, tilting, dipping and working hard but making excruciatingly slow actual progress so that when they finally came within range, it seemed as though we'd spent the morning with them. Guns blazed and labs lunged, leaped, plunged and stroked to their marks, soaking us with a vigorous shake as they handed off their prized retrieves.
We ended the day with nine birds (no spoonies thank you) and spent another 20 minutes looking for three that had sailed out of retriever range. We only found one. You've got to drop them cold in wind like that or they lock their wings and suck themselves into the ozone-shrinking into a speck on the horizon. It was the most productive day for me at the Tule Belle thus far. Normally the ducks are predictable and follow an established routine. Most of the time that routine keeps them safely out of shotgun range. That's what makes a windy day hunting so exciting though, all bets are off. The wind changes everything.
When I got home that afternoon, a mysterious thump seemed to be coming from the attic and our hefty, cast iron trellis had fallen over. Luckily no one was standing underneath the trellis and the thumping turned out to be Tanner's plywood basketball backboard. Nothing like a little storm to make things interesting.

The Rocket Buck

We arrive at the cabin just as the sun settles over Warner Valley Rim north of the little town of Chester, Ca. near Lake Almanor. It's opening day for deer in zone C4 and our camp is brewing with excitement. I lay out my maps on the table and we start the discussion.
I had come up about a month ago and scouted the area so I shared the little I knew. The best info I got was from a local named Samuel Cousins. He overheard my conversation at the forest service office with one of the ladies in there. "Deer Huntin eh? I guess I could tell you all the places I DONT HUNT!", he joked with a California country drawl. I let him keep talking. The more he talked, the layers of misinformation began to peel away. He told me of just about every spot he'd bagged a buck, or seen one for that matter in the last 30 years, save for his favorite "honey hole". I thanked him and returned to the log book with all of the filled tags signed off in that office for the last five years. Swanson's ridge kept coming up and I asked the lady about it.
Old Samuel perked up immediately, "You can't hunt there, that's my honey hole!" Bingo.
"Hey, I'm just exercising my right to access public information" I replied defensively.
"Alright" he capitulated. "The thing about Swanson Ridge is that you've gotta go there on a weekday. Weekends it's a madhouse." I marked it with a slightly bigger x than all the others I was amassing on my forest service map.
Because of this chance encounter and about 55miles logged driving-hypnotically-slowly down endless back roads near the vicinity of Heyman's cabin, along which I spotted a pathetic 4 does and one decent buck, (all but one of which were running full speed to another county); I was elected to play deer guide on opening morning.
Terry and Gary are friends of Heyman's from way back, twin brothers who finish each other's sentences and compete over who gets to tell the next story about "scoring" a crucial piece of sporting equipment from a grieving widow at a yard sale or a clueless clerk at a tackle shop clearance. Occasionally they will unleash their power and pester large corporations into sending them new and more expensive gear, wielding emails and handwritten letters complaining of the inferior product they were sold. "Cheap" stuff they probably should've known better than to buy in the first place. When they started to tell me about the shotguns they stole off of unsuspecting ebay vendors, I started to question the prices they paid. A benelli M2 for $1100 bucks! I saw one advertised at the guns n more for $1300. Benelli Nova for $400 dollars? I thought that's what they went for? Anyways, at least there was no paperwork and now the government won't be knocking at the door, repossessing in the middle of the night.
The truck's headlights illuminated the tracks of all the other trucks that came before us. An endless curving maze of dirt road bordered in buck brush snaked before us. Heyman questioned every turn but I found the spot where I had seen fresh sign on my previous scouting escapade.
The twins insisted on walkie-talkies and so we check the channels. Loud beeps permeate the predawn silence, sending any buck within a half mile into opening day hibernation. Despite this, they insist on whispering and moving everywhere in absolute silence.
We went our separate ways. Heyman took a stand over a small opening. I elected to move farther around the mountain, every step sending a loud "crunch alarm" through the forest, the floor littered with dry debris. We saw little sign and no deer. My spot was a bust. We decided to head back to the truck when what would be a familiar pattern first reared it's ugly head. We started playing "where are you" over the walkie talkies and spent more time trying to determine the whereabouts of our partners than to just use common sense and back track to the truck.
"Brian come in"
"Yeah I read ya"
"Have you patched that boulder patch?"
"Which one?"
"The second one to your east."
"No, I'm by that big thick clump of trees to the north"
"Should I keep heading south?"
"Head west first and then south"
And on and on. I just turned off my walkie talkie and looked around, waiting to respond until I got to the truck. I waited there for about twenty minutes until Gary and Heyman came down the road. Terry likes to take his time and we noticed that he was always the last to gear up and leave and the last one to make it back to the truck. It seemed he enjoyed immersing himself in nature's awesome house and I envied this connection he conjured up, watching him slowly return to the artificial environ of the truck cab, refusing to lift his eyes from the dusty track he followed. He wanted to stay "in the zone" as long as possible.
We headed back for lunch and decided we would hit Swanson's Ridge that afternoon. Mad house be damned-we would probably find hunters everywhere but there might be deer as well.
As the truck crawled up the forest service road into the Swanson's Ridge area, we knew there were deer in the area-lots of deer. The dusty road was littered with tracks. Many covered the tracks of the last truck that came before us. We split up at the top and began to hunt. Heyman is an amazing specimen. I wore sturdy hiking boots and still had trouble "off road". He was equipped in pull-on, ankle-high, morell-style slippers and still crunched through the brush like a native lumberjack. I called them his moccasins. He was off in the brush and I walked the road, hoping he would jump something my way, when it happened.
I caught movement not 50 feet ahead. In an instant I spotted two deer ahead, frozen and giving me the stare down. It was the moment of truth. They saw me and I saw them and my blood pumped. They must've been thinking: "Oh shit there's a hunter with a rifle."
I know I was thinking, "Oh shit there's two deer and One's a Buck!" I quickly shouldered my rifle and slid off the safety. I picked up the antler's, a nice tall forked horn, and tried to follow the deer's dance of panic. The doe bolted right at me and in that instant I moved with her slightly. The buck turned back the way it came, made a crouching spin and then shot off like a rocket. Airborne, I picked up mostly it's antlers in the scope; a rookie mistake as I should've been focused on a patch of skin next to the vitals. I elected not to shoot at a flying target, waiting instead to let it to land but alas, the cover on the far side of the road was head high and I could only see the tips of antlers bobbing off as the buck darted to and fro to it's escape. Mind you this entire scene took place in under three seconds. I put the safety back on, followed quickly and climbed a stump for a better vantage point but they were gone. A sick feeling came over me as I knew this might be the only buck we would see all weekend.
I took a moment to reflect and couldn't help but be amazed and awed by the buck's astounding agility. I walked to the scuff mark in the road, the buck's launching pad if you will and then tried to gauge the distance and height to the landing zone. A conservative estimate: 8 feet into the air and twice that in distance. Truly a rocket.
Although I will probably always wonder what if I had squeezed off a shot, would I have hit him, I'm consoled by the facts of what I know. I know I didn't take a careless shot and risk wounding and losing such a wonderful animal. The memory of that airborne rocket will have to suffice until the next season, keeping me company with the promise it holds: they're out there and they can pop out and disappear at any time making a fool of you. But if you're present and aware enough, and in the right place at the right time, you just might be rewarded.

Sasquatch Summer

Sunlight slices a shadow over the Hoopa Valley, peaking over treetops and peering into the windows of the village. A hungry dog trots down the road searching out a scrappy meal near overflowing dumpsters. Only the old and very young are awake at this hour. The hour when nights mystery and spirits begrudgingly cede their territory to the warm golden aura of day, when the valley is exposed in all of it's ugly truth. Two old tribesmen greet the morning sun from squeeky rocking chairs on the porch of the dilapidated General Store near the turn off to highway 299. They are two of only a few from the Hoopa tribe who possess knowledge of the "old ways" and still persist in teaching them to the younger members of the tribe.
A late model maroon Subaru pulls slowly down the dusty road. A white man is behind the wheel and the elders feel the primordial twinge, a tense nervousness. Belaganas on the reservation usually mean trouble in one of two ways: either they want to exploit the culture or arrest someone. Obviously this white man wasn't the sheriff and his beat up Subaru represented more like a ski bum than a preacher.
Chris knew he would be greeted with much cynicism and wariness. Though inexperienced and unschooled in the ways of the Hoopa, Chris did posses the prerequisite patience and had done his homework. He knew enough from talking with some of his fellow HSU Hoopa students that when approaching the elders, one must be patient and let them talk first. Easier said than done in the white man's culture, where silence is seen as awkward and people talk just to fill up the space. Jim Lanshey, from the Lakota tribe, had explained to Chris over coffee that the Indians believed that the true way to wealth was from trading and that cash, although an obvious necessity, was still seen as a tool for the white man's methods of oppression. Jim had explained that although the Hoopa would gladly snatch up any cash presented them, it was unlikely that they would feel any real obligation to reciprocate the exchange. Since information was seen as a valuable commodity, Jimmy had told Chris that he must bring something to offer in exchange for his request. He remembered joking with Jimmy that a gift certificate to Starbuck's was probably out of the question. Jimmy's smile lit up and without speaking, his casual shrug told Chris that, although hilariously wrong, he was somehow on the right track. "Something from your world that they can appreciate."

Chris pulled into the far parking spot and cut his engine. He felt that pulling up directly in front of the aging Native Americans would be too obtrusive, that, even though in broad daylight his headlights would somehow cast an obscene beam into the Hoopa morning and spoil his quest for a bit of their wisdom. He grabbed the bag of ground Starbucks "morning blend" from the front seat of the Soobie like a kid at the prom might grab roses for his date. He thought better of concealing it behind his back and instead let it rest cradled against his forearm and hip reminiscent of a gun slinger gripping his pistol and swaggering through the saloon doors. He checked his cowboy's impulse to stomp right up on the porch and instead he sat patiently on the front of his hood, nodding awkwardly but settling in under their reproachful glare. The stately tribesmen, respected as elders by those in their tribe who still had respect for the old ways, avoided and ignored by the young braves who are brazened and shamed with the stain of alcohol and who hide their humiliation at having wandered away from their culture, stared knowingly at the white intruder. If they were the least bit inquisitive, their faces did not betray it. Chris' face flashed hot under their gaze as he steeled himself to find the courage to sit quietly as he awaited a greeting from complete strangers from another tribe. He felt as though he might have been in Africa with the Zulus.

Moses skips rocks surprised Chris when he broke the silence after only a few moments. "What's up?" he grunted and thrust his chin at Chris.

"Oh, I uh, well, I came her today because, I" with each mumble Chris felt like a heavy truck, spinning it's wheels foolishly as it sank deeper and deeper into soft mud. "I brought you some Starbucks! And I was wondering if you could tell me, er, if you could share with me a few things about the Sasquatch?"

The old Indians looked at each other and broke out into laughter. It was a laughter so full and uninhibited it seemed to the elders to break all of the transgressions ever imposed on them by the white man. It cleansed the pain they felt in blood spilled by generations and they laughed even more. The laughter never stopped but came in waves, waning like a thin moon and then regenerated like a tree-whipping storm when the two old Indians looked at each other again.

"White man brought us Injuns some Starbucks." and it began again. Chris realized that he would've preferred an awkward silence to a full-on laugh attack but he hoped he had broken the ice properly and now he might learn from these Hoopa what they knew of the creature they called "Omah" or "the boss of the mountains".

Charlie Horse Feathers managed to speak through his laughter pained grin, "I seen Sasquatch" he managed, "Sonny One Shoe brought one home from the pow wow last night!" and the onslaught continued.

"I think we saw one cross the highway last week" added Moses Skips Rocks, "he was driving my truck that drunk bastard!" Ha Ha Ha, the laughter resonated through the still morning air and Chris felt eyes peering at him from the nearby residences.

Chris wanted to laugh too but he couldn't tell if this wasn't somehow a test. He knew that the Hoopa loved to have whatever fun they could muster at the white mans' expense. After all, life on the reservation wasn't exactly filled with excitement and whenever they looked around they were reminded who was responsible for bringing their people to this isolated place.

After what seemed like moons, the old Indians composed themselves and assembled their faces back to their original solemn mugs. "Try the creek above Tish Tang rocks, I saw one skinny dipping there when I was just a kid." As quickly and unexpectedly as the laughter had begun, it ceased and the aging Hoopa composed themselves with dignity once again, jutting out their chins and letting their shoulders settle, arms laying on the rests of the armchairs, gazing out into the mountains. They looked at Chris as if to say, "Ok kid, we've had our fun and we've already said too much so beat it." Chris doubtfully thanked them and left the bag of coffee on the porch. He retreated back to his Soobie and was thankful when he'd put enough road between himself and the reservation to crank up Hendrix's "driving south" and groove unconsciously while shaking his head.

Chris double-checked his equipment list at the trail head and stuffed a few more Clif Bars and apples into his pack. Despite his decision to take the trail free of any substances, he grabbed the flask of whiskey and stuffed it into the top pouch. Maybe it could come in handy in an emergency and what difference would a few ounces make anyways? Shouldering his pack and stuffing his keys under the bumper with a patch of duct tape, the trail revealed itself before him and the familiar weight and balance of the hike exhilarated the young explorer. He likened his journey to a vision quest of sorts. Native American adolescents had for eons undergone them in order to find direction in their lives and Chris felt that his time for direction was long overdue.
He reflected on the spirits that haunted him ever since his spring break backpacking trip three years ago, just before he graduated from Humboldt State. Although he found a job teaching Biology that fall and he had felt comfortable, even confident that this was what he wanted for his life, the encounter with the Sasquatch had shaken his faith in science and humanity. It was as though he had been witness to an ancient secret and through that experience had been entrusted with a great duty and burden. Part of him yearned to shove a Sasquatch skull into the face of all those who had heckled, patronized or flat out laughed at him because he had had the courage to share his experience. That part of him however, was just a tiny, candle-flicker of the ego. Somewhere deep inside him was the self-assurance of what he had seen. The knowledge that he had come face to face with something otherworldly. Of this planet yes, but of a culture that no man could ever fully understand. A clan of man-like apes that have survived, even thrived, free from any outside influences since early man crossed the land bridge from Siberia. A creature that could crush even the most astounding human warrior with a single blow, able to scale mountains with ease. Adapted to move through the most unforgiving terrain like waterfowl migrating across the continent. With this brief glimpse into the world of the Sasquatch, a yearning grew in him like a seed planted in fertile soil. He had to learn more; Had to experience their world, whether he was welcome or not; Had to go into their territory and discover for himself whatever secrets had survived and evolved along with the legendary creatures.

The trail meandered gently through aspen meadows, flirting and kissing the waterway frequently, sometimes towering tall over the deep pools, sometimes crossing angry but impotent feeder creeks. The path crossed the creek and the canyon narrowed, it's steep sides pinching the sky above, tickling it with the tips of giant sequoias. Suddenly the trail opened into a meadow of alpine granite, dotted with pools and trickling, leaking seeps. His boots squished over soaking moss sponges and scraped pebbles across the gritty granite. The fresh air felt exhilarating as the trail ducked into a dark stand of redwoods and blueberries. Suddenly a sonic boom seemed to split the mountains in half and shook the sky like a tsunami. He had heard of these "mountain booms" but never experienced one. Realizing for the first time that he was completely alone, he wondered what this sign might mean. A brief, refreshing rain poured briefly and disappeared before it really began. The sky was cloudless and Chris found himself exactly where he wanted to be: surrounded by everything unfamiliar and unexplained.

Camp that evening was a scenic flat overlooking a breathtaking alpine lake. He wondered if there was a master plan for such a beautiful mosaic: calming surface stretched between craggy peaks surrounded by alder thickets brushed on canvas. Or was this just a result of anarchy, only beautiful because humans evolved to actually appreciate beauty and then to see it. Either way, the fishing rod came out of its own accord and a small shiny spinner broke the tranquil surface. A flash was the first signal to Chris' brain that his lure was under attack and then he could feel the strike, first in his hand and then throughout his being. The brook trout struggled valiantly, thrashing to and for under the surface and then accelerating straight away, it's run ending in a breath-taking leap. Time froze as the trout went airborne and flipped a cartwheel before belly-flopping. It paused for a split second and then raced off again, pulling line off the tiny backpacking reel. Eventually the alpine fish began to tire and Chris patiently steered it towards the bank and paused to appreciate it's brilliant markings and stunningly rich colorations. The white highlighting along the tips of the orange fins was Chris' favorite part as it reminded him of the Dolly Varden he had caught with his father in the Brooks Range when he was a youngster. The exotic markings also reminded Chris that the brook trout was not a member of the trout genus at all but rather a member of the Char family. He hated to kill such a thing of beauty but frying in his backpacking skillet with a little oil and salt and pepper, he thanked the circle of life and death for providing him with this meal. A meal he knew would be far more appreciated-and tasty-than anything he could buy at the drive-in or a supermarket: slaughtered, packed and processed in secrecy.
Just before he would slip into his bag, he took a swig of the whiskey, telling himself it would help him drift into a fitful sleep, knowing the opposite would probably be more likely; That his senses numbed would make him more likely to overreact to the slightest movements, keeping him awake too long and then dropping him into a comatose state that wouldn't allow him to hear a thousand pound beast stomping past his tent.

The Bachelor Party

Heyman's getting married soon and we had to throw him a bachelor party. Hooters? Nope. Poker and Cigars? Nope. Strip Club and Tequila Shots? You guessed it, not a chance. To throw a bachelor party in true Heyman style, we had to go fishing-all weekend. The plan was to leave early Saturday morning, fish all day, camp and then do it again Sunday. But if you know Heyman, you know the plan can change. He's been dreaming of taking his 22 foot Trophy out to the open ocean for Albacore and the conditions couldn't have been more perfect for a run out to the blue water. So, instead of spending the entire weekend at Ocean Cove fishing for rockfish, we headed home Saturday night after a full day of fishing and prepared for the big trip.
Albacore are the ultimate sport fisherman's quarry. Fast and strong, they take tackle to the limit, defying everything you learned about fishing as a kid. Pops used to tell me, keep the drag loose, don't horse em', let em' run, back when we used to fish for trout and salmon. Not with Albies. For these hard-fighting Tuna, you'd better use heavy line, a stiff rod, and a heavy duty reel with the drag cranked down tight. If you let em run too far, you run the risk of getting spooled and oddly enough, the school will follow the hooked fish away from the boat, spoiling your shipmates chances of hooking up again. It's not uncommon for every rod to go off and have everyone working a rod or two
After an hour and a half drive, we met Heyman's buddy from work, Gary at the Marina in Half Moon Bay at 6am. Pattyo and I have fished for Albies aboard The Flying Fish, I think Heyman went as a kid and Gary is an avid saltwater fisherman and I assumed he had fished for Albacore before. He had some "hot numbers" where some of his buddies from the coastside fishing club had caught fish yesterday and three bags filled with tackle. He was wearing sweats so I assumed he'd put on some waterproof pants on the way out.
Running a private boat out to the tuna grounds is always a risky proposition. Heyman has "vessel assist" insurance but it will only cover out to twenty miles and we were probably twice that far when we heard the "crack". Pattyo yelled "hey" and I glanced back to see the 15hp kicker motor bouncing awkwardly off the stern, bucking at sickly angles like a pissed off bronco. Before we could slow down, the poor engine dropped off, ripping out the fuel line as it bobbed and then sank peacefully down to Davy Jones' Locker. We had a moment of eerie silence as we assessed the damage. With no land or other boats in sight, I thought of Gilligan and the skipper but then snapped out of it. The nearest islands are the farallones and they are most definitely not a tropical paradise nor do I suspect that the dfg biologists who live on it look anything like Mary Anne or Ginger. By a stroke of pure luck, the main motor survived the ejection of it's little brother unscathed and we proceeded as planned only without the kicker as a last resort backup engine.
We trolled for hours without seeing a thing save for a few lonely seagulls. Finally we spotted a school of "breezers" or surface feeding albacore but our hopes were dashed when another fishing boat ran past (the closest we came to any boat all day) and drove the tuna back down. Just when impatience began to rear its ugly head, we spotted another group of Albies on the hunt, busting up baitfish on the surface, breeching like mini-whales and doing like albacore do all day: eat and swim, swim and eat. As they are known to cover distances of sixty miles or more in a day and migrated to this exact location from Japan, it's not always a guarantee that you'll hook up when you see them. Sometimes you simply don't cross paths in the vast oceanic playing field. Often the course can be too aggressive, running right through the middle of a feeding school and spooking them back down to the depths. Regardless, anticipation mounted as we closed in on the frenzied school. Suddenly Pattyo yells out, "on the hook" and a reel starts to zing and the rod pumps. Albies are notoriously hard-hitting and there's nothing like the excitement of that first run. We troll for a few more seconds and two more rods go off in unison, we've got ourselves a triple hook-up. Game ON!
I grab my rod and crank down the drag. The fish slows but keeps pulling off the 60lb. test, intent on a course in opposition to my own. I raise the rod trip and slowly the submerged force begins to see things my way. With quick pumps I recover as much line as I can. As the fish nears the boat I switch the two-speed Penn reel to low and start cranking it up. Finally I yell out "color" and Pattyo flips it onto the deck with the gaff and we start doing our fish dance. This fish is about 28 lbs, on the bigger end of the scale for the fish we encounter here in the Pacific so we know we'll be into some quality fish if we can catch some more. That's when I realize that I'm pumped full of adrenaline. My hearts racing. I'm stuttering and mumbling as I talk and I feel like I can tackle a mountain.
Heyman and Gary each bring their fish up and the deck is a blood-bath of pulsating tuna. The rythmns of tails beating the deck mixed with the thumping of a stick to the head of each tuna is a primordial dance repeated by seafaring humans since the dawn of time. Even if we don't catch another fish the rest of the trip, we have done what we set out to do six hours earlier. We are victorious. We have succeeded.
The congratulations are brief however as lines are checked and tossed back in, the engine kicks into gear and we're fishing again before all the blood is hosed off the decks. The albacore are stashed in the livewell to bleed out before we toss them into an ice-filled cooler mixed with saltwater to keep the flesh firm.
There are days spent fishing when everything seems to fall into place perfectly. The weather cooperates, the fish cooperate and the gear and tackle stand up to the abuse. Today was that day and we enjoyed every minute, repeating the fish dance precisely, rotating only the dancers.
Before we knew it time was running out and there was no more room in any of the four fish lockers. Our 14 football fat albacore would probably yield over 140 lbs of meat and so we went to work with our fillet knives and hose and bags of ice until all of the meat was cleaned and packed and the remaining carcasses set out for the ocean's perfect disposal system.
After two days of fishing, eight hours in the truck and twenty on the water, the bachelor party came to a glorious and productive end.

Deadliest Catch

It's barely 6am and I'm watching reruns of Deadliest Catch thanks to my antennaed friend, Tivo. Another one of my many obsessions, this one happens to be "the roughest and toughest" highlight episode; all the horror stories of a life at sea. Some have happy endings, like the guy who got pulled overboard by a swinging, 600lb. crab pot and then was miraculously retrieved by his quick thinking crew mates. Or the guy who fell off a neighboring boat and was plucked from the hypothermia pool known as the Bering Sea by a boat running alongside. Occasionally they'll actually find a living, breathing fisherman inside those space age-looking survival suits. Other times the ship will go down with all hands lost. Maybe they find some floating debris: all that's left of a once vibrant family of fisherman. They don't call it deadliest catch for nothing.
It's hard to say exactly what draws me to this show. Probably my Norwegian heritage-viking blood mind you. One things for sure though, i'm not alone. Amongst man shows of it's genre, "deadliest catch" is the most popular-hands down. Maybe it's the lure of high-seas, man's man adventure and the ability to watch it all from the safety of my warm home, sipping coffee in my boxers, petting my cat.
As one watches the show the inevitable question infiltrates their consciousness. Could I survive a season on a crab boat in the Bering Sea? Certainly I'm tougher than that last greenhorn they sent packing for home. What a momma's boy that guy was! Most of the guys seem to be happy in their orange suits: whooping and hollering over the latest prank they've pulled or a full pot of crab with dollar signs written all over it. No wives around to tell them to take showers because they reek like week old cod guts. No kids pestering them incessantly with, "Hey dad, look at me". Heck, I don't get sea sick very often and I love being out in a boat all day fishing. Easy money. One month at sea for what some people make in an entire year. Yeah, I think I'll pack my bags and head for the docks.
Reality sinks in when the show reveals what's really going on. Wait a minute, did he just say a twenty-eight-hour shift? Did that guy really just get swept across a fifty foot deck with that wave? That guys missing two fingers and three of his buddies are dead. Come to think of it. I really like sleeping at least six hours every night in a bed that I can sit up in, one that is planted safely on solid ground. Those mountainous waves don't look too inviting, especially in the dead of night, black as obsidian with sinister white snakes crawling all over it, whipped into a frenzy by an eighty-knot hurricane. The captain ain't turning around when you get a toothache or bruise a few ribs. The Bering Sea doesn't offer time outs or second chances when you do something dumb. I can't stand the smell of rotting fish or the feeling of being drenched to my socks in bone-chilling winds.
On second thought, I'll leave the crab catching to the salty dogs and watch all the danger and drama from the safety of my living room. I don't really mind showering frequently and my kids need me. So does my cat and I don't think he'd make a very good stowaway aboard The Northwestern.

Deep Sea Fishing in Cabo

Anticipation painted the muted blue sky as we disembarked from the Taxi Van. I was so excited I "tipped" the driver three bucks. He came running after me. "ees eight dollors senor"! Oops, I'd been spoiled on this all-expenses paid trip to paradise. We were met at the docks by a portly, muy amable caballero who called himself "el jefe". Papa Paul paid him up front and I had an uneasy feeling we might never see him again. He pointed us to the table to purchase our licenses and after completing the inevitable mexican documentation and the ever-present tarif. We found ourselves boarding the "Yesenia II" with Mario (El Capitan) and Carlos (El Mano).


We cruised through a sea of pelicans, seagulls and sealions to the federales to show our licenses. I discovered with some trepidation that along with half of our groceries, we had brought bananas; Old school sailor bad mojo to be sure so we offloaded them to the federales and were on our way with no obvious mal influencias.
As we rounded the head, Carlos dropped back some Tuna Jigs and we proceeded to troll immediately.This told me that either we were saving gas or the crew was not seriously committed to finding the schools of Sailfish, Marlin and Dorado that Cabo is famous for. Before all the lines were even in the water though one of the rods started bending and shaking. I grunted a reflexive "heh" as Maya looked at me like, "when did you become an epileptic spazz?" I was validated when Carlos grabbed the pole and handed it over to Paul who took the first turn and landed a feisty bonito or skipjack. "Bait" exclaimed Carlos as he unhooked it and dropped it in the box with a flick of his wrist. I began to day dream about the monster who could make this three pound fish his breakfast.
Everyone got a turn with the diminutive tuna. We snapped pictures and whooped and hollered. Maya was particularly fired-up after her battle with the scrappy tuna. Secretly I hoped that she would catch "the fishing bug" this trip and she might share some of my passion for the sport. I caught her epic battle with the "flip mino" so that the world could watch her deep-sea battle on YouTube. As she scrolled through the pictures on the camera of course she was disappointed.
Hey, everyone got a close up with their fish except for me!
Yeah babe, but I got you on video!
As Cape San Lucas began to slowly shrink my perception of the crew changed. The boat reflected the makings of a successful operation: clean save for the bare necessities. Everything had a place and the crew seemed to utilize everything that they brought forth from their hidden stowage. Although I still regarded the one fillet knife they brought as wholly inadequate to fillet dinner, I later learned that the enterprise of cleaning fish in Cabo is an entirely different business unto itself. Muchachos armed with garbage cans loaded on hand trucks roam the docks and will clean and bag your catch for a nominal fee under the scrutinous eyes of the federales. Apparently the big one can still get away even after you reach the docks!
As the arch shrank from view, Mario throttled back and Carlos tossed in the live bait which included our first bonito, half-filleted and bleeding profusely. Eshark, Sailfish, tambien Dorado o talvez Marlin, recited Carlos the deck hand to the seagulls and his stowaway party, now slightly greening from the heavy rollers and thick diesel exhaust fumes. As fishing goes thoughts and conversation turned to more land based topics when, as if in response to our lack of focus, the action began. Carlos descended the ladder and grabbed up a rod with catlike quickness. A dorsal fin cutting a zig zag pattern through the surf of our wake grabbed everyone's attention. My first instinct was that it looked like a shark but then I had never seen a large dorado in action either and I wasn't sure if I could trust my eyes. Maya was up and I thought this might be the moment she succumbed to the fishing fever; a chance to dance with a truly worthy combatant-the hammerhead shark. Carlos turned to Maya, Hell No!, she said, I'm not touching that thing. It's bigger than I am! It's gonna pull me in!

Uncle Darin stepped up and it was game on. The hammerhead engaging in a bulldog battle of tug o war. Darin fighting back punch for punch and it went on like that for twenty five minutes. The discussion among the spectators delved into what we should do with the shark should we land it. Carlos said it would be 600 dollars to mount. A pretty fair price but still a chunk of change and so we decided in the end to let it go.
I beat you! exclaimed Darin in his best prizefighter voice and with a quick snap, the shark was back to his own business, nothing hurt save his pride.
The boat trolled on with a more expectant air. Heck, if Darin could catch a hammerhead, anything was possible. I was up next and doing my best to stay focused on the fishing, working my mind-control mojo on the lines and the boat, doing the fish dance, feeling the flow. Suddenly the left outrigger popped. Carlos was there and handed it over but I reeled and reeled and ....nothing! He grabbed it back and dropped the line back. The Big Dorado cooperated, Mario gunned the engine as Carlos gave it three hard jabs to set the hook and it was game on.
The Do Do peeled off line like a banana and went airborn twice, fighting with a dogged determination right up into the fishbox. Maya filmed like a pro, using two hands, one with the camera and the other running the video. That night we ate it: grilled, breaded, blackened and in ceviche. All in all a thrilling exclamation point to an unforgettable vacation. Maybe heyman is right, I am a lucky bastard sometimes!