The Togiak-Part 1

This was one of the greatest adventures of my life. My Dad and I spent a year planning our Alaskan Odyssey. The plan was to spend two weeks in the bush, fishing, floating and camping. We took Alaskan Airlines to Anchorage Alaska when I was 13 years old. From there we flew in a commuter jet to Dillingham and then chartered a bush plane from Manakotak (Man uh coh tuck)Air(Dad could never pronounce it and the locals got a kick out of him) to the Atnarko River for a three day "warm-up" before hitting the mighty Togiak for a week. We had a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum (think Dirty Harry) for bear protection and a canoe that folded into a large duffel bag.

I'll never forget that first Bush plane ride. The pilot had a cigar clenched between his teeth and a gritty sourdough Alaskan accent. I got to ride shotgun and when I jumped in the plane, to my suprise and chagrin, I found a steering wheel in front of my seat.

"If I keel over and kick the bucket, you're takin us down young man", exclaimed our colorful captain. I gripped the steering wheel with sweaty palms as we flew headlong into a puffly marshmallow cloud. The plane shook as if possessed by a mighty monster. "Ya gotta watch out for them big white fluffy ones", he said. My stomach settled back down where it belonged and we landed without incident.

At the head of the Atnarko there is a secluded fish and game cabin. When we first landed, I remember swarms of mosquitoes. They were so thick you had to breath carefully lest you suck one up. I snagged a large silvery sockeye salmon that afternoon and the Rangers invited us over for dinner. It was delicious with wild rice and some other native herbs and spices mixed in. The Atnarko is a world renowned rainbow trout fishery, but when we visited, rains had swollen the river, spoiling it's potential. OH well, I wasn't looking for a trophy. I was looking for a bent rod and stiff forearms. The Grayling, Arctic Char and Sockeyes did the trick.
Pops and I paddled down the next day, drifting slowly and enjoying the unspoiled wilderness. Drifting in silence, we finally got our taste of seclusion. Floating for hours without seeing any signs of another human being. No trash, no jetsam, no artificial sound, just the pitter patter of dripping rains on luscious green leaves and the gentle background rush of moving water. When we stopped to camp, I recall the dampness. Starting a fire was an exercise in futility and so we quickly cooked our freeze dried meal and crawled into our tent.
The Tikchic Lakes are a series of seven natural bodies of water, interconnected by small streams like the Atnarko. The next day found us at the lower lake where we would camp and await the floatplanes arrival the following morning. Where the Atnarko dumped into the lake, we found our honey hole. All we needed to do was drop a Pixie Spoon over the side and we'd be hooked up with a fiesty Arctic Char, ready for battle. My Dad stopped long before I did I think and he sat back and just watched me enjoy the bounty of the deep blue Alaskan waters. At some point we called it quits and headed for the camp. It turned out to be the creepiest site I've ever stayed in.

We spotted a cabin on the near shore and decided to investigate. It turned out to be abandoned and moderately dilapitated. The roof sagged but offered a welcome respite from the rain. Inside it looked like some sort of varmints had claimed this as their home long before we got there. My Dad had the welcomed idea of pitching our tent inside, to protect us from any curious critters.
I wish I could say there was something concrete that spooked me; Bones, a grave marker, a humongous grizzly bear track, but the cabin betrayed nothing of its sinister scariness. All I can tell you is that there was a vibe. Like someone watching us from just the other side of the rainforest cover. What it was, I can only speculate, but the feeling was undeniable and omnipresent. Did some old trapper die a miserable death there? Was there a Sasquatch lurking in the shadows watching us? I'll never know but I can tell you that I was very uneasy and I remember it to this day. Dad shared my sentiments and we packed quickly and headed for a gravel bar to await the buzz of the air taxi. In the warm sunshine of midday, on the bank of the lake on the other side of the river, I finally shook off the creepiness and felt at ease again for the first time since we'd arrived at the ghost cabin.

Boom!

When Tanner was around 2, he picked up his hatchet and held it up to his eye, peering down the length of the handle like a spotting scope. I asked him what he was doing. "I'm booming deer daddy."
You are?
Yeah, is there a deer over there?
I don't know do you see one?
Yeah, I do! I see some! I'm gonna boom em Daddy!
Moms was out of the house and I figured, what's the harm in a little innocent hunting safari.
I showed Tanner how to sneak up on his quarry.
Tanner, we have to be quiet.
Shhhhhhh! Daddy we're hunting, he whispers. His shoulders hunch up and he crouches down, moving like a cat. We use the sides of walls and doors for a rest, so he could get a steady "boom", just like I learned from Miami Vice years ago. We probably got us a good half-dozen deer that day. Give or take one or two. And they were all humongous bucks. I asked Tanner and he confirmed it.
OK Tanner, now you can only go hunting with Daddy OK? Never boom anything without Daddy there. Never boom anything or anyone OK?
OK Daddy.
And, ummm, no booming in front of Mommy OK?
I boomed um! Like this!
Tanner, listen to me carefully. No booming when Mommy is watching OK!
OK Daddy. Boom. Boom.
I could see our little harmless prank spiraling out of control. I never wanted to be that parent that let's their kids run around pointing fake guns at people (or shooting them with those nerf guns) and going pow. But hey, Tanner started it. I never told him to start booming. He's just a natural. It's in his blood. Or maybe it could be all those hunting shows we watch together.
Anyways, Mommy comes home and gets boomed and she's mortified. I realize now the full depth of my incompetent, irresponsible mistake but it's too late. I cling to my guns like Charlton Heston at an NRA rally.
Babe, he already knows what he's doing, we just need to teach him responsibly.
No! He's two years old. He's been saying that at Day Care! We have to teach him that's not right! Tanner, we don't boom anything OK! That's not nice. We don't say that OK?
OK Mommy.
I try to save some grace. Babe, you're right, he's not ready yet. I won't let him say that anymore.
Tanner and I are having a guy day. We're heading out to the duck club to pick up decoys in Heymans skiff. I've got his Lightning McQueen lifejacket and the dog so we roll.
Are we going fishing Daddy?
No, Tanner we're just going to pick up some decoys.
Decoys?
Yeah they're like, fake ducks. They bring in the real ones.
We're gonna get some ducks?
Yeah.
Yeaaaahhhh!!!!
Tanner seems a little unsure as we step into the boat, but it's a flat bottom skiff and stable.
Hold me Dadda.
Ok, you ready?
Yeah.
I idle through the no wake zone and the boat jumps onto plane. We're zooming along, skimming the surface like a harley on asphalt and Tanner lets out his monster cry, "yeahhhhhhhhhhahhhh". It's a mixture of pure unadulterated joy mixed with a little terror. He hangs in there like a champ though he gets a little nervous when I wade away from the boat but he's stoked at all the ducks we're getting. He keeps saying, we've got lots of ducks ha daddy! And I keep piling them in the skiff.
Look at all the ducks we got!
Yeah Tanner we've got lots of ducks. He doesn't even talk about booming them or anything and I'm pretty sure the phase has passed.
We get home and Momma wants to know how much fun he had. Did you have fun at the Duck Club Tanner?
Yeah, we got lots of ducks. We BOOMED em!

Sasquatch

If you really know me, you've heard the bigfoot story. If you haven't heard it, you can go to http://www.bfro.net/GDB/show_report.asp?id=2819 and read it. I don't want to write it again because over ten years have gone by and it's still scary! While you're there, check out some other sightings. Just pick a state and a county or read the recent sightings link. Apparently I'm not the only crazy person in the world. In fact, the BFRO reports up to 400 sightings per year in every state except Hawaii. Surely some of these are hoaxes, but all are investigated and only the sightings deemed credible are posted to the website.

I have a confession to make. In the story I wrote, I embellished one detail. Back in 98' or whenever I posted the sighting, I desperately wanted people to believe me and so I added the part about smelling something. I didn't smell anything and I thought that I should since it was right outside my tent. I'm ashamed to think now that I made up even a tiny detail, because it hurts the credibility of anyone who's reported a sighting. Anyways, I want to set the record straight now and come clean. Everything else in that story is the most accurate recollection of the events that occurred that night.

Nowadays I trust myself enough to know what it was I encountered and not to worry about what anyone else thinks or believes. Most of my friends don't believe that I saw anything, only that I believe I saw something. I always tell them to look into it for themselves. It's not a question of belief, it's not some pseudo religion or funky bigfoot cult. The question, to me it seems, is entirely scientific in nature. Does a large bipedal primate exist in North America, as yet undiscovered by science? I think if one really takes a close look at the evidence and doesn't allow oneself to be influenced by tabloid culture, they might be surprised. After all, when I tell my story and explain that I think it was a family of Sasquatch that passed through our campsite, the number one most asked question is always: There's more than one of them? I guess they think it's a crazy hillbilly who made his way into the monkey exhibit at the zoo one night.

What evidence you might ask. Footprints for one. But they're not all the same size. Their sizes perfectly reflect a bell curve. What scientists would expect from a natural population. Some of them show injuries. Better castings show dermal ridges, basically toe prints that have been analyzed by law enforcement professionals who stake their reputation on their authenticity. Hair with DNA that is closely related to the mountain gorilla and humans but is neither. Missing link anyone? I could keep going but I can see my wife rolling her eyes and then stuffing her hands in her armpits and going "whoo whoo whoo" kinda like Pattyo's happy chimp call, only louder and deeper.

Of course, there are those that must see things for themselves. To those brave souls, I recommend attending an expedition. For the bargain basement price of $300 (returners are only $100), you can attend a camping trip in a secluded "hot spot". Your expedition will be guided by "experts" who tote all sorts of sophisticated equipment. Speakers that blast BF screams into the night (listen for the return call and hold on), infrared goggles, plaster of paris, etc. Just don't ask me to come along. I've been there and done that.

Plus, everyone's seen the jerky commercials, "messing with Sasquatch" by now right?

The Complicated Man

Heyman got his nickname because he addresses everyone he knows as "Hey Man". "Heyman, whatrya doin Man? Dude, whatryou doin dude? Heyman, what's up?"
Heyman's got a quad, two trucks, three boats, and gadgets, lots of duck hunting gadgets. One of them looks like a big Y that spins around with a duck on each arm, whirring their wings and seeming to hang on for dear life like a kid on a merry-go-round gone haywire. Pattyo asked him how you get it started without getting your head knocked off and he wasn't quite sure. He's got mojo mallards, wonderducks and even a half dozen "winduks".
The thing about our flapping circus is that he's always dissing old man Phil's spread. It's true that Phil's stubborn and set in his ways. He has been hunting this pond since before our Daddy's even knew our Mommy's. And it is true that we'd probably kill a few more ducks every year if he'd just make everyone's life easier and just move it up his path twenty yards. But if he wants to have two thousand decoys out on his pond and plastic ducks with fountains that shoot water out their butts, I say more power to him. But lately Heyman has taken the attitude that if you can't beat him, join him. The last month of the season our pond looked more like Barnum & Bailey than something out of a Duck Commander video. But I give him his props. He works hard to get his ducks. He takes it seriously.
When the birds don't come right over, he wants to move the decoys. When they flare, he's already making plans to take a back hoe out here over the summer and sink em another six inches. When they cut us short, he wants to sink the blinds and move them 30 yards to the southeast. Or he just disses my white dog. His is black and she's named "Red". See! Complicated. It's like, if he can totally confuse the hell out of you, he's won.

A pair of widgeon circle the open water in front of us and I give them a "where are you" call as they angle away from us.
"They're flaring on the widgeon call dude" he says.
When they circle back he goes, "Dude, here they come."
"Alright I see them", I whisper.
"Dude, get ready!"
"I'm ready dude." I say a little louder.
"Dude do you see em?" he shouts.
"Yeah, I do!" I shout back, irritated he didn't hear me the first few times.
Heyman goes, "SHHHHHHH".
We shoot at the same duck and it falls but his mate gets away.
"Dude, you had to shoot at the duck on my side didn't you?"
"It was on your side until they flew straight over. I took the one in front because the one in back was closer to you."
"Dude, this side is my side and that side is yours."
I can't see which way he's pointing and I don't pay attention because it will probably change the next time. I'm watching the dogs retrieve when a pair of teal buzz us from the North.
"AWW Duude! You're supposed to be looking that way dude!"
I had been looking that way but I got distracted. In all the excited electricity caused by the complicated man, I forgot what distracted me. Humm, could've been my coffee. Or maybe I was making sure I had shells in my gun. On second thought, there are a bunch of ladybugs in the blind this year.
"I was watching that way!" I defend myself, knowing that getting buzzed is just part of the game. That's where we differ in philosophy and attitude. I can let it go and vow to be ready the next time. Heyman holds onto it like a canker sore. For the next half-hour he'll be bitching, recounting our birds and adding or subtracting "those three we shoulda had", until he wears it out. One time I even caught him telling himself to shut up. That made me feel better. I'm not the only one.
The problem with the complicated man is that he's always keeping score. It's like he thinks when we get back to the clubhouse, someone is going to take a picture of us and pin a blue ribbon on it somewhere on the shack's "wall of fame". There are a few photo galleries but no official record books. All of the pictures are of guys out hunting or fishing and enjoying themselves while doing it. What Heyman fails to realize is that there is no official record book besides the one that he keeps in his head.
Sometimes he can't even count. Like the time we spent an extra two hours in a ferocious December storm to fill out our limits. Until he found two teal "Oh Dude, chuckle, chuckle," he had stuffed up under the cover and we could finally head home.
A big flock of sprig start working the blind. I let the complicated man do the calling. I don't want his criticism of my calling to scare them off. They circle overhead and he's like, "should we take these?" I pull up on them and decide that they're a little far out. Even though everyone on the club does it, no one wants to be the "skyscraper". Heyman yells at me.
"Why didn't you take those? DUUUUUUUUDe those were right there. You aimed at em, what are you waiting for?"
I'm watching the north intently and a smaller flight starts to work our way. There's a single bull that's just in range. "Heyman, check these out!"
I pull up slowly and he's like, "Nelson NO!" But I'm determined and I've been hunting with him long enough to know when to tune him out. "Boom" goes the shotgun and the pintail folds up and begins the long fall into the pond. "Splash" and the dogs are on it.
"huhuhuhuh" he chuckles, "I guess it wasn't too high."

Like I told you, he's a complicated man. But one things for sure, there's never a dull moment.

Simple Man

Pat "Pattyo" Ring is a simple man. Give him a job, a Lay Z boy with a big screen TV in front and a team to root for and he's happy. Take today for instance. He's working that rocking chair like a granny knitting a scarf. He's cradling his favorite ice-cold, ribbon-award winning, traditional American beverage and the Sharks are taking on the Calgary Flames. We're over for dinner and his wife has prepared a wing-dinger: Grilled chicken and Wild duck (tule belle teal to be exact), asparagus and mashed potatoes. The dogs are out back romping contentedly and my children are suprisingly placid.
The thing about a simple man though, is that they like things straight. Predictable. Throw one curveball, change the plan or "jam-up" a guy like Pattyo? The whole works go flying like pee wee herman with a stick in his spokes.
Pattyo just got Hi Definition TV and CABLE. He's graduated to the big time. He can see the cuts and scars crystal clear on his favorite players faces. Witness the blood and snot flying off their noses like a Roman in the Colloseum. Ultra-mega-pixelated-clarity. Only tonight, for reasons unfathomable and unforgiveable to a simple kinda man, Pattyo can't get the sharks game in HD. He can get it on regular cable but that's not what he's paying extra for. That's not why he went through all the hassle. To his credit, he edits out everything for the benefit of the chilluns.
"These A-holes won't give me my HD! Somebodies gonna be sending me a refund check. Wellll, I'm glad we're paying extra for this POS HD cuz I'm refunding the entire MFer tomorrow." When he gets on a role, his voice starts to escalate until it echoes and you can feel the windows shaking. He mashes on the controller with his meaty thumb, hoping the extra exertion will return his world back into the comfort of simplicity. A world where you get what you pay for and things work out like they should. He's now pointing the remote at odd angles, hoping to change the channel back to MTPattyo.
I give him credit though. I've known him since I could suck on my thumb and his temper has steadily improved. He used to get so mad, his face would thicken with blood, the veins would pop out on his forehead and he'd pound his thighs with his fist like someone just stole his car. Once he smashed the windshield of his VW bug when it wouldn't start for him.
Sarcasm is his saving grace. "Welp, I'm glad we pay extra for all this magic BS because I'd just as soon watch the D thing from a TV with a dang antennae like we did back when I was a kid." One of the hallmarks of a thoroughbred simple kinda man is to have a strong sense of nostalgia.
The sharks score a goal in the first minute and all is forgiven. He stands up, pointer finger wagging a little rain dance, spinning as he taps his feet and calls his happy chimp call, "whooo whooo whooo". He pops the collar on his sharks jersey and lets everyone know that he's got the name of the guy that just scored that goal on his back!
He doesn't mind that Tanner is now flying around the room like an airplane, stepping on his baby brother. He doesn't even notice when the dogs scratch the slider with their paws. His LazBoy has hit a new steady, rocking rythmn. He's content, the king of his castle. Life is good. Things are simple and that's how he likes it.

Too busy to breathe

Ok, so the caveman supposedly had it soooo rough. Gotta make fire, gotta keep dragging your woman back into the cave when she keeps running off, gotta sharpen your spear and hunt the wooly mammoth. Let me tell you something. The Caveman's got nothing on me.
Wake up to the alarm at 6:15 (Caveman probably didn't wake up until well after sun-up). My dog is licking my face, she needs to go out but she wants me to go with her. Stumble to the coffeemaker (yes it's got a timer but who remembers to make their coffee the night before?) while my Cat tries to herd me over to the tuna cans he knows are in the cupboard. Get out the can opener and tuna can. Rinse utensils and empty can because they've got to be clean before you recycle them in this new-age green world. Is it just me or does being "green" mean spending more money and adding more hassle to your life? Must be worth it since the caveman was a gross polluter.
Now it's time to move on to the children. Don't get me wrong here, my wife does most of this but for all practical purposes, we're both competing with the caveman. For Tanner we need to get him dressed and pull his security blanket from his "Kung Fu" grip. Yes, it's better to get down on his level and have a mature talk with him but the clock is ticking and I still need to take care of the 3 S's: S&%$, Shower and Shave. Cavemen only had one S.
The baby is a little more complicated. Breast milk must be preserved and stored along with bottles, liners and the proper nipple. Extra clothes are a given along with bibs and his chewy Giraffe Sophie. Next is the car seat that meets federal regulations and of course must be fitted each day to fit the baby. We can't use the baby seat because it has a base-life is complicated. He also needs the bumbo, a big blue foam seat the shape of his butt that suctions to the ground. He's also got a cushiony crib, like a cross between a basket and a purse that we've got to lug over to daycare. We're among the lucky few who can walk across the street to our daycare provider. Since it's so close, it saves us from having to buckle the kids into the car along with all of their "gear". We just have to make two trips with our hands and arms full. Oh yeah, I can't forget the diaper bag with all necessities: diapers, wipies, "boogie" wipies (these have a saline solution which softens those crusty and hard to remove boogers), snacks, cereal mix, formula (even though he doesn't drink it, just in case), teething rings, homeopathic teething tablets, gum gel, medicine, diaper rash cream and of course the pacifier. Mind you if ANYTHING is ommitted here, all hell could break loose at any minute.
Next, because we have a mortgage, car payments, credit cards, utilities, cell phones, cable and wireless internet, (not to mention that we have to pay taxes) we go to work. We pack lunches that we can microwave because we don't have time to rub sticks together and blow on the tinder. We bring our gradebooks with us, serving the illusion that there will be time at night to grade papers. Once we get to class we put the lesson on the board, give instructions to our students along with praise and reprimands, we wait for our computers to boot up (leaving it on all night is definitely not green) and take role and enter assignments into the electronic gradebook, along with comments, seating chart changes and tardies, etc. I won't even get into all the acronyms that Maya is involved with: BTA, VAPA, and Site Council (I know it's not an acronym but it fits the bill). Later we'll attend an IEP or 504 conference.
I once read a study on stress in the workplace and it determined that the most stressful jobs involved the number of decisions that needed to be made throughout the day. Teaching and Policing were tops. Don't get me wrong, I love working with kids, molding the minds of tomorrow's workforce. It's just that they drain you slow and steady such that you don't realize it until you have a moment's peace. And they love to ask questions. "When's this due?" "Can I go to the bathroom?" "Mr. Nelson, were you a hippy?"
When we get home, we lug everything back to the Casa. Tanner needs snax and constant attention. I'm guilty of setting him in front of a good ole' Little Einsteins DVD, but I also feel guilty. You know you're not supposed to show your kid TV until they're three? I'll bet the cave children just lay on the cave floor and stared at the fire all day, chewing on a mammoth bone. They didn't have to worry about ADHD and autism back then. So I say, "Tanner, don't you want to go outside and play soccer?" And he says, "No, I wanna watch this." He doesn't even glance his glazed-over-eyeballs at me. I've fed the cats, taken out the garbage, put everything away and now I want him to go outside and play dammit. So we go outside and hit his soccer ball off the Tee. The dog needs to play fetch so I get Tanner engrossed in his sandbox and after playing catch with the dog and scooping up the poop and any children's toys that he's chewed to death, I notice that Tanner is soaked with water because he's learned how to use the faucet. So I scoop up some chow for Montana and drag Tanner inside to change his shirt so I don't have to answer anymore questions.
For our convenience, Maya makes prepackaged dinners at a restaurant without an oven called Dream Dinners. We store them in the freezer and then thaw them out a day in advance so as to be ready for the next day. They're great only you still need to be inconvenienced by that little task called cooking. And that leads to cleaning, wiping the counter, stacking and running the dishwasher, taking out the recycling, all the while paying complete and full attention to the children.
Now it's time for baths. Run the tub, find the proper soaps (lets see, baby tear free, lightning McQueen bubbles or Barney Shampoo?) Then we get a frog towel and play ribbit for awhile. Next it's time to change into jammy's and read some stories. Tanner loves stories. Just when I've finished the third or fourth and I think I'm done he says, "I wanna hear that one again daddy". One thing I wouldn't change with Caveman is the CD player in Tanner's room.
Do you want the pirate story, Simba, Frog and Toad or some classical?
Ummmmmmmm, frog and toad. Wait, baby needs to go potty!
Ok Tanner hurry up.
Daddy? Read me another story.
No Tanner, it's time for night night. He blows me a kiss and I spin around, "ouch! you got my chin!"
Do it again daddy!!
Oh, my elbow! My ear!!! You missed! OOOO my belly button! Good niiiiight.
Good night.

I win so therefore I lose. All of the wonderful creations and devices that we've created for our own luxury have only served to separate us, like a polar bear adrift on the last iceberg, farther from the serenity of a warm fire, a cave, a nice mammoth chop to munch on and a wooly rug to go to sleep in.

Tricky Dick

Tricky Dick was my best buddies Dad and a friend of mine. Unfortunately, he's gone now. I miss him and I know his son Brian does too. He was his best friend as well as his Father.

His son is my hunting partner, "HeyMan Brian" because he's not the same as my other buddy from Chico "Brian". He addresses everyone he knows as "Hey Man". My other buddy Ken was like, "don't let him know we call him "Heyman". But when I told "Heyman" he was like, "right on, I'm Heyman". He named his old boat, "The Heyman". He would've named his new boat, "The Heyman II" but we all know that it's bad luck to rename a boat.

Anyways, "The Big Dick" as he was affectionately known, was the nicest guy you'll ever meet. Whenever he came up to hunt with Heyman from his home on a golf course in SoCal, he would want to know how everything was going. "Cliffy", he would say with his deep vibrato, "how the hell are you?" I remember when we went dove hunting last fall and we reverted to "poaching" birds off the power lines somewhere near Chico. Everyone took a turn knocking them down. When it was my turn, I missed twice. "Cliffy", he said, "don't you know? When you're poaching, (everyone waited for his words of wisdom) YOU ONLY GET ONE SHOT!" I know somewhere he's still laughing about that one.

The Big Dick (another one of his many pseudonyms) also had a unique way of reeling in salmon. Apparently (I only heard about it on the next trip out) he liked to reel in his catch from a seated position. The entire week after their trip, Pattyo kept teasing Heyman about Tricky Dick's fish fighting tactics. We all had a good laugh.
The following weekend found us out trolling all day near Duxberry when Heyman got a bite. It was one of those rare times that I told him his rod was going off and then patiently waited for him to make a move (usually I just grab it while he threatens to kill me). It took a second for him to realize that 1)I wasn't going to try and reel in his fish and 2) this was the only bite all day. He lunged for his rod con mucho gusto, knowing I would snatch it if he hesitated. The boat sorta rocked as he flew across the deck and he ended up slamming on the floor of his boat in a seated position, fighting that fish (which ended up making up for a slow day at 30 lbs.) nearly the entire time from a seated position. Like Father like Son.