Counting Salmon - Part 8, A Fisherman's Paradise

It was a fisherman’s paradise. I brought a new spinning rod equipped with a Mitchell 300 reel and fifteen pound test line. I was ready for a summer of fishing, and I never looked upon the sport quite the same after that. Red, Chums, Silvers and King salmon spawned in the river. The Reds came in first and then Chums. Silvers were the last to run the river starting in September. I was interested in the Kings. These were the big ones, the tackle breakers, the trophies.The Kings started showing up not long after the Reds, but they did not appear in large schools - usually only a few crossed the panels at a time. One day, while I was on the tower counting, a loner crossed close by my shore. I was truly stunned. It was the largest fish I’d ever seen in the water. It was at least six feet long, like a submarine.I hooked into Kings nearly every day, and landed many that ranged fifteen to twenty-five pounds - the biggest was maybe forty to fifty, but I wanted a really big one.

I had lots of fun for a while, but soon realized that my reel had a flaw I sat the drag so a fish had to work to take line, but after I hooked one and it made several runs, the line became frayed. On the third or forth run it would break, and I’d loose a spoon and thirty or more feet of line.

Little by little my tackle box emptied of lures and my spool dwindled to almost nothing. I was down to my last lure, a little red “Dare Devil” spoon, an inch long. I replaced its small treble-hook with a larger one, added some weights, and went out one more time. Yes! You guessed it. I hooked into the Submarine King. It didn‘t jump, but made a ran for the far shore. Its back, a foot wide, raised out of the water as it headed downstream. I never turned it. It kept going…with my last lure and all my line.

THE END

Counting Salmon - Part 7, Tagging Salmon

Arnie came in to help at the height of the Red Salmon run. We set up a small tapered net to catch salmon smolt, newly hatched salmon making their way to sea. The net funneled the smolt into a small chamber which we emptied everyday. We counted and measured the smolt and included the info with our nightly report.
A wide bend with a deep hole lay further down stream. I often walked up the gentle slope behind the cabin to the high ground overlooking it. The high perch gave me a bird’s eye view of the large schools that congregated there, sometimes in the thousands, swimming in slow circles before continuing upstream.The three of us spent several days tagging fish. We used a purse seine to catch them. A purse seine has lead weights on bottom and cork floats on top. Ours was maybe a hundred feet long, and six feet deep. A person would see only the top row of corks if it lay straight in the water . It would look like a six foot fence below the waterline. We anchored one end to shore, and using the boat, pulled the other in a wide arc encircling a number of fish. The net was taken in and soon there would be fifty salmon thrashing about in the shallow water. We would toss a dozen salmon at a time into the tagging box which sat close to shore in a foot of water.The fish were “tagged” with round plastic disks. Different colored disks might be used at different times and places. Each was two inches in diameter with a hole in the center. Arnie would place a disk just below the dorsal fin, shove a pin through it, the fish, and through another disk, then bend the pin with pliers. A survey of the upper river would be conducted by the ADF&G in September. They would register the locations along the stream where the tagged fish were found.
GO TO: Part 8, A Fisherman's Paradise

Counting Salmon - Part 6, The Ground Squirrel

We usually saw Ken about once a week. He would bring in kerosene and gasoline, along with a week’s supple of fresh and canned food. I remember there were always two T-bone steaks, which went first, a canned ham, that went second, bacon, a dozen eggs, bread, canned fruits and vegetables. We were fed well, or at least the intention was to keep us happy. But all depended on the weather.

There are no roads, all transportation depends on planes. On one occasion, when the climate showed its ugly side, we looked into grey, empty skies for nearly three weeks before seeing Ken‘s plane. By that time we had consumed all the store-bought food, and were existing on Krusteaz blueberry pancakes and salmon.

There was a small ground squirrel living under the cabin that we fed leftover-pancakes each morning. It became grossly overweight, waddled when it ran, and went missing by summer’s end. I guess we did it a disservice.

GO TO: Part 7,Tagging Salmon

Counting Salmon - Part 5, The Runway & the Bear

If I developed a fixation that summer it had to do with the runway (photo above taken from runway). George and I decided we should work an hour each day. The project started as a way to fill time, of which we had a surplus. It soon became something more for me, and it might have been the same with George, though we never talked about it. Neither of us missed our stint at the shovel, even on rainy days.

There is a rhythm to wilderness. Digging the earth in solitude, without traffic noise, or other civilized distractions can produce a beat similar to the tempo of music, and its just as hypnotic. I’d get to the runway and begin my daily symphony with shovel in hand; push the blade in with the foot, crank the handle down, heave the load to the side. Push, crank, heave. Push, crank, heave. And before long I would be lost in the rhythm while revisiting things I thought I‘d long ago forgotten.

One day the hum of an airplane roused me from my revelry. I turned to see Ken’ Super Cub (photo above). Instead of coming in low, on final approach, he was adding throttle and banking to the right. The plane swooped over head and made a shallow dive toward a clump of willow thirty yards from me.
A brown bear shot from the thicket and started running up the hill. It was large and seemed to have an unusually long body. Ken (photo above) buzzed it, circled, and buzzed it again. I can still see that bear looking over its shoulder at the Super Cub as the plane’s wheels passed just above its head. The bear disappeared over the hill with Ken in hot pursuit.

I was amazed to find the bear had been that close. I had toiled in silence, shoveling for nearly an hour. The patch of willow stood alone in open country. Was it there all the time or had it moved in while I was digging? What was its intention? Curiosity? Or perusing the local menu?
GO TO: Part 6, The ground squirrel

Counting Salmon - Part 4, The Count

We started counting salmon early the next day. The first count each morning was at sunrise, about four in the morning. The initial morning count was twenty minutes long, thereafter we counted ten minute on the hour throughout the remaining of the day. The days total was called in using a short wave radio each evening. The department used a formula to estimate the daily escapement.

George and I reached agreement to alternate the early risings. The first to rise would count every hour until the other got up at about eight. Thereafter we would alternate through the day - count ten minutes and have two hours off. Mostly we lay in our bunks and read. Sometimes we go out for a walk, but that seemed strangely pointless as you could see as far in the distance as you could walk - no trees. We’d often go over to the runway and dig for an hour adding a few more feet to its length. Each morning one of us climbed the steps of the tower and looked down upon the white panels shimmering through a rippling current. We used a counter that nested in the palm of our hand. It had a thumb operated button that advanced by one number each time we pressed it. The session might pass without a single fish crossing, or they would transit in numbers beyond our thumb’s capacity to keep up.

Schools usually approached the panels with caution, the leader often circling back, and pulling the rest in an orchestrated swirl of bodies. One would eventually dart across, then a couple more would chance it, and then the whole school would stampede to the other side.

We measured velocity and direction of the wind each day and included the results in the daily shortwave report. The breeze never stopped, a constant that blew at fifteen to twenty miles-per-hour every day. I had neglected to bring a hat, never thought to wear one in the summer, and the wind played havoc with my hair, twisting it into a variety of creative styles. We pined for a calm interlude, and were eventually rewarded, but mosquitoes rose from the tundra in swarms of biblical proportion. We were thankful when the wind commenced blowing.

GO TO: Part 5, The Runway and The Bear

Counting Salmon - Part 3, The Set-up

Our primary purpose was escapement, to determine if enough salmon were evading commercial fishermen and swimming up the river to spawn. We did this by counting the salmon that passed each day. Fish are difficult to see in the the water, because their dark colored backs and light bellies allow them to escape notice of predators, potential prey, and us. We set out to make them visible by turning part of the river bottom into a light colored background so we could see them as they crossed. Arnie flew in shortly after I arrived to direct preparations for the count.

We began by taking eight wooden panels from storage. Each measured three feet by ten. We proceeded by giving each a new coat of white paint. George and I hammered a long metal stake into the bank at waters edge. A steel cable was attached and dragged across the river, two of use holding the cable while George piloted the skiff. Another stake was driven into the far bank and the cable secured. One by one we attached panels onto the cable, and shoved them out. After a couple hours we had eight panels, arcing with the current, but floating on the surface. We had to sink them.

The skiff was tethered to an up-current cable that spanned the river’s width, hanging several feet above its surface. Arnie, manning the boat, sidled it across with its stern at the panels edge. George and I donned chest-waders, and held on to the gunwales as Arnie dropped sand bags onto the panels. We weighed down the panels and maneuvered bags into position with our feet. The river was about five feet deep in the middle, so it was a bit hairy at midstream when the water came close to the top of our waders. It took a hundred bags to sink the panels. Some were used to plug holes, preventing fish from swimming under.
GO TO: Part 4, The Count

Counting Salmon - Part 2, The Cabin

The one-room cabin, about sixteen feet square, with bunk beds built into three walls, sufficed as our home. The “kitchen counter” ran along the front wall to the right of the door. A two-burner Coleman sat on the countertop next to the canned food, and a curtain covered the cookware on the lower shelf. A small kerosene stove sat in the corner next to the counter. A tea kettle sitting on top served as our water heater.

The cabin was not insulated so the interior temperature seldom rose much above that outside. When we were both in the cabin one of us sat huddled over the stove, while the other lay in his sleeping bag - each with his nose in a book. A small window in each wall lighted the cabin‘s interior, and a couple Coleman lanterns added heat and more light for reading.

There are those who might describe me as somewhat reserved, not much inclined for talk, but compared to George Carnes I was a motor-mouth. This taciturn man, a recent veteran of Vietnam, had almost nothing to say. He was friendly, and we got along, but he seldom communicated, and we parted, two months later, as near strangers. It might have been that he was still coming to terms with his war experience. I don’t know. We never discussed that. Most exchanges that summer were to the point, usually dealing with the business at hand, and except for the Fourth of July we never got into any deep philosophical discussions.

Arnold (Arnie) Shawl, our supervisor, asked what sort of libation we preferred for the Independence Day celebration. We each selected a fifth of booze though I no longer recall the types - maybe whiskey and rum. Both of us consumed our fifth that day, and proceeded to fill the Fourth with gravid conversations of profound meaning. The exchange lasted till the wee hours of morning, but the specific nature of our discourse managed to escape me by the time I roused from blurry eyed slumber the next day.
GO TO: Part 3, The Set-up

Counting Salmon - Part 1, Sand Point

The plane lifted off the runway into an overcast sky. The pilot, a young guy named Ken, climbed a few hundred feet and then ventured across Unga Strait which separated Popof Island from the Alaska Peninsula. We left the village of Sand Point, and were soon across the strait, and winding our way through a pass with mountain peaks towering on each side. The landscape changed to low hills and then flattened to lake dotted tundra.It was June of 1970.
I had just finished my first year of teaching high school biology in Anchorage, and was set for an Alaskan adventure that summer.

The take-off out of Sand Point marked the third day of a journey in which each succeeding aircraft was smaller that the one before. I flew the 270 air mile leg from Anchorage to Kodiak in a Boeing 707, transferred the next day to a Grumman Goose for the 350 mile flight to Sand Point, and now sat in tandem behind the pilot in a Super Cub. My backpack, small suitcase, and supplies were strapped in behind me.

A structure appeared in the distance - a small red speck on a vast green matrix - nothing more for as far as the eye could see. The red speck, some sixty miles distant, was a cabin maintained by the Alaska Department of Fish & Game (ADF&G). Ken directed the plane toward a short runway, one so narrow that the wingspan exceeded its width. Its length seemed to shrink on approach. We crossed the Sapsuk River, touched down on the end , and quickly ran the runway’s meager span. The plane passed the far limit and bumped over rough terrain before coming to a “complete stop”. I think we landed with a slight tailwind, but there was a low hill at the other end, and Ken would have had to fly just above it and then quickly drop to make an even more perilous landing. The runway needed lengthening.A man left the cabin and walked the fifty yards separating us. George Carnes got to the plane as we finished setting my gear and supplies to the side. The three of us lifted the tail, spun it around, and shoved the Super Cub back onto the runway. Ken took off in the direction from which he had come. We stood watching as the plane climbed into the gray canopy. Its size soon dwindled to a speck, and its barely audible hum diminished to silence. George reached for a box of supplies; I grabbed my gear and we started for the cabin.

GO TO: Part 2, The Cabin

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 6, Part 14

Dan stood by Doug’s cycle talking to him. They were fifty feet from the stream. Doug twisted the throttle handle and surged forward. He bounded into the stream, but was seated, and not in full control when he reached the near side. The front wheel plowed into the bank, and then shot straight up, hanging in the air for a moment. The rear wheel skidded out from under, and the cycle went into the stream. The engine screamed and the spinning tire pin-wheeled a spray of water across the surface. Doug’s leg was trapped under the cycle and he flailed the water for the few seconds it took me to get to him and lift the vehicle off.

“Why didn’t you wait for me to help”, I asked?

“That damn Dan bet me I couldn’t make it alone”, Doug responded between clinched teeth.

“He won that one. You’re carrying too much weight, and its all on the back tire. You didn’t have much chance.”

Dan and Ed came trudging through the stream - wearing Cheshire grins.

“Didn’t make it, did you“, Dan goaded as he climbed the bank and headed on down the trail.

We got back to the trucks at eight that evening, all feeling relieved and a bit complacent at having gotten everything back. We elected Dan to cook the final meal. He won in a landslide victory garnering seventy-five percent of the votes. Being modest, he had refused to vote for himself, casting his ballot for Doug, the runner-up. He fried backstrap, combined it with several cans of chili, and declared he had created an original dish. “Hey, this is pretty good”, he said, half in surprise. “I think I’ll fix this for the family when I get home.”

“Don’t get carried away, they may get tired of it after four or five days”, Ed predicted.

“I can’t believe we’re done. All we got to do is drive home tomorrow.”

“Its been a good hunt - just six days. I still say we‘re crazy as hell though.”

“Yeah!”

”Lets do something else next year.”

“Yeah!”

“Okay!”

“We could take a float trip - pick up a moose close to shore.”

“Sure sorry we didn’t get to fish that lake though. I bet there are some nice trout in it.”

“We just didn’t have time.”.

“You know, if we came in a couple days earlier next year, we could fish and loaf around a little. You know, work on the cabin,, scout for moose, fish.”

That would be nice, a leisure day or two just to dink around.”

“Okay, lets do it.”

“Sounds good”.

“Sure.”

“Yeah.”

Post script: None of us ever made it back.

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 6, Part 13

Day Six

We slept in my Alaskan Camper that night, snuggled in our sleeping bags, while the propane stove ran most of the night. By morning our breaths had covered the windows with heavy frost. I got up first and went to the door.

“Christ all mighty” I said. “There’s six inches of snow out here.”

“You’re kidding!”

“If there’s six inches here, there may me two feet around the cabin.”

“I’m heading up now”, I said as I climbed into my pants and put on boots.

“What about breakfast“ Dan asked?”

“Haven’t got time - we may need the whole day.”

I brushed the snow off my cycle as Doug came out the door. He got his started with some difficulty, and we adjusted the carburetor. The four of us headed up the trail, but Dan and Ed soon fell behind and then disappeared as Doug and I went around a bend. We felt harried. If too much fell we would have to leave the cycles and walk to the cabin. We knew the snow would most likely melt, but there was a chance of getting up there and being snowed in. The sun came out, and we slogged through wet snow for awhile. Much of it melted before we went half way, but the trail turned muddy and slow. My cycle slipped out from under me. I got up, righted it, and kicked the starter lever several times before it caught.
A warm sunny day eventually emerged, and the snow melted completely by the time we reached the cabin. That which had made our adrenalin surge in the morning appeared to have been an overwrought reaction by afternoon. We felt mixed emotions - the high rush of facing dangerous challenges had diminished to a tranquil relief.
The remainder of the day mirrored that of yesterday - hard work and silence with only an occasional variation. We carried everything across the “big slide” by late afternoon. Dan and Ed started hiking the last three miles while Doug and I ferried loads back and forth to the trucks.
I passed the hikers on the last round, and then came to a small creek. It was about twenty feet wide and divided into two branches by a gravel bar. The trail dropped over the edge into the narrower channel, crossed the bar, and then plunged into the wider, deeper part of the stream.

I heard Doug coming up as I stopped at the edge to consider the crossing. I popped the clutch and shot over the edge. The water sprayed over my legs and hissed steam as it hit the exhaust. I raised off the seat as I approached the far shore, bent my legs, and gave a sharp upward jerk on the handle bars. The front tire rose slightly off the ground as I climbed the bank, but the rear wheel skidded to the left and the cycle began to fall from under me. I took my foot came off the peg, struck the ground with a sharp blow, and righted the cycle as I let off the throttle, bringing the machine to a stop. Wow! That was neat. I got off the cycle feeling like a Pro, and turned to see Dan standing next to Doug. They were looking in my direction, no doubt marveling at my expertise, but I knew it was just as likely I could be wallowing in the middle of the stream bed right then.
GO TO: Day 6, Part 14

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 5, Part 12

“We’ll have to build another travois”, Doug grumbled as we sat at the table.

“It will be faster if we don’t”, Ed replied.

“I agree”, Dan relented. “ It worked, but considering the time for building, loading and unloading, and only to cover six miles - that’s too short of a distance to bother with.”

“Doug and I can have several loads to the rock slide in the time it takes to build the thing“, I offered.

“Joe and I will ride in and get everything packed and floated across the corner of the lake”, Doug added. “By the time you walk in we should have things ready to go.”

“And let’s have a nice big breakfast in the morning - hot cakes; sausage and eggs“, Doug suggested. “That ought to keep us going the rest of the day.”

Ed and I glanced at one another, and then eyed the other two. We had done all the cooking. I was never the great hunter, had no eye for game - couldn‘t see a moose in the bush, and had no great skill with a rifle… so I was usually promoted to camp general - i.e. the cook. I can’t speak for Ed’s skills, but he seemed have been elevated to the same rank. We both knew what was expected of us.

“That sounds fine”, Ed said. “Which one of you is going to cook.”

“What does that matter”, Dan screeched, his voice raised a half-octave above normal.

“Well”, it seems you two are always coming up with these grandiose menus, but Ed and I are the ones to execute them. I think you two might just starve to death if we weren’t along”, I added.

“Now just a minute”, Doug put in. “I can cook, but you two do it much better. It seems a waste for me to cook”.

“Well, waste us for a change“, Ed shot back.

“I know you can cook, Doug, but I’m picking on him right now”, I said, turning to Dan. “Your wife tells me she has to put your socks out in the morning or you’ll go to school barefoot.”

“What’s that got to do with me not cooking”, his voice raising a full octave.

“I was just offering it as further evidence of your near helplessness when it comes to domestic necessities.

“Okay. I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow morning. How’s that? Will that satisfy you?”

Ed hunched smaller in his seat and shivered a little. “We may not survive this hunt yet.”

GO TO: Day 6, Part 13

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 5, Part 11

Day five

An inch of snow blanketed the ground the next morning. Doug took his camera and went outside in his boots and long johns. The rest of us took photos of him.

“It’s a shock to see snow this early. Its only August.”

“We’re in high country, and this is Alaska. We could wake to a foot of snow one of these mornings. I doubt that it would stay long, but it could give us a lot of misery.”

“It got cold last night. I nearly froze my fanny off. The coffee pot has an inch of ice. Lets get the stove lit and warm the place up a little.”

“How’s the meat doing. We don’t want it to freeze if we can help it.”

“It seems okay; firm but not frozen.”

We intended to transport the equipment and half the meat back to the trucks that day, and began by moving the cargo across a corner of the lake in the raft - a short cut to the trail. The snow had melted by the time the raft was unloaded.. Dan had a brain storm - to build a travois to drag behind the cycle.

“Well, it worked for the Indians; I don’t see why it won’t work for us”. Dan said in defense of his idea.

“We won’t know unless we try”, I added somewhat doubtfully, “If it has a weakness it will be in the horse. There will be a lot of weight on that back tire.”

Ed stood over by a stand of tall birch. “A couple of these ought to do for the shafts”, he called.
We felled the trees, trimmed branches and cut cross pieces. Once readied, an argument broke out as to the best method of construction. Dan and Ed favored one school while Doug and I spoke in opposition. The debate ended in disgruntled mumbling on our part while the other two went about finishing the job. Doug and I stood aside making snide remarks about inferior engineering, poor construction and impending disaster. This appeared to produce enough consternation on their part to give us a smug satisfaction.
Ed and I climbed on to simulate baggage. Doug drove the cycle while Dan walked be. We rambled over ruts and boulders of a rocky washout on our way to the baggage. The travois passed the test.

“Its gonna be slow, but I guess it’ll work, and we won’t have to carry much weight”, someone judged.

We loaded the meat onto the travois, Doug mounted the cycle again while Dan and Ed Walked beside. They each carried a light pack of about 30 pounds. I lowered a front shoulder into my pack, hoisted it onto my back, and then said, “I’ll ferry this to the ‘big slide’ and come back for one of your packs”. With that I popped the clutch, and started the three mile ride down the trail. The “big slide”, was a washout that swept out of the mountains and blasted a wide path as it twisted and turned through the narrow ravine. The slide was bone dry, but large boulders and uprooted trees told the story of repeated natural violence. It was the worse part of the trail - a half-mile of impassible terrain that snaked its way down the valley. Everything had to be carried over it, and a cycle was more hindrance than help. The travois lumbered along while I shuttled back and forth between the lake and slide. Once I had moved my loads to the slide I began packing them across. I took the first over on the cycle, left it there, and hiked back for another. Maneuvering around boulders on foot didn’t take as much time or energy. The others arrived shortly thereafter, and we carried the remainder to the other side, each laboring in silence. The cool weather and silent wilderness made for a comfortable drudgery in solo.

We followed the same plan on the other side. I shuttled stuff to the trucks while the three brought the travois. We were back in camp by eight that night, stored the meat in Doug’s camper, and crowded into mine.
GO TO: Day 5, Part 12

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 10

“Let’s beat that Momma”, Ed growled as he picked up the pace.

The “war” lasted about ten minutes. We shot verbal salvos at him. He returned in kind. We took the lead but the trail deteriorated, nearly disappearing. The struggle settled into a one-sided race with the terrain at our disadvantage. We stumbled over rocks and fallen trees, waded through tangled bush, scrambled up one incline and shimmied down another. All the while, Doug nonchalantly steered the raft, even rowing in circles. We tried to pick up the pace, laughing as we tripped and fell. The raft pulled further ahead and we stopped to catch our breath, shaking fists in mock anger. Doug sneered back in scorn.

We returned to the cabin earlier than the previous night, feasted on moose again, relaxed, rehashed the last few days, and make plans. Doug figured it would take two more days to get everything back to the trucks. We decided he and I should ride the cycles. I offered mine to Ed but he demurred as he had never ridden.

“I don’t care what we do or how”, I said, “but let’s get started early. I don’t want to get caught on that trail after dark again - don’t know why we call it a trail anyway - half of it is stream bed, washouts, and rockslides.”

“That’s something…the way we got separated that first night”, Dan proclaimed.

“The hunt started out as a real downer”, Ed added.

“We tried to bring too much equipment. That was a big mistake”, Doug offered.

“That is for sure”, I said, remembering our lame attempt at packing. “Dan tied so much stuff onto the Honda 90 that it looked more like a peddlers wagon - pots and pans hanging and clanging - better than bells for warning against bears.”

“Yeah”, Dan said. “I didn’t get half mile when the load shifted, and half of it fell off.”

“I followed along picking up stuff for a hundred yards before rounding a bend and finding you with the dumped load”, I said.

“And then it occurred to us that you two should have been along by then“ Dan added, “so Joe went back to check.”

“Our cycle won’t start. We worked on it till nine o’clock without and luck. By then Joe felt that he should try to catch up with you. Ed and I decided to stay a the truck and walk in the next morning”, Doug recapped.

“I never ran into so many holes in my life”, I explained. My low beam was burnt out, so I couldn’t see the trail immediately in front of me. I was forever pulling the cycle out of things - ruts, or getting wedged between rocks - got flipped off a couple of times. I finally wised up, got off, and walked ahead to see the best way. I made three miles in two hours, and then I came across your cycle parked in a big rocky area. You were nowhere to be found, and I didn’t know what to think. I figured you had left the damn thing in frustration, and decided it would be faster to walk, so I left mine too”

“I made it to the cabin about two a.m.”, Dan said. “It was pitch dark and I didn’t have any light - spooky as hell. I lost the trail a dozen times - finally made it there by circling around the edge of the lake through that swamp.”

“I didn’t have a clue as to where the cabin was located, not with it being so dark”, I said. “I lost the trail. It ended suddenly and I couldn’t find where it took up. My flashlight was getting dim, so I decided to pitch my tent there… which was nowhere as far as I could tell. That was about two in the morning. It was cool that night and I didn’t have my sleeping bag, so I did a lot of shivering and kept nipping on a flask of brandy most of the night. The next morning I discovered the cabin was only a quarter-mile from the tent.”

GO TO: Day 5, Part 11

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 9

“He's hurting, going slow and is some ways back.”

“Blisters?”

“Yeah! He’s real gimped up”

“I’ll go on and see if I can give him a hand”, I said.

Doug, a Los Angeles product, had been in Alaska for five years. He and his wife, Nancy, moved north immediately after graduating from college. Doug was medium height, with a stocky frame. He once told me that in high school he shaved his head, donned a tight fitting tee-shirt, an ear ring, and walked around with a raised eye brow in an attempt to imitate Mr. Clean. I had no trouble visualizing that particular impersonation. Doug taught history and coached wrestling at West Anchorage High; Nancy was at Turnagain Elementary.

We met as he limped up the last slope, head down, and sweat flowing over his temples. “Its all down hill in another few steps. You want me to take that pack? I’m fresh.”

“No. I can make it”, he stubbornly replied. “But your company is appreciated.”

“I think Doug ought to row back”, Ed opined as we lay along the grassy shoreline.

“Me too”, Dan added. “Besides, I don’t want to be in that damn thing when bottom breaks loose. By the way, can you swim Doug?”

We had heard stories about overloaded rafts, stories of hunters loosing everything when the bottom split open, dumping the contents into the blue. The image haunted us - of rifles, equipment, and nine bags of meat sinking into the depths.

Doug wrinkled his nose. “That raft’s gonna hold”, he snorted. Just make sure we get the meat tied to the sides so all the weight isn’t on bottom.”

He climbed in, got positioned, and we handed items to him. He tied the meat to the sides, and laid the rest of the equipment on top, carefully balancing things. When all was ready, we shoved him off and started down the trail.

We trotted over the first part, following an animal trail that paralleled the shore. Doug leisurely paddled the raft a few feet off shore. The wind was to his back so he was getting pushed toward the cabin, casually dipping an oar now-and-then to maintain course. Ten minutes later we coast runners became mockingly resentful.

“Look at that jackass - like he’s on a Sunday afternoon excursion”, Dan audibly grumbled.

“Hey, you silly bastard, can’t you row in a straight line”, I added through megaphone hands.

Doug paused long enough to raise a war flag in our direction - his finger.
GO TO: Day 4, Part 10

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 8

We crossed the lake in half an hour, beached the boat, then started up the trail heading toward the big bull. We found Magpies flying around the carcass, feasting on scraps, but they were the only ones to have found it.

“They’ve crapped all over it - not good table manners. We stripped that side last night anyway, and they’re just picking the bones clean. We ought to get a lot of hamburger off the neck, and there is the inside backstrap.

“I don’t know how much is salvageable on the other side. He was lying in that muck and we couldn’t turn him.”

“There’s not a whole lot left - mostly rib meat. We might save some of it.”

It didn’t take long for the four of us to strip the moose bare, wrap sections in game cloths and drop them into gunny sacks. There were six heavy loads setting on the ground when we finished. We dropped four into backpacks, and then helped each other to shoulder the load. Ed slipped into his while sitting.

“Here! Give me a hand in helping Ed up. Hell! If one of us get separated and then falls he’ll just have to lay there till someone finds him.”

The return march commenced, a single file inching its way down hill toward the lake, each of us taking care to pick our step. The trail on the valley floor was good, weaving its way through the brush and around small ponds. We stopped about half way for a break. Overcast had replaced blue sky, and snow fell on higher elevations. We sat and watched the snow move down the mountain tops.

“Its in the trees now. You can see where its turning into rain; a line across there where the snow stops.”

“Its getting colder. Weird isn’t it. Yesterday it was warm and sunny - this morning too, and now its snowing like a son-of-a-bitch up there.”

“Yeah. And its been raining on us for the last fifteen minutes. Let’s get on our way. There’s still blue sky over the lake. Maybe this will pass over.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

We walked from under the storm by the time we reached the lake. Dan squatted and then fell on his pack. That seemed easy so the rest of us followed suit. I undid by shoulder straps, retrieved some candy and jerky, and tossed pieces to them. We laid back looking up into a broken sky.

“You know! I’m beginning to think we’re four crazy bastards. Here we are, busting our butts and enjoying every minute of it.”

“And we’re not even a third done. Its going to be a bitch carting this back to the trucks.”

“And the snow’s coming. That, I don’t like.”

“It seems a waste of time for all four of us to go back for the last two loads of this one”, I ventured. “I can’t handle the mountain - found that out yesterday. Going up is no problem, but I have no control on the way down. If you guys can get it off in a load each, I’ll bring in the those two.

“If we bone out some of the meat, we might be able to do it”, Dan said. “There would be three big loads though - eighty to a hundred pounds each. That’s quite a load for coming down a mountain.”

We a make a platform of driftwood for the meat, covered it with the inverted raft, and started up the trail taking light footed strides. Twenty minutes later I cut off to the left as the others angled toward the mountain.

I packed my loads to the lake by four pm. The others were not in sight so I inspected the raft, found two small slits, patched them. I then headed back up the path, meeting Dan and Ed about a half-mile in.

“Where’s Doug”, I ask?

GO TO: Day 4, Part 9

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 4, Part 7

Day Four

Doug sat on a log stool with a bare foot across his knee. “You got any of those big bandages left. Joe?”

”Three or four; How’s your blisters?”

“Look at this one - half dollar size, and bleeding. I wish I hadn’t bought these new boots. I wore them for a week - figured they’d be broke-in by now.”

“We’re all gimped up in some way”, I said. “Your blisters, my stiff leg, and Dan’s got a weak ankle from an earlier accident” I looked over at Ed. “Well Ed. What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah! How come you ain’t hurt?”

“Hey now”, Ed screeched. “My Achilles’ tendon is sore; I can barely walk.”

“I knew he’d come up with something; couldn’t stand to be left out.”

“I just don’t complain like some people I know.”

“Poor Ed. The silent sufferer.”

“Ah crap. Let’s get out of here”, he said as he headed out the door.

Doug suggested we place one of the air mattresses in the bottom of the raft to help distribute the weight. The boat had a small leak, but we judged the repair could wait till evening. We cast off.

Crisp air and muted echoes of a silent morn cast its spell as we paddled the long axis of the glass smooth lake. I rowed while the others lounged with their backs pressed against the sides. No one said anything for a time, reluctant to break into the mood, but finally someone ventured, “This is the type of scene you see in travel magazines. Think of all the people who never get to see a sight like this.”

“Yes! But there’s more to it than just a photo. A photo can’t convey the other things you sense - the feel of it.”

“Alaska is like that. There is nothing more majestic when its sunny… nor more dismal when it rainy and overcast.”

“You guys sound like you’re making an ad for the local tourist bureau. Do you think this weather will hold?”

“Those clouds over there look like snow, and that’s where the weather has been coming from. We’re high enough - could get snow before we get out of here.”

“Which mountain did you get the small one on?”

“The one that’s off to the right. It slopes up a long way and then levels off - looks like it goes on up to the next higher peak, but its actually separate. The level spot is the top.”

“You shot it on the level spot?”

“Yeah! It rolled all the way down to the brush.”

“Then it rolled half way down the mountain. That must have been quite a sight.”

“Let’s hope the wind doesn’t come up before we head back.”

”Think we can get all the meat in the raft?”

“Yes, but three of us will have to walk along the shore. That won’t be too bad if we don’t have to carry anything.”

GO TO: Day 4, Part 8

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 6

Once in the cabin Dan and I shed our wet clothes and lounged on built-in bunk beds while Doug stoked the fire, and Ed acted as camp cook. The small place, no bigger than fifteen feet square, was filled with our equipment - backpacks, tents, sleeping bags, rifles, etc., much of it, along with wet coats and clothes, was hanging on nails driven into the log walls.

“I’m glad we got this cabin“, I said. “I kept imaging that we’d get here, and find an army of hunters in and around it. We‘d have to stay in tents, and that wouldn’t be near as comfortable - wet and damp, no way to dry anything, no room to move around, no place to store stuff. - gives me chills just thinking about it.”

“I wonder what’s the story on this old place? How long do you think its been here?”

“Hard to tell, but the back wall is going to collapse before too many more years. I’ll bet there’s fifteen, maybe twenty feet of snow up here in the winter. The weight on this flat roof is probably what’s causing the building to cave in. And that gap between the roof and walls makes it nearly impossible to heat during cold weather.”

“Gosh, that backstrap smells good”, Doug interrupted. “Give me a chunk; I’m so hungry I could eat the ass-end of a skunk.”

“There’s a whole plate full”, Ed shot back. “Backstrap not skunk”

“Who’s got a fork?”

“We have only one and I’m cooking with it. Use your knife.”

“What the hell? You mean no one thought to bring silverware?”

“That’s right, one fork and two lousy spoons”.

“We seemed to have brought everything but the kitchen sink and silverware. We’ll probably starve to death amidst this abundance. Damn, the whole trip’s ruined.”

I was sitting on the edge of the bunk greedily gorging moose, and noticed that Dan had crawled into his sleeping bag and was snuggled down out-of-sight.

“I think we have lost Dan.”

“You guys can talk all night“, he said. “I’m going to sleep, and if a bear drops in to investigate the savory odors, then you guys will have to do the negotiating.”

“See you tomorrow”, three sang in unison.

“Think we can get the moose back here tomorrow, Joe?”

“With the four of us - easily, but it will take all day.”

"Its after midnight, we'd better turn in too."
GO TO: Day 4, Part 7

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 5

I loaded about forty pounds of loose meat in my pack, and we started for the lake, two miles down the valley. Upon approaching the lake, we began feeling a light breeze in our face, and as we dropped over the last rise, descending to the shore, the full force of the wind hit us. The lake was a mass of whitecaps. It was two miles long, but narrow, and the wind was being funneled down it. The cabin was at the other end

We stood on the shore looking at the turbulent surf. Dan laid down on the bank. “To hell with it”, he said. “let’s crawl under the raft and stay here. I’m too tired to fight it.”

I was tired, but not nearly as bad-off as Dan. “No way! I’ll row home. We’ll hang close to the shore. We can make it - besides you row in circles most of the time anyway.”

“Well, I’ve only rowed a boat a couple times; there’s not that much water around Amarillo, Texas. You know what I mean?”

Dan’s favorite phrase, “You know what I mean?”. It was his attempt to accentuate a point, and after several years of running with him, I knew it was rhetorical, not requiring a response . “I would never have guessed it this morning“, I said. “I wasn’t sure which direction you were going most of the time.”

I launched the raft, turned it around, and backed it into shore for Dan. He stumbled off-balance into it, and landed full force in the bottom.

“Watch it or you’ll go through. That jaunt around the mountain did you in, didn’t it?”

“I’ve been beat ever since”, Dan said in a tired voice.

“I’ll stay close to shore. If it gets too rough we’ll pull up and stay there the night.”

It took an hour and a half to row the length of the lake. I would row up to the sheltered edge of a point and hold until the wind died, then hurry around the point and into the next cove. That way we did not catch as much spray, though our clothes became sodden anyway. Further down the lake the wind died a bit, and the rowing became easier.

Our two hunting partners, waiting at the water’s edge, stepped forward to help us land. Doug Jackson grabbed the bow line and pulled us onto shore a ways. “Its about time you guys got back; where in the hell you been anyway”, he asked?

“We’ve been hunting. We don’t quit in the middle of the afternoon like some guys.”

“We just got back an hour ago. Did you get anything?”

“Oh! We got two”, Dan answered casually. “How’did you do?”

“Well we got two too,” returned Ed Cerney in a superior tone.

“Christ! We’re in trouble”, Dan spit out as he slumped back into the raft.

”You didn’t really get two - did you?”

“Here, take this,” I said, as I heaved my pack to the front of the raft.

They lifted it to shore, opened it and looked inside.

“You really get two”, one of them said, stressing the “two“.

“Yea! Did you really get any?”

“No”, Ed answered ruefully. “I thought you were spoofing us.”

“We didn’t even see a cow”, Doug added.
GO TO: Day 3, Part 6

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part 4

We gathered the equipment and started down and across to the other side. Half hour later we were on the valley floor and stopped by a pond for water. I stepped into the water and sank the water bottle, holding it upright so water would pour in over its mouth. “Its brackish, I said. There’s green stuff floating and a bunch of little bugs running around on top. You got any halogen?”

“No, but I’m parched. Let’s wash our mouth out and find a stream later.”

Dan looked down the narrow valley toward the lake we crossed that morning. “I’ll head toward the lake, circle back and push him toward those alders. He’ll probably go through, and into that open spot on the right.”

“I’ll be at the top waiting for him”, I said. “Give me about fifteen minutes.”

I got to the top of the clearing, discovered an animal trail going through a narrow cut into an adjacent valley, and climbed high enough to cover both routes. Ten minutes later I heard a loud report, then another, and then a final one. I waited to be certain the moose was not coming my way and then began walking in that direction. I found Dan near bottom, walking up toward me.

“Where is the moose?” “Further down. He damn near ran over me. I started up through those alders, but decided I was getting nowhere, so I swung further to the left and came to this opening. No more than rounded those bushes when he bolted out from the right - not ten yards away. Surprised the hell out of me - I didn’t think I was even close to him. I hit him broadside - right in the lungs. He went down on his knees, but popped back up again, so I shot him again. He got up again, but was all wobbly and staggering. I thought I’d try to herd him down through the clearing - like Natives use to do with Caribou herds - but he turned up hill, so I put him out of his misery. Wonder why he didn’t run your direction?”

That line of alders covers a ditch. He couldn’t get into the clearing. He might have caught my scent too.”

“There he is, next to that little stream.”

“That’s convenient. I think he fell a little too close though; he’s laying in a soft spot with his rack buried in the mud - going to be hell to turn.”
Dan stood over the fallen animal with his hand resting on a velvet covered antler. “He’s a big one all right, and the rack isn’t so small either. Its about the same spread as the one I got last year. The base is a lot heavier though. It may not have its full growth; the tine are pretty blunt.”

“How big of a spread do you think it is?”

“About fifty-five inches; maybe sixty.”

“A lot of people would consider it sinful to leave the rack, but we’ve got too much to carry as it is. Lucky for us we’re not trophy hunters.”

“Yeah! Look at the bugs - it didn’t take long for them to find him.”

“They’re probably always with him, a regular entourage, like the sea gulls flying around the white whale in Moby Dick.”

“Let’s get busy. Its late already, and we still have a full day ahead of us.”

We worked till nearly 8:30 that evening. It took the two of us to drag the hind quarters to a nearby spruce and hang them from branches. Some meat remained on the carcass, but the animal was skinned and what remained would cool without problem. We were too tired to do more, and it was getting dark. We had to get back.

GO TO: Day 3, Part 5

Moose Hunting in Alaska, 1972 Day 3, Part3

Dan scrambled down the slope. He was into the ravine and half way to the moose in minutes, but I was having trouble. I tore my knee ligaments in a skiing accident the previous March, spent eight weeks in a cast, and couldn’t bend the knee more than ninety degrees. Going down was a lot harder that up. A quarter of a hour passed and I had made little progress. Dan was sitting on a large rock scanning the mountain slope across the valley. He lowered his binoculars and shouted, “Hurry and get down here. I just spotted another moose.”

I sat and began scooting down the mountain on the seat of my pants, controlling my descent by digging a heel in now and then. “This one is really big”, he said. “You can see his rack without binocs. He’s straight across and just below us - in the clearing to the left of that line of alders.”

“Yeah, I see him. He’s lying down. Isn’t that the luck - another moose, and we haven’t got the first gutted yet. What do you think we ought to do?”

“He’s not very high. We could get there in half and hour or so. Why don’t we gut this one and then go for him. We can come back later and finish here.”

“Okay. I hate climbing this mountain again though. I wish Doug and Ed were here.”

“We should have stuck together. I wonder how they’re doing in that other valley? If we get that one, and they harvest one or two we’re going to be in big trouble.”

“We must be four or five miles from the cabin.”

“At least. And its another six to the trucks. Even with two trail bikes we’d kill ourselves - lose a lot of meat too.”

We made our way to the fallen bull, dropped our packs, took out knives, and prepared for the messy job of field dressing. Its size surprised me. “He’s bigger than I thought. He looked dog-size rolling down the slope. And it looks like he needs some dental work: most of his teeth are busted out, and his antlers are gone. That seems to be the extent of the damage - at least that’s all that shows.”
Dan straightened and looked across the valley. “The big one is still there. He’s up browsing, but he’s staying put. Its late enough, he may bed down for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s do as much as we can, and keep an eye on him; if he starts moving, we’ll go after him.”

Dan and I gutted, skinned, and quartered the animal. We placed each quarter in a game bag, carried it over to some nearby alders and laid it across the branches. The limbs sagged as the meat floated above ground. Two hours went quickly by.

“What time is it?”

“About one. Where is the bull? I don’t see it.”

“Its moved down and into the brush. You can barely make it out. You wouldn’t see him if you didn’t know he was there.”

“Maybe our luck is changing. I was certain we’d get nothing but bone splintered and bloodshot meat from this one, but the broken rib was all the damage.”

“They got thick hides, and he was putting his winter coat on. I guess that cushioned the fall. Maybe all that bouncing tenderized the meat.”

GO TO: Day 3, Part 4