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!

Lost and Found

We are so encumbered by possessions "things" that the loss of even the tiniest device or keepsake can render us into babblying psychopaths. My Memorial Day trip to Eagle Lake started off great until I did the poor man's tap in front of McDonald's near Willows. My wallet was missing and so Pattyo-not one to miss out on getting an early start on the EL festivities-jumped into Heyman's rig and I was cruising backwards to find my Wallet at the last Wal-Mart.
Preoccupied with the thought of Wal Mart employees (or patrons for that matter) going on a spending spree with my cash, I hit the gas with boat in tow. As I pulled into the fast lane, the car I had just passed began shrinking and then turned to flashing red and blue lights. I thought my anxiety over a miss-placed wallet was causing me to hallucinate until reality caught up. Those really are red and blue flashing lights in my rear view. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was flirting with 80. My heart sank as I quickly decelerated and tried to find a place to pull over, suddenly realizing that there were orange cones every fifty feet. Further enlightened, I finally realized that I was in a construction zone. My heart rate doubled and I thought I could feel it palpitating. When I finally pulled to a stop, the lack of inertia created a silent vaccum in which my brain fast forwarded to showing the cop my wallet. In this tranquil zen-like state of consciousness a realization set in: My wallet's at Wal Mart! F(^*^%^^(&***!!!
I don't think i've ever said "Sir" more in a twenty second conversation than I did that day on the side of highway 5. I did remember that I had my fishing license. Another example of grace and clear thinking under pressure? I'll leave you, the reader to decide on that. All I can say is that I was cursing myself out like I was playing on a team that I coach and just did something stupid. The officer seemed to believe me as he took my license back to his squad car. My thoughts vacillated drastically. One moment I had visions of having my car impounded and having to call my wife to come get me because I knew the guys were already annoyed with my forgetfulness and Pattyo wouldn't mind not having his dog with him so long as he had a cold one and a fishing pole. The next second I would entertain delusions of being let off with a warning. "Sorry you're having such a bad day. Didn't want to further complicate things for you sir. Just watch your speed next time alright, especially in a construction zone and with towing a boat and all. Have a good day."
Boots crunching gravel snapped me back to reality and my popped the bubble that was my fantasmal daydream. Apparently I had to use up all of my fishing luck before I even got my line wet. The Highway Patrolman only wrote me up for doing 60 when, as all the signs say, I should've been doing 55. If it said anything about a construction zone, I haven't seen it. The ticket ended up costing about $250 with traffic school which definitely hurts but probably could've cost me a lot more.
I had to build up some speed on the shoulder before quickly merging between the orange cones and I was back on my way backwards to Wal Mart with new thoughts doing battle. Would my wallet be there? Would I have to bribe the employees to give me back my credit cards and such sans cash? I decided to give the store a call, checking every mirror twice before dialing information and trying not to swerve as I wrote the number on the back of my traffic ticket.
It's no wonder I only caught a few fish that trip. A trustworthy Wal Mart employee had given my wallet to his manager. When I got in touch with the guy, he handed me back my wallet and, lo and behold, everything was in it-even the cash! I have a new found respect for the integrity of Wally World employees. Either that or the pervasiveness of their surveillance cameras and the mind control of their Big Brother management. In any case, the gods shined on me that day. While I'm always quick to remind myself that material possesions come and go, losing my wallet that weekend would have definitely put a damper on things-Big Time. I probably had as much cash in my wallet as the ticket would end up costing me but I'm scared straght when it comes to speeding. I'm slowing down:)

Eagle Lake: The Alien from Blue Lake

I'm not sure if it's the tenth year anniversary yet, but Jake and I first headed up to Eagle Lake when we were a few years out of high school to meet his uncle Steve. Steve couldn't tell us enough about the size and fighting ability of these acrobatic rainbows. Some of the hardiest fish in the world due to the high alkalinity of the water, an Eagle Lake trout can survive in nearly any other suitable body of water, while other trout transplanted here inevitably perish. If you've caught a hatchery fish anywhere in California, chances are pretty good it came from this natural place.
Steve showed us the slip-bobber and worm threader and we were on our way to big, muscular trout. We caught four the first morning. Jake caught a nice one with a $10 dollar tag on it. When we took off, I noticed them bouncing behind the boat. I yelled to Steve but it was too late, and wouldn't you know it, the money fish was gone from the stringer. We ran into one guy who saw the grins on our faces and called us over to him. He whispered in our ears like a junkie introducing us to heroine, "you know fellas, these trout have shoulders", that was it.
In the last decade, the goal has never changed, to catch heavy limits, but our methods of camping have definitely become more modern. The group has grown and morphed into different tribes many times over the years. Steve and his gang still monopolize a large circular camp area; the wagons that might have surrounded it in the old days have given way to fourwheel drive trucks hauling fishing boats with rods and nets standing at attention like a fisherman's flag. Pattyo and his wife Suzanne "Red" inhabited a large travel trailer and his brother, always the entrepreneur, rents a house with his family and his parents. Last year we all stayed together. Around midnight, just as everyone was settling down to get a few hours of shut eye before the early morning wake-up, we heard a fumbling on the porch. Everyone went into intruder mode. Archie the body-builder launched himself onto the porch to confront the intruder. We all followed diligently toting mag-lights and fire-pokers to open a good can of "whoop ass" on the uninvited guest.
"What the *^&% are you doing here?"
"I'm just looking for my friends. I'm lost." replied the young and obviously inebriated wayfarer.
Disappointedly, everyone let their guard down slightly. It appeared that no one was going to be needing their weapons. The night was black as charcoal and the young man appeared more pathetic than threatening.
"Where am I?" asked the drunkard.
"You're at Eagle Lake, Spaulding Tract"
"You mean this isn't Blue Lake?"
It's amazing how alcohol can transform a perfectly normal college student into a suspected alien, beamed down to earth just to confuse everyone and ruin the few hours of sleep that Eagle Lake fisherman all outwardly dismiss and secretly covet.
"No, you're a long way from Blue Lake mister. How the hell did you wind up here?"
"My buddies and I were heading to blue lake."
We went round and round like this for what turned into hours. It started seeming more and more plausible that this guy was dropped off by an alien spacecraft. He couldn't remember for sure his friends names, where they were staying or how he got here.
"All I know is that we lined up shots and then my buddies disappeared".
I noticed he was shivering and brought him a blanket. Brian slipped away and called the Sheriff. Archie scrolled through the aliens cell phone and had long conversations with members of the Aliens family, none of whom seemed too surprised that he might find himself on a random porch on a random lake, drunk as a skunk with a group of complete strangers.
Finally the sheriffs deputy arrived after an hour-long drive from Susanville. The long conversations with his relatives (some of them long lost I'm sure) must've sobered him up or triggered something in his brain. He remembered that the cabin he was staying in had a cone shaped roof and a flag. The sheriff knew the place, it's located about a half-block away from the Eagle Lake Bar and Grill. Our cabin was at least a mile away in near complete darkness. Next time we're going to shut off the porch light a little earlier.

The Togiak-Part II

The Grumman Goose circled Togiak Lake and touched down smoothly near the headwaters of the river. We unpacked on a sunny beach and waved goodbye to our pilot. As the drone of the engines faded into the wide-open Alaskan sky, it hit me: an infinity of suffocating silence. There was the slight gurgle of moving water and the wavy swoosh of wind, maybe a bird chirping, but the absence of any noise pollution whatsoever was both stifling and liberating. We were alone, that was sure. The nearest town, actually an Indian village, was about thirty miles down river. If I didn't understand why my Dad had spent the last year meticulously packing, planning and deliberating over this trek, it was definitely beginning to sink in now. Any mistakes from here on out and help would be a long timing coming, if at all.
The next day we floated and fished at our whimsy, stopping along gravel bars to eat and sleep and fishing until late into the morning. In the northern latitudes, during mid-summer the sun barely sets, dipping below the horizon for a few hours. It plays tricks with your biological clock and you find yourself engrossed in letting your spoon drift through the currents ripples, hooking fish and fighting with them until your arms tire. Often we wouldn't retire until well after midnight with no signs of fatigue or even a hint of darkness.
It was probably two days in before we saw our first bear. It was a long ways off across a swampy bog. It stood up and sniffed us and disappeared. We made our way down the river quickly.
I hooked a nice king salmon on our third day. We were standing on a beaver pond and I could see it struggling deep down under the cool clear water. I remember trying not to give it too much pressure and instead gave it too much slack. I watched in agony as it opened its massive jaws, shook its head and spit out the spoon. My Dad, for the first time in my life, didn't say a word when I yelled out "F(*&!".
The next bear we saw before it saw us. We were drifting around a bend and the bear was working it's way across the bank. It reminded me of a shaggy puppy, only slightly smaller than a VW beetle. "We can drift right up to it", whispered my father.
"Won't it get us?", I asked.
"Not if we're in the water", he replied, feigning confidence. I wasn't so sure but I remember distinctly that when it stood on it's hind legs, caught our scent and went "whooooof", our paddles both hit the water simultaneously, like those synchronized swimmers in the Olympics. The massive bundle of fur, muscle, claws and teeth wheeled and ran into a thick stand of Alders. What impressed me the most though, wasn't it's size, but it's quickness and grace. Retreating into the bush, it didn't make a sound. Maybe I just couldn't hear it over the pounding heartbeats in my ears!
We met the first of three other groups only minutes later. A make-shift fishing camp greeted us along the same bank as we had seen the bear. We told them about it and they replied that he was their pet. Only in Alaska. The second visitor was a game warden/biologist. She didn't check our licenses but preferred to talk about the weather. "You guys are pretty luck" she said. "Before this week there's maybe been a day and a half of sun. The rest has been nothin but rain. Last summer we might have had five days of sun all summer." Considering that we had been there five days and had only seen a light shower once, we did indeed consider ourselves very lucky.
My Dad hooked a lively Chinook later that day. He fought it for maybe fifteen minutes until finally he brought it up alongside me. I had the net ready and scooped it up, knocking the lure out as I jammed it into the small net. The tip of the salmon's nose hit the rim of the net and it's body circled in the mesh so that it's tale hit the other side of the round rim-it barely fit! We were both ecstatic.
The last day of the trip the river slowed into a slough's pace. I had all but given up on my chances of catching a mighty king, though we had landed many sockeye and arctic char. I sat back in the rear of the canoe and casted to the bank from an inclined position, lazy like the river. My line stopped and I thought I'd snagged a submerged tree trunk when I saw a huge tail flap into the air-fish on! I scrambled up and began the fight in earnest, trying to gain line on the beast as the canoe picked up speed. The clever behemoth was using the current to his hook-nosed advantage and it became apparent to my Dad and I that we'd have to pull over or we'd be pulled downstream forever. My Dad paddled for the nearest gravel bar and I hopped out, hoping we hadn't stopped too soon and I could find a way to slow the big fish down. I remember the line started to make this humming twangy sound as the big Chinook stretched it near the breaking point, my Dad standing helplessly next to the big fish in knee deep water with our pathetically small landing net. Finally I backed up the gravel bar until the fish ran out of water to swim in and my Dad pounced on it, wrestling the flopping behemoth up onto the pebbly shore.
We took pictures and measurements. 36lbs and 42 inches long if I remember correctly. I wanted to keep it but my Dad reasoned that we would be boarding the plane later that day and we were far from any freezer or cooler. I didn't realize then that trophies don't always have to be killed and mounted. The satisfaction I have now, knowing that big fish reproduced, outweighs any meal it would have provided us.
We arrived at a windswept tract of tin roof shacks named "Togiak". A "dry" (apparently you don't mix Eskimos and alcohol) village with a population of less than 100. The most distinct memory I have of that remote village was of two Eskimo children playing catch with a grapefruit sized boulder, occasionally clunking it off each others' heads and having the time of their lives. Maybe not much to do in that village for children too small to fish? Probably one of only a half-dozen sunny days they would enjoy that season; and to think that my Dad and I picked this exact week for our vacation over two years in advance. Sometimes you just get lucky.