The weather has been mild - warm, really. And dry. I think there were 8 raindrops yesterday, but the squall went on by. It is kind of painful to be sitting at my kitchen table trying to finish up a Seattle report when there is mud to walk through in search of last year's anchors (it's always best if we can use them again). Depending on how the water has moved the mud around and what the ice may have taken with it when it left, we can usually find most and usually have to set a few.
I intended to make a brief report and include a photo of last night's sunset and this morning's sunrise. Both were beautiful - but I left the SD card in my computer. Sigh.
In talking with Roy last night, I learned that a few fish are already showing up in Egegik. They are usually a little ahead of us, but it sure makes me wish our permits were in hand. This happens every season - we all carry around a thick coating of anxiety, watching for signs of early fish and afraid we'll miss it. Eddie Clark, the very nice and competent guy who takes care of my trucks in the winter and fishes with great intensity in Egegik in the summer, just stopped by (and brought me the first fish of the season!). He has been monitoring the river temperature since he got to fish camp in May and he told me that the Egegik river has already reached its fish-attracting temperature and he is getting some beautiful, mature fish already, but they're small. Uh oh. Here I am in the middle of a Seattle report, without permits in hand, not much readier than I was when I arrived, with nets hung with 5 1/8" web sitting in the warehouse.
I remind myself that the earliest we have ever seen a good showing of fish is June 20 - and they were that early only once since 1975, when I started paying attention. (Up until 2006, the latest fish had ever arrived was July 10. In 2006, that stretched to July 12 and calamity followed.) Early season fish are often very small - I think of them as "bullet fish." They just seem shaped that way. So, all is probably fine. The answer is to calm myself, remain focused on this report so when the fish are here, so am I, then pick up Jeff, Luka, Rohan, and Roger next week... and get ready!
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
June 6: Fresh coat of paint
It was a busy morning. For some reason, the floor under my bunk is always wet. Which means that the dog beds are wet and if I don't dry them, they'll mold. Bleah. It was a beautiful, sunny day today - a perfect day for drying dog beds outside.
I returned to the cabin and my computer to make progress on a Seattle project. I'm at the part of the project where I keep finding excuses to jump up and do something else; anything else. Roy sent me a text, asking if I was going to make use of this beautiful day. Good idea. I've been meaning to paint the cabin for about 10 years now - why not today?
So the dogs and I walked the mile to the truck, went through the circus of getting them into the bed of the truck and went to town to get paint. I'm not wild about going to town because I so prefer the quiet of the beach. But it was required if the cabin was to be painted. The hardware guys ran into some technical difficulties while mixing the paint - I asked for barn red and they ran out of some key ingredient and made do with what they had. While waiting for the paint and doing my other in-town errands I came upon this mural that I haven't noticed before. Affixed to a building between Hadfield's Bar and the Borough Building.
Here is my newly painted cabin: a custom barn red, Alaska style. It took 2 gallons of primer and 2 gallons of color. Did I mention that I've been meaning to paint it for 10 years? And by then it was probably 5 years overdue. I think it was after 11:30 when the sun went down today and even now, at 12:30, the sky is still light. So thanks to many hours of sunlight and the warm weather, I was able to get on one coat of primer and two coats of color, finishing up just before the sun went down with just enough light to take a picture.
Two pictures.
I returned to the cabin and my computer to make progress on a Seattle project. I'm at the part of the project where I keep finding excuses to jump up and do something else; anything else. Roy sent me a text, asking if I was going to make use of this beautiful day. Good idea. I've been meaning to paint the cabin for about 10 years now - why not today?
So the dogs and I walked the mile to the truck, went through the circus of getting them into the bed of the truck and went to town to get paint. I'm not wild about going to town because I so prefer the quiet of the beach. But it was required if the cabin was to be painted. The hardware guys ran into some technical difficulties while mixing the paint - I asked for barn red and they ran out of some key ingredient and made do with what they had. While waiting for the paint and doing my other in-town errands I came upon this mural that I haven't noticed before. Affixed to a building between Hadfield's Bar and the Borough Building.
Here is my newly painted cabin: a custom barn red, Alaska style. It took 2 gallons of primer and 2 gallons of color. Did I mention that I've been meaning to paint it for 10 years? And by then it was probably 5 years overdue. I think it was after 11:30 when the sun went down today and even now, at 12:30, the sky is still light. So thanks to many hours of sunlight and the warm weather, I was able to get on one coat of primer and two coats of color, finishing up just before the sun went down with just enough light to take a picture.
Two pictures.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
June 5: Swans in tundra lake
Not far behind the cabin is a shallow little lake. A caribou trail runs around the lake. The far side of the lake was scorched in a fire in 2009 - a fire that called out smoke jumpers, helicopters, and a WWII bomber that dropped flame retardant to try to prevent the fire's spread - to our cabins, among others.
I heard the call of a swan this evening and I know that a pair of swans often make their summer home in that lake, so I grabbed my camera and a pair of boots and walked along the caribou trail. On the way out, I saw that the tundra is beginning to wake up. What once was brown is turning green and even growing some berries.
I followed the caribou train around the lake to try to get the swans and the cabin together. Although tundra is hearty stuff - it thrives in this cold and wet climate - it is also very delicate. It doesn't get much foot traffic, so it's vulnerable to it and takes a long time to recover. That's why we try to stick to boardwalks and existing trails.
And while I was there, I noticed a lot of tundra cotton coming up. I understand that they have this in Scotland too and there they call it "bog cotton."
I don't usually visit the other side of the lake - this is the first time I saw (a) the scar from the fire; and (b) that it was just the lake's distance from my cabin. That fire occurred on July 5, right in the middle of the run, and right at the end of a tide. Once we determined that there was nothing we could do to help and that the fire was unlikely to spread to our cabins unless the wind changed and once we got a good look at the helicopter and bomber action... we all went to sleep and missed the smoke jumpers. We would be up soon fishing the next tide. This photo shows the tundra high ground that hasn't grown back yet.
Following the caribou trail back, I noticed this moss or lichen or ... whatever it is.
I heard the call of a swan this evening and I know that a pair of swans often make their summer home in that lake, so I grabbed my camera and a pair of boots and walked along the caribou trail. On the way out, I saw that the tundra is beginning to wake up. What once was brown is turning green and even growing some berries.
I followed the caribou train around the lake to try to get the swans and the cabin together. Although tundra is hearty stuff - it thrives in this cold and wet climate - it is also very delicate. It doesn't get much foot traffic, so it's vulnerable to it and takes a long time to recover. That's why we try to stick to boardwalks and existing trails. 
And while I was there, I noticed a lot of tundra cotton coming up. I understand that they have this in Scotland too and there they call it "bog cotton."
I don't usually visit the other side of the lake - this is the first time I saw (a) the scar from the fire; and (b) that it was just the lake's distance from my cabin. That fire occurred on July 5, right in the middle of the run, and right at the end of a tide. Once we determined that there was nothing we could do to help and that the fire was unlikely to spread to our cabins unless the wind changed and once we got a good look at the helicopter and bomber action... we all went to sleep and missed the smoke jumpers. We would be up soon fishing the next tide. This photo shows the tundra high ground that hasn't grown back yet. 
Following the caribou trail back, I noticed this moss or lichen or ... whatever it is.
Becoming a red agate
I know I need to update my profile. I noticed that it says something about my eagerness to find how my younger son will relate to our fishing world as he steps into adulthood. Even though we won't have a chance to find out because of losing him in an accident last year on June 30, I think I know. On June 22, about a week before he died, I received an email from him saying, "i miss it up there. it really is home." So I write this post for the sake of honesty.
I won't write about this loss every time it washes over me, but it seems false to write as if this experience this year is only about this year's wind and mud, bluff and tundra, ups and downs, tides and fish. I find, as I settle into my cabin and its gentle silence, that Alex is with me. I feel him - and the loss of him - in a way that I couldn't in my busy life in Seattle. Right now, it is very heavy. It seems that this is what healing needs - this would be the slow painful wet part of the healing process. As I write, that process too is here with me, along with the glory, beauty, joy, and current pain that this world holds. Until Jeff and Luka arrive next Tuesday, it's me, two dogs, and my big gash of a wound in this beautiful world we are in.
In Alex's final email to me, two days before he died, he wrote this,
"when i first arrived, i had a sharp sense of the eternity that has been pumping through the various expressions of time in all their different forms and generating the variable but acutely consistent forms of life on this island. i think the heat, the lush, and the life formed a sort of symphony that rang out the song of cycles and generations. as an artist looking in, there is depth and beauty to it. as someone living it and not thinking very much about eternity, cycles, and particularly being stuck as just another generation on this eternal god damned island, the depth and beauty are harder to reach.
"something is burning at the base of my throat. some kind of pain has settled there for the moment. it is the same genre of pain i wrote about before. this is hard, but it was supposed to be."
This is the experience I am having here, now. I have both perspectives - when we fish, we are in it, part of the cycle that has been turning for generations and that I hope will continue to turn after I'm gone. And when we're not fishing, I can reflect on it and write about it. I can feel, and try to convey the beauty and depth of it. And at the end of the season, we pick up and leave, stepping out of the cycle. (For me, that part of the process is difficult and feels a little like stepping off a moving four wheeler.) And now, this year, something has been burning at the base of my throat; something has settled there. This is hard; I can't imagine it could be otherwise.
The first agate I found this year was a dark red one. Yesterday's photo shows you that they can also be clear, white, or various shades of yellow and orange. I don't find the red ones very often and they are my favorite. I related to that dark red agate and thought it was fitting that it would be the first one that I find. I'm not sure what makes the red ones red - probably some type of mineral inclusion. And that's what's happened to me, too, though it's not a mineral that I must include in my being. I don't really know how it works, but I hope that when I have made it through the process of inclusion, Alex will be part of me in an integrated way - in my thoughts and movements, in my feelings and expressions. Maybe I will do the human equivalent of turning from a light yellow agate into one of those deep red ones, thanks to grief and the Alexation process.
I won't write about this loss every time it washes over me, but it seems false to write as if this experience this year is only about this year's wind and mud, bluff and tundra, ups and downs, tides and fish. I find, as I settle into my cabin and its gentle silence, that Alex is with me. I feel him - and the loss of him - in a way that I couldn't in my busy life in Seattle. Right now, it is very heavy. It seems that this is what healing needs - this would be the slow painful wet part of the healing process. As I write, that process too is here with me, along with the glory, beauty, joy, and current pain that this world holds. Until Jeff and Luka arrive next Tuesday, it's me, two dogs, and my big gash of a wound in this beautiful world we are in.
In Alex's final email to me, two days before he died, he wrote this,
"when i first arrived, i had a sharp sense of the eternity that has been pumping through the various expressions of time in all their different forms and generating the variable but acutely consistent forms of life on this island. i think the heat, the lush, and the life formed a sort of symphony that rang out the song of cycles and generations. as an artist looking in, there is depth and beauty to it. as someone living it and not thinking very much about eternity, cycles, and particularly being stuck as just another generation on this eternal god damned island, the depth and beauty are harder to reach.
"something is burning at the base of my throat. some kind of pain has settled there for the moment. it is the same genre of pain i wrote about before. this is hard, but it was supposed to be."
This is the experience I am having here, now. I have both perspectives - when we fish, we are in it, part of the cycle that has been turning for generations and that I hope will continue to turn after I'm gone. And when we're not fishing, I can reflect on it and write about it. I can feel, and try to convey the beauty and depth of it. And at the end of the season, we pick up and leave, stepping out of the cycle. (For me, that part of the process is difficult and feels a little like stepping off a moving four wheeler.) And now, this year, something has been burning at the base of my throat; something has settled there. This is hard; I can't imagine it could be otherwise.
The first agate I found this year was a dark red one. Yesterday's photo shows you that they can also be clear, white, or various shades of yellow and orange. I don't find the red ones very often and they are my favorite. I related to that dark red agate and thought it was fitting that it would be the first one that I find. I'm not sure what makes the red ones red - probably some type of mineral inclusion. And that's what's happened to me, too, though it's not a mineral that I must include in my being. I don't really know how it works, but I hope that when I have made it through the process of inclusion, Alex will be part of me in an integrated way - in my thoughts and movements, in my feelings and expressions. Maybe I will do the human equivalent of turning from a light yellow agate into one of those deep red ones, thanks to grief and the Alexation process.
June 4: Fresh yogurt and last year's smoked oysters
The first week or so here can stretch anyone's culinary boundaries. All the food for this season remains in the warehouse at AGS, on the barge on the way here, or in the freezer here or in Seattle, waiting to become someone's luggage. I have a strange attitude about the food in the freezer here - I feel like I didn't bring that up for me; it's for when the crew arrives. And I'm not ready to bring down all the stuff that's sitting in the warehouse - that's something that is best done when others arrive to help.
It's always hard for me to figure out what groceries to get when I'm feeding only myself. The first day here, I went to Naknek Trading (NTC, like Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery, it has most things that I need and if it doesn't have it, I can probably do without it) and found a dozen eggs ($5.49), a half-price gallon of milk ($5 was the sale price), a quart of Greek yogurt ($9.29) and a couple of cans of wet dog food ($2.79 each). (The milk, with some of the yogurt turned into even more yogurt - and strained, into Greek yogurt.) It's important to contribute to the local economy, but I also want to keep some and things are expensive here. So we ship up what we can think of in advance and buy the rest here.
Yesterday's tip of the day was about patience. Today's is how to get scalded milk (or burnt anything) off the bottom of a pan: a couple cups of vinegar and some soda - maybe a quarter cup or a half cup. Bring it to a boil. I don't know why it works but I haven't found anything that it won't loosen (and I have burned a lot of things to the bottom of a lot of pans).
The tides have been high and strange - water all the way to the cliff (26' tides) at 10 am. It isn't that it's uncommon to have so much water; it's just that for the 3 or 4 years before last year, even though we had plenty of 26' tides, they didn't come to the cliff. Tide magic that I don't understand. But it seems that those days are over. Here is the high tide a day or two after I arrived.
Last year we had a severe berm in front of the stairs that held the water from the high tides long after the tides were out. The effect of that is a very squishy area near the cliff. I can't think of a positive side of that situation, but the negative side comes easily to mind: the ground is very very sticky. So sticky that we can't drive a truck on it without fear of getting stuck (something we did plenty last year) and if we walk on it, we get a prodigious build up of mud on the bottom of our boots. Heavy, messy, and awkward. So at least to address the boot concern, I pulled down this little walkway to help us get from the stair to the gravel without gaining 10 pounds per foot.
The very high tides mean that I need to park the truck about a mile away, on the beach access road. One of the best things about that - besides keeping the truck from swamping - is that I get to walk a couple of miles on the beach each day that I want to use the truck. And in so doing, I often get to find agates. Here are this year's finds so far.
It's always hard for me to figure out what groceries to get when I'm feeding only myself. The first day here, I went to Naknek Trading (NTC, like Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery, it has most things that I need and if it doesn't have it, I can probably do without it) and found a dozen eggs ($5.49), a half-price gallon of milk ($5 was the sale price), a quart of Greek yogurt ($9.29) and a couple of cans of wet dog food ($2.79 each). (The milk, with some of the yogurt turned into even more yogurt - and strained, into Greek yogurt.) It's important to contribute to the local economy, but I also want to keep some and things are expensive here. So we ship up what we can think of in advance and buy the rest here.
Yesterday's tip of the day was about patience. Today's is how to get scalded milk (or burnt anything) off the bottom of a pan: a couple cups of vinegar and some soda - maybe a quarter cup or a half cup. Bring it to a boil. I don't know why it works but I haven't found anything that it won't loosen (and I have burned a lot of things to the bottom of a lot of pans).
The tides have been high and strange - water all the way to the cliff (26' tides) at 10 am. It isn't that it's uncommon to have so much water; it's just that for the 3 or 4 years before last year, even though we had plenty of 26' tides, they didn't come to the cliff. Tide magic that I don't understand. But it seems that those days are over. Here is the high tide a day or two after I arrived.
Last year we had a severe berm in front of the stairs that held the water from the high tides long after the tides were out. The effect of that is a very squishy area near the cliff. I can't think of a positive side of that situation, but the negative side comes easily to mind: the ground is very very sticky. So sticky that we can't drive a truck on it without fear of getting stuck (something we did plenty last year) and if we walk on it, we get a prodigious build up of mud on the bottom of our boots. Heavy, messy, and awkward. So at least to address the boot concern, I pulled down this little walkway to help us get from the stair to the gravel without gaining 10 pounds per foot.
The very high tides mean that I need to park the truck about a mile away, on the beach access road. One of the best things about that - besides keeping the truck from swamping - is that I get to walk a couple of miles on the beach each day that I want to use the truck. And in so doing, I often get to find agates. Here are this year's finds so far.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
June 3: Vast deliciousness
I've been thinking a lot about this first post. I wasn't sure how to face it, considering the final post of last season. But it's like everything else in fishing: sometimes it's hard to understand how we manage to do what we do, but understanding it isn't the important part; doing it is. So, here we go.
Welcome to the 2013 setnetting season on the north Naknek beach in Bristol Bay, Alaska!
When I am here, in my little cabin, under the sun or clouds or whatever the sky is doing, on the bluff, overlooking the water (or the mud, depending on where the tide is) with vastness all around me, I feel like I am cradled in a giant pair of hands. It’s not that I feel safe – or unsafe. But I do feel like I belong, like I’m part of this whole big thing here – not separate from it, not over it, and definitely not in charge of it. Just part of it.
It was a beautiful flight. This is the view approaching Anchorage. I’m including it just in case anyone reading this hasn’t seen enough majesty today. This should help.
This next photo is the view approaching King Salmon.
I’m including this photo because it shows how porous the tundra is. This porosity is what allows the remains of the salmon that make it up river to spawn to spread throughout the tundra, feeding the entire ecosystem. I reserve the word “awesome” for a system of that magnitude. The same porosity allows contaminants to spread throughout the tundra, damaging and potentially killing the entire ecosystem. I don’t know a word big enough for a horror of that magnitude. I guess it's "awesome" too, but in a different way. This is the fear of the opponents of Pebble Mine, proposed for the shores of Lake Iliamna. Would the mining process produce contaminants? That’s an undebated yes. Would they be contained forever? That is debated, but to my knowledge, no other mine similar to this one has remained contained. So the question becomes: is it reasonable to think this would be the first one? Are we willing to gamble the ecosystem that produces half the world’s wild salmon? If you are interested in this topic, renewableresourcescoalition.org is a much more reliable source of information than I am.
All 100# of my frozen food luggage arrived with me (still frozen), along with 50# of other stuff plus two big dogs. I'm so glad Roy was able to pick me up. He is my good friend of more than 30 years, who is also our fish buyer's port engineer and the guy that keeps us in the water all summer despite the abuses we visit on our equipment. First stop is the processing plant where I drop off the frozen stuff into the net locker (it has actual around-the-clock electricity for the freezer) and the dog kennels.
This photo is shows the particularly well organized netlocker where we keep our freezer and assorted fishing stuff. Much of this stuff will become part of the gear we need to keep in the skiffs. I've been puzzling about how it is so orderly - I have a great crew, but I wouldn't say that neatness is one of their most defining qualities. This looks a lot like Jean's work. She is my friend of... well, about 40 years, I guess. She came up as crew in the middle 70s and now she sometimes comes up at the end of the season - mainly so we can spend some time together. It is lovely for me because she is such wonderful company - and a great bonus that she is almost compelled to be neat, so opening the cabin after she has helped me close it up (like last year) is amazingly easy... and clean!
I always feel lucky if it's not raining when I arrive – and it hasn’t rained for a couple of days. This is important because I need to get to my cabin which is on top of a 30’ cliff that I have to climb a few times before I can get the stairs down. Our mud probably has important uses as glue for industrial and military applications, but all I want to do is get up the cliff. When it’s wet, it’s 30’ steep feet of mud that is somehow both slippery and sticky. When it's dry, it's still 30', but not so treacherous. (I should add here that from another perspective - one I had long ago - the slippery mud can be fun, especially if the intention is to end up at the bottom of it.)
There's a bit of suspense the first time I pop my head over the cliff. This time I took the camera with me so that whatever I found, we would find it together. It is still winter here. There was even still some snow on the way into King Salmon and some of those tundra lakes were still frozen. It really will turn green in a few weeks. But now, it's trying to get over winter.
And just to complete the tour (almost), here is the crew cabin, having survived another winter. This was built in 1961, mostly by my parents and whatever help the six kids could provide. I think Trina and Lynnie, my two older sisters, probably were a lot of help.
Since it wasn't raining (and besides, there's a canopy on the truck), I didn't need to rush to open up the cabin, so I decided to pull down the stairs first. They are about 35' of aluminum. We haul them up the cliff at the end of the season and let them lie there over the winter. Then pull them down again when we come back in the spring. This is just a matter of tying one end of a strong line to the stairs (in such a way that undue pressure is not put on one step) and the other end to the truck (which is pointing away from the cliff), and driving toward the water. This first picture is the line, just taut.
Here, the stairs are starting to come off the cliff. I'm always afraid that they will tip over sideways... that would be a problem.
It doesn't take much before it reaches its tipping point and down it comes. After this, I was able to make some fine adjustments by towing it with the truck out a little and to the north. Precision adjustments with a 3/4 ton truck.
Next task is to open the cabin, a process that requires a drill and three different keys. The windows are all boarded up with carriage bolts. Then move the propane containers out side, hook up the stove and the heater. Looking at the cabin, you can see Jean's work again. I didn't have to wash anything - just take things out of their bags and use 'em.
Getting the Internet up and running was a challenge. Here is what it looks like when it is installed.
Last year was the first year with this system. Tom, the man who installed it who is also the expert at aiming it, said we really should bring it inside over the winter. The problem is that it's aiming at a satellite many miles up in the sky, so that aim has to be pretty precise. How would I be able to get it aimed right after taking it down? Tom's idea: before taking it off, drill a hole all the way through the sleeve and the post it goes over. Then next year, reinstall it and stick a nail through the hole - and it should be lined up. When we closed up, it was blowing 30 MPH (I got a little wind meter that told me that), so I was afraid that once I took it off the post, it would act like a sail and blow me off the ladder. But it wasn't that heavy and we got it tucked away without mishap. The weather was much more mild when I installed it this year. It didn't work right away, but I phoned the dealer and with the router set up and the laptop perched on top of the ladder I needed to stand on to reach it, I was able to make tiny adjustments (with the play in the nail hole), test it, make another adjustment, test it, and lock it down. That felt like a great combination of good luck, kind help, and a little bit of learning.
I have quite a bit of Seattle-work to do before I can settle into my fishing summer, so I need electricity. The little solar panels aren't quite enough, and again, I surprised myself by getting the generator started. Actually, all of these mechanical successes have surprised me. There is an important key that I only recently learned: patience. I mean, before Tom M explained it to me, I thought that as soon as I pushed the pilot button on the heater, it should light and if it didn't something was wrong and I had no idea what to do to fix it. Tom told me that propane moves slowly. So the only thing wrong is probably that the propane hasn't made it to the igniter yet. So just keep pressing. And it is the same way with the generator. My brother Harry told me that to start it, just give it a couple of cranks, and then walk away for a little while. I guess during that waiting period, gas begins to make its way to wherever it needs to go because when I came back, it took only a couple of pulls and it started. Wow.
Finally, I was able to scrounge some (really good) scrap plywood from AGS to fix the walkways, and took advantage of the mild weather to get them up the cliff and start some repairs. You can probably imagine the problems involved in carrying sheets of plywood up a 30' cliff using a banister-less set of stairs with a strong wind either at my back, pushing into the stairs, or waiting at the top of the cliff to catch the plywood and push away from the stairs. So if there's plywood in the truck waiting to come up, and a calm day arrives, the time to bring it up is now.
Welcome to the 2013 setnetting season on the north Naknek beach in Bristol Bay, Alaska!
When I am here, in my little cabin, under the sun or clouds or whatever the sky is doing, on the bluff, overlooking the water (or the mud, depending on where the tide is) with vastness all around me, I feel like I am cradled in a giant pair of hands. It’s not that I feel safe – or unsafe. But I do feel like I belong, like I’m part of this whole big thing here – not separate from it, not over it, and definitely not in charge of it. Just part of it.
It was a beautiful flight. This is the view approaching Anchorage. I’m including it just in case anyone reading this hasn’t seen enough majesty today. This should help.
This next photo is the view approaching King Salmon.
I’m including this photo because it shows how porous the tundra is. This porosity is what allows the remains of the salmon that make it up river to spawn to spread throughout the tundra, feeding the entire ecosystem. I reserve the word “awesome” for a system of that magnitude. The same porosity allows contaminants to spread throughout the tundra, damaging and potentially killing the entire ecosystem. I don’t know a word big enough for a horror of that magnitude. I guess it's "awesome" too, but in a different way. This is the fear of the opponents of Pebble Mine, proposed for the shores of Lake Iliamna. Would the mining process produce contaminants? That’s an undebated yes. Would they be contained forever? That is debated, but to my knowledge, no other mine similar to this one has remained contained. So the question becomes: is it reasonable to think this would be the first one? Are we willing to gamble the ecosystem that produces half the world’s wild salmon? If you are interested in this topic, renewableresourcescoalition.org is a much more reliable source of information than I am.
All 100# of my frozen food luggage arrived with me (still frozen), along with 50# of other stuff plus two big dogs. I'm so glad Roy was able to pick me up. He is my good friend of more than 30 years, who is also our fish buyer's port engineer and the guy that keeps us in the water all summer despite the abuses we visit on our equipment. First stop is the processing plant where I drop off the frozen stuff into the net locker (it has actual around-the-clock electricity for the freezer) and the dog kennels.
This photo is shows the particularly well organized netlocker where we keep our freezer and assorted fishing stuff. Much of this stuff will become part of the gear we need to keep in the skiffs. I've been puzzling about how it is so orderly - I have a great crew, but I wouldn't say that neatness is one of their most defining qualities. This looks a lot like Jean's work. She is my friend of... well, about 40 years, I guess. She came up as crew in the middle 70s and now she sometimes comes up at the end of the season - mainly so we can spend some time together. It is lovely for me because she is such wonderful company - and a great bonus that she is almost compelled to be neat, so opening the cabin after she has helped me close it up (like last year) is amazingly easy... and clean!
I always feel lucky if it's not raining when I arrive – and it hasn’t rained for a couple of days. This is important because I need to get to my cabin which is on top of a 30’ cliff that I have to climb a few times before I can get the stairs down. Our mud probably has important uses as glue for industrial and military applications, but all I want to do is get up the cliff. When it’s wet, it’s 30’ steep feet of mud that is somehow both slippery and sticky. When it's dry, it's still 30', but not so treacherous. (I should add here that from another perspective - one I had long ago - the slippery mud can be fun, especially if the intention is to end up at the bottom of it.)
There's a bit of suspense the first time I pop my head over the cliff. This time I took the camera with me so that whatever I found, we would find it together. It is still winter here. There was even still some snow on the way into King Salmon and some of those tundra lakes were still frozen. It really will turn green in a few weeks. But now, it's trying to get over winter.
And just to complete the tour (almost), here is the crew cabin, having survived another winter. This was built in 1961, mostly by my parents and whatever help the six kids could provide. I think Trina and Lynnie, my two older sisters, probably were a lot of help.
Since it wasn't raining (and besides, there's a canopy on the truck), I didn't need to rush to open up the cabin, so I decided to pull down the stairs first. They are about 35' of aluminum. We haul them up the cliff at the end of the season and let them lie there over the winter. Then pull them down again when we come back in the spring. This is just a matter of tying one end of a strong line to the stairs (in such a way that undue pressure is not put on one step) and the other end to the truck (which is pointing away from the cliff), and driving toward the water. This first picture is the line, just taut.
Here, the stairs are starting to come off the cliff. I'm always afraid that they will tip over sideways... that would be a problem.
It doesn't take much before it reaches its tipping point and down it comes. After this, I was able to make some fine adjustments by towing it with the truck out a little and to the north. Precision adjustments with a 3/4 ton truck.
Next task is to open the cabin, a process that requires a drill and three different keys. The windows are all boarded up with carriage bolts. Then move the propane containers out side, hook up the stove and the heater. Looking at the cabin, you can see Jean's work again. I didn't have to wash anything - just take things out of their bags and use 'em.
Getting the Internet up and running was a challenge. Here is what it looks like when it is installed.
Last year was the first year with this system. Tom, the man who installed it who is also the expert at aiming it, said we really should bring it inside over the winter. The problem is that it's aiming at a satellite many miles up in the sky, so that aim has to be pretty precise. How would I be able to get it aimed right after taking it down? Tom's idea: before taking it off, drill a hole all the way through the sleeve and the post it goes over. Then next year, reinstall it and stick a nail through the hole - and it should be lined up. When we closed up, it was blowing 30 MPH (I got a little wind meter that told me that), so I was afraid that once I took it off the post, it would act like a sail and blow me off the ladder. But it wasn't that heavy and we got it tucked away without mishap. The weather was much more mild when I installed it this year. It didn't work right away, but I phoned the dealer and with the router set up and the laptop perched on top of the ladder I needed to stand on to reach it, I was able to make tiny adjustments (with the play in the nail hole), test it, make another adjustment, test it, and lock it down. That felt like a great combination of good luck, kind help, and a little bit of learning.
I have quite a bit of Seattle-work to do before I can settle into my fishing summer, so I need electricity. The little solar panels aren't quite enough, and again, I surprised myself by getting the generator started. Actually, all of these mechanical successes have surprised me. There is an important key that I only recently learned: patience. I mean, before Tom M explained it to me, I thought that as soon as I pushed the pilot button on the heater, it should light and if it didn't something was wrong and I had no idea what to do to fix it. Tom told me that propane moves slowly. So the only thing wrong is probably that the propane hasn't made it to the igniter yet. So just keep pressing. And it is the same way with the generator. My brother Harry told me that to start it, just give it a couple of cranks, and then walk away for a little while. I guess during that waiting period, gas begins to make its way to wherever it needs to go because when I came back, it took only a couple of pulls and it started. Wow.
Finally, I was able to scrounge some (really good) scrap plywood from AGS to fix the walkways, and took advantage of the mild weather to get them up the cliff and start some repairs. You can probably imagine the problems involved in carrying sheets of plywood up a 30' cliff using a banister-less set of stairs with a strong wind either at my back, pushing into the stairs, or waiting at the top of the cliff to catch the plywood and push away from the stairs. So if there's plywood in the truck waiting to come up, and a calm day arrives, the time to bring it up is now.
Monday, July 9, 2012
July 9: Counting Mercies
It has been more than a week since I last posted. The crew is doing great, and I remain hopeful for the fishing, though the Naknek beach hasn't been catching them like we'd like (we're over 90K lbs now and I hope we'll crack 100K today, but it's not a guarantee). Sometimes this happens. Just today, I told the crew that this is the type of season that makes me nervous - I think we'll see lots more fish, but I think they'll sneak up on us. So we have to be vigilant - get out there early in the flood. If there's nothing there, we can come back in and warm up and then go back out again just before the turn of the tide. Probably, we won't be surprised by a lot of fish, but if we are, we'll be there. Similarly, the ebb - we'll go out twice on the ebb; once early and if they have slipped in and filled the nets, we'll be there to take them out and deliver them. If not, we'll go back in and warm up, coming out at the end for the mop up.
I've debated whether to explain the reason for gap in posting and decided that I must, if this blog is to be the record I intended it to be for myself. I haven't yet managed to contact all the people who know my family personally who might be reading this and I hope you will forgive me for shocking you with the terrible information you are about to read here. My younger son, Alex (20), David's brother, was accidentally killed by a surprisingly big wave while he was exploring a shallow reef flat in Micronesia on June 30. It is the worst experience a parent can have. The reason I entitled this blog "Counting Mercies" is that even though I can't imagine a worse event to report, I can imagine worse circumstances.
Alex traveled a very difficult road. He went dramatically off the rails in his early teen-age years and his father and I, with the help of David, Sarah, and Josh (a close family friend and previous - and I hope future - crew member), got him to the John Dewey Academy, a therapeutic boarding school in Massachusetts where through their unparalleled academic and therapeutic program, he came to know himself, learned to live with himself, and made himself into an academic force and more importantly, into a moral leader. He graduated from JDA in June and was accepted at Reed College for the fall. He had turned the great potential of his life from the confusion and torment of his early teen years into a flourishing garden and was preparing to study the intersection of ethics and neurobiology. In Micronesia, where he was nourishing his body and artist's soul at my sister's eco-lodge for the summer, he spoke with young people about living a life free of drugs and alcohol. He was reconnecting with friends, I think serving as a beacon for old friends who might hope for a better life for themselves than the one he was rather spectacularly headed towards when he left them for Massachusetts.
The first mercy I counted was that he died honest and honorable. (And the second is that I worked hard to help him do that.) He had overcome his challenges and found a way to live his life as an open and whole person, with the tools to manage life's challenges as they came along. He used these first three weeks out of school to get to know himself in a less structured environment, recover his open hearted laugh, and make the amends I was aware of that needed to be made. That is the third mercy. Although he didn't have the opportunity to start the next chapter of his life, he did a great job of closing this first one. He died doing what he loved - exploring nature. That's the fourth mercy. And his death was quick - probably too quick to be afraid or to feel pain. That's the fifth one. Sixth is that he has been gone from home for the past three years so unlike the experience of other parents who suddenly lose a child, I wasn't in a rhythm of life with him just yesterday. Similarly, his 25 classmates had just been through a process of saying goodbye to the graduating seniors - as the seniors said goodbye to them, though they expected to see one another again. Seventh is that fishing is a demanding activity and one of the things it demands is complete presence. Although David and I were completely swamped in grief and anguish the first couple of days, the fish and the crew continue to need us and when we're there, we must focus on the actual task at hand. This has allowed the reality to enter in smaller doses. And eighth, if he was to die in an ocean this summer, I am grateful that it wasn't with me during the fishing season. I feel cowardly admitting that and I am very very sorry that my sister had to shoulder the burden instead, but at the same time, I am grateful.
It turns out that doing the right thing is what matters in the end.
I'm not sure how much I'll be able to post through the rest of the season. Perhaps the crew will fill in for me...
I've debated whether to explain the reason for gap in posting and decided that I must, if this blog is to be the record I intended it to be for myself. I haven't yet managed to contact all the people who know my family personally who might be reading this and I hope you will forgive me for shocking you with the terrible information you are about to read here. My younger son, Alex (20), David's brother, was accidentally killed by a surprisingly big wave while he was exploring a shallow reef flat in Micronesia on June 30. It is the worst experience a parent can have. The reason I entitled this blog "Counting Mercies" is that even though I can't imagine a worse event to report, I can imagine worse circumstances.
Alex traveled a very difficult road. He went dramatically off the rails in his early teen-age years and his father and I, with the help of David, Sarah, and Josh (a close family friend and previous - and I hope future - crew member), got him to the John Dewey Academy, a therapeutic boarding school in Massachusetts where through their unparalleled academic and therapeutic program, he came to know himself, learned to live with himself, and made himself into an academic force and more importantly, into a moral leader. He graduated from JDA in June and was accepted at Reed College for the fall. He had turned the great potential of his life from the confusion and torment of his early teen years into a flourishing garden and was preparing to study the intersection of ethics and neurobiology. In Micronesia, where he was nourishing his body and artist's soul at my sister's eco-lodge for the summer, he spoke with young people about living a life free of drugs and alcohol. He was reconnecting with friends, I think serving as a beacon for old friends who might hope for a better life for themselves than the one he was rather spectacularly headed towards when he left them for Massachusetts.
The first mercy I counted was that he died honest and honorable. (And the second is that I worked hard to help him do that.) He had overcome his challenges and found a way to live his life as an open and whole person, with the tools to manage life's challenges as they came along. He used these first three weeks out of school to get to know himself in a less structured environment, recover his open hearted laugh, and make the amends I was aware of that needed to be made. That is the third mercy. Although he didn't have the opportunity to start the next chapter of his life, he did a great job of closing this first one. He died doing what he loved - exploring nature. That's the fourth mercy. And his death was quick - probably too quick to be afraid or to feel pain. That's the fifth one. Sixth is that he has been gone from home for the past three years so unlike the experience of other parents who suddenly lose a child, I wasn't in a rhythm of life with him just yesterday. Similarly, his 25 classmates had just been through a process of saying goodbye to the graduating seniors - as the seniors said goodbye to them, though they expected to see one another again. Seventh is that fishing is a demanding activity and one of the things it demands is complete presence. Although David and I were completely swamped in grief and anguish the first couple of days, the fish and the crew continue to need us and when we're there, we must focus on the actual task at hand. This has allowed the reality to enter in smaller doses. And eighth, if he was to die in an ocean this summer, I am grateful that it wasn't with me during the fishing season. I feel cowardly admitting that and I am very very sorry that my sister had to shoulder the burden instead, but at the same time, I am grateful.
It turns out that doing the right thing is what matters in the end.
I'm not sure how much I'll be able to post through the rest of the season. Perhaps the crew will fill in for me...
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