Andrew picked me up to go snagging at the release site pond out our road about 7 miles. Unbelievably, Sam came along. Perhaps by force…. Lots of people around the pond snagging. An older man with a cart full of salmon said the fish were at the far end – where I caught them a couple days ago. Andrew walked around one side of the pond, and I the other. Another immigrant, from Sudan, said hello to me and waved to Andrew across the pond. He already had 3 fish on the beach. I waded across to my spot, and not long after, he caught his fourth. I casted and casted and not a fish. Then Andrew got one on. As he landed it, Sam came down from his spot in the woods where he was on his phone, and helped land it with the gaff. Then Andrew got a second. Then a third. And me. Still not a bump.
I decided to join Andrew. I stood next to him and cast. Nothing for me. Number 4 for Andrew. Sam came down again. By now, the no seeums were relentless. Even with bug dope on, they were getting into the creases of my eyelids. I knew now that what I thought was some sort of skill my first night was nothing but luck. And glad for it. I am happier to clean fish than to catch them, and I started in on the pile, and Andrew cleaned his last fish.
Sam was less than enthused to carry the bucket with 3 of the fish, but just like scouts, when it’s time to go, he’s first in line and off he went. Andrew carried his last fish on a stringer, and I carried my rod and our gear.
Sam declared he was not going fishing tomorrow when his dad indicated he was. Andrew then reminisced how different his life was growing up in a village in Sierra Leone, and how lazy his son was living here in the US. Andrew said his dad would take him hunting when he was 8, and place him in a spot in the forest and tell him not to move. At night. He and his dad each had a head light, and his dad said when he signaled with his light to Andrew, Andrew was to signal back that he was okay. Then his dad would walk through the bush with his head lamp and shot gun, hunting for deer or monkey or whatever else moved in the bush. Andrew said of course he was scared at first, but over time he got used to it and so is not afraid in the forest.
When Andrew was 14, the rebels came to his village during the civil war in Sierra Leone. Because his dad had his ancient hunting shotgun, the rebels shot him in front of Andrew. Sam is not far from 14, but in a completely different dimension growing up in Alaska with it’s running water, electricity, and free education, and not a care in the world. Part of Andrew (and me) is glad for that. But part of Andrew wishes his son had more skills than working a cell phone. By the time Andrew was his son’s age, he had worked on his family farm for 10 years, as well as gone hunting with his father. Part of him misses that life.
As he’s said many times, he’ll never leave Alaska. Where can you live and fill a freezer snagging salmon from the beach, he asks? And he hasn’t even started hunting with me because he’s not had the time, but he soon will with his new job. While supporting his family here, and his family back in SIerra Leone, he managed to earn a master’s degree in addiction counseling, and he starts a new job doing that on Monday.
I’m not sure about his kids. His daughter is putting herself through college and having grow up until high school in Sierra Leone, she is a go getter and all she sees here, like her dad, is opportunity. For Sam, Alaska is all he knows, and is just the place he lives, not a special place to be, and he may want to go to some other exotic places like Chicago or Miami and make his own way.
Snaggin’ with Andrew
Andrew fishes most nights now, and I thought it was time to go along. He catches fish from the beach along Gastineau channel, by snagging, which is legal.
We went to the pond at Fish Creek and Andrew led the way to his favorite spot – where the pond feeds into Fish Creek. We casted for awhile, and had no luck, nor saw anyone catch anything. There was evidence of fish entrails all around the pond that were either left there by fishers or pulled out by eagles, a dozen of which surrounded the pond, swooping back and forth.
I saw fish rolling at the end of the pond towards the other side. I wore waders, and so I walked across the outlet of the pond to the point opposite Andrew, and cast out to where the fish were rolling. This spot would also be reachable by walking all the way around the pond, but it would be a hike. Clearly, people fished from the site as there were some fish entrails there.
I had an extra large snagging hook and could cast 2/3 of the way across. I cast and cast, but no luck. I took a break and sat on a crooked tree and watched the water go by and the eagles fly.
Andrew was getting discouraged and yelled across that we could go at any time. “One more cast” I said, and I let it fly.
I felt a bump with a fish – my first of the night – but I didn’t connect. I cast again, and about the third pull, the rod bent over and I knew I had one. I quickly loosened the drag and tested it so the fish could take line as needed. I worked the fish to the beach and conked it with my gaff. The fish had another snag hook and wire leader it in. Score number 1. As I pulled the plastic jar out of my pack, my pack moved, and there in the gravel was a knife in a sheath! Score number 2. I got out my stringer, broke a gill, and put the fish in the stream to bleed. The next cast I had another one on, but lost it. The next cast, I got another one on, and this one was a bigger fish. I finally landed it, and it was about a 20 lb fish, and ended up being a white king. Another cast or two, and I had another one on and lost it. The last fish I got on I landed, and it was a smaller one like the first.
Three fish in about 20 minutes, and the only one catching around the pond. And my first time fishing there.
The no see ums were now in full mob mode, and the school moved. It was also getting dark at about 10 pm. I cleaned the three fish, and carried them across the outlet and put them in Andrew’s bucket for him to take home. We already have all the king salmon we need for awhile after our trip to Craig. And I was already ahead with the snagging hook, wire leader, and knife I’d found.
Andrew was beside himself with taking me to his spot and me having good luck.
Juneau Camp Out
We hiked the mountain above Juneau – Mount Roberts – for our first scout camp out since the pandemic began. All the scouts had to pack their own tents and cookware and food. Only stoves would be shared. Sam had a full pack, but he made it. The hike is uphill to nearly the top of the mountain. Keith planned the camp out so we could watch the big fireworks show put on by the city, but the fireworks were cancelled. However, the camp out was already planned, and we knew there would be plenty of people lighting off their own fireworks.
We from the trail head about 4 pm and hiked uphill for about two and a half hours. I’d been up to the tram on the trail once, but never past it to the camping spot a half mile further. Our site looked up to the top of Mount Roberts another half mile away, and over looked the bowl under the face of the mountain. The bowl was like our own little zoo. We saw a sow with cubs, some black tailed deer, mountain goats, a ptarmigan and brood, and marmots were whistling all day. We could see everything with the naked eye.
Sam had his tent set up by himself first, then crawled inside, at the dinner his dad cooked and sent with him, and was down for the count and in recovery. He was up a couple hours later, running around with the other scouts. I inflated my sleeping pad, laid it out on the grass, and laid down for a couple hours and then went up to the edge of the bowl to look at the wildlife and talk with some of the parents. I slept in the open with a light blanket and tarp as there was no rain in the forecast. We looked down on the fireworks and it was very pedestrian, although lots of noise. The fireworks continued til long after midnight, but did not keep me up.
We rose about 8 am, and the scouts quickly had their tents down and packs packed and ate breakfast. It took about an hour and a half to climb back down the mountain. As Sam and I drove through town on what is usually the busiest day of the summer, with about 7 cruiseships in town and the big parade with locals packing the streets, the place was a ghost town. No one was on the streets. Like a science fiction movie. I wondered if this would be the same scene next year, or the pandemic would pass. I know by this time next year, we’ll have had a presidential election, and it may be a new normal all the way around.
The Harvest is On
Sara and I volunteered on the harvest crew at the Craig kelp farm today. The kelp farm is set up like a football field. The “side lines” are engineered lines anchored to the bottom and held at the surface by large buoys. The “10 yard lines” attach at either end to the sidelines and are the lines where the kelp grows.
It takes a village to harvest a kelp farm. There were two commercial fishing boats hauling the grow out lines aboard. A skiff tended the lines for each commercial boat, untying the grow out “10 yard” lines on each end from the anchored “side lines” so they could be hauled aboard. If only it was so easy. Most of the lines had some sort of tangle with the lines next to it, and the boys in the skiff had their work cut out for them, tossing a grapple hook to bring the line to the surface, then pulling themselves along the heavy, kelp-laden line to figure out what was tangled where. A fifth skiff worked independently of the harvesting boats, collecting anchors and buoys from the grow out lines so they were ready to be pulled aboard. Four crew were jammed on this boat, and all were young and full of youth and flexibility and strength. A tender vessel – a small commercial seine boat with a crew of three- arrived mid-day to take what we’d harvested back to town.
On board our harvest vessel, the skipper (Melissa) pulled the line with a hydraulic crab pot hauler over the gillnet roller at the stern, across the hold to a block tied about 7 feet high at the mast, then through a line stripper to the crab block. A crew member with a long sharp heavy knife (Alan) whacked the ribbon kelp at the holdfast off the grow out line and into brailer bags in the hold. Another crew member (me) coiled line as it came off the pot hauler. Sara served as a gopher, gathering stray kelp that didn’t fall into the hold and helping tangles over the gillnet reel. The skipper was also in charge of clearing the line stripper, which regularly clogged and had to be dismantled and the tangle of holdfasts and seed twine cut away. This left lots of time for Alan, a constituent from Haines, to talk with Sara about the goings on at the legislature.
We started harvesting about 7 am, and by midday, we’d filled all 8 braler bags. As the lines came over heavy with kelp, I could only think – this farmer is onto something. All this food produced from native kelp seed planted the fall before, which grew with just the sun for photosynthesis and nutrients from the ocean. No additional fertilizer needed as with land farming, nor disturbing of the marine environment other than the anchors sitting on the bottom. In fact it was creating it’s own habitat of neat crustaceans and invertebrates we saw come aboard among the kelp which certainly were food sources for little fish in the food chain. All this food grown in one little spot of the ocean – no wandering around the sea searching for it. And it tasted good. Real good. Right off the line. I keep thinking of this farmer like I do Bill Gates. He saw the future and made it happen.
We untied the commercial boat from where it was tied off along one of the “side-lines”, and motored over to the tender. There, the tender crew pulled the brailer bags out of the hold and dumped the kelp from the bags into fish totes onboard their vessel to take to the processor in town.
They let our volunteer crew go at 330 pm and the rest continued on through the evening. The commercial boats have fishing to do soon, and were giving it their all to get the kelp harvest in before they had to leave for the salmon grounds.
Whales, kelp, and a cinnamon bear
Jeff and I went south again today in search of kelp and a black bear. Once we left Gastineau Channel, I think we saw one or two other boats today. We knew where the kelp was after the last trip, and on our way there, we found another bed so we stopped and got what we wanted and piled it into the cooler. The kelp is growing fast now, and we got some real trophy stipes.
We continued on, seeing lots of whales. We saw 15 total today, with 2 cow/calf pairs. We went to look for a bear in Limestone Inlet, and there were 5 whales in the narrow bay. There is a hatchery release of chum salmon there. The smolt have already been released since the net pens are gone, but apparently the smolt stuck around and the whales were taking advantage.
On we went south to a long creek flat bordered on either side by steep hills. That was our destination, as today we were going to look around this flat rather than cruise lots of beaches. Jeff thought it looked the good last time we visited this place. After I anchored the boat and rowed to shore in the punt, we started walking up the big flat of grass. Not 5 or 10 minutes of walking and I spotted a bear on the opposite side. It was eating grass along the tree line at the base of the hill. We sat down under a tree to be out of sight – not that the bear would have spotted us some 500 yards away – and watched.
I initially thought it was a brown bear. It was brown, and had what I thought was a hump. But Jeff wasn’t sure. The bear was continuing to come our way on the opposite side of the flat. We decided to head to the other side now while we had time and hope the bear kept coming all the way out to our position near the ocean.
The creek through the grass flat was deeper than my knee boots. Jeff forded the river in his hip waders, and I stayed put. There were some huge boulders here at the mouth of the river, spread out across the flat, making perfect cover for us.
As the bear continued our way, it would go in and out of sight behind rocks, or in the brush, but eventually it was visible again, and it kept coming up along the edge of the woods, ravenously eating grass. As it got close to us, I watched though Jeff’s spotting scope as it hopped up and over a rock. I saw its paws and saw it was a black bear. A cinnamon bear.
A couple times the bear ran a few steps forward and looked nervous. He always looked back where he’d come from and not our way. Like maybe there was a bigger bear in the area. We never saw another bear, although from all the grass cropped on the flat, there surely could be one in the area.
He kept coming toward’s Jeff’s position. Jeff was prone on the top of a rock with a perfect rest and watching the bear move his way. When the bear was about 100 yards away and broadside, Jeff squeezed off a .338 round. I saw the shot go through the middle of the bear, maybe a tad high and a tad back from the heart, but certainly a shot through the boiler room. The bear kind of hopped just a bit and ran into the brush.
I headed over to help Jeff find the bear and take care of it. I went upstream to find a spot to cross in my knee boots, but finding none, I just waded across and got wet. I met Jeff at the brush line where he thought the bear went in. With the sound of the rushing creek, we couldn’t hear any brush crash when the bear ran in. The brush was a tangle of devils club and alder, with a few big spruce trees here and there, and big craggy rocks. There were only a few paths you could take to go up hill in the tangle.
We looked for blood or hair and found none. Jeff indicated the spot he hit the bear and where the bear had run into the brush, but I didn’t see any sign of busted brush. We both entered the brush side by side about 20 yards apart, heading up hill. The slope uphill was gradual for about 20 yards, and then turned steep. I couldn’t conceive that the wounded bear could have gone up the steep hill, but we didn’t see any sign.
We regrouped, and this time we paralleled each other going side hill, venturing much further on either side of where the bear entered the brush, but again, no sign. I didn’t think we could have missed it and thought somehow the bear must had gone up the steep hill.
By now, the tide had turned and was starting to rush in. I needed to back to the punt before the tide got too high and move the boat over to our side of the cove. I had to cross the mouth of the creek. I was already wet, and so was prepared to wade. As I got to the middle of the creek, the water was up to my belly, and I thought the other side would shallow up to the bank. It didn’t. It was a cut bank of sorts. I got to my nipples and was on my toes, between swimming and wading, when I got to the other side and up the bank.
I rowed out to the boat, pulled the anchor, and moved the boat to the other side of the cove, where Jeff met me with our packs gear. I had spare clothes in the emergency bag on the boat. The clothes were vac packed in bags, and so were fresh and dry. As I changed, Jeff said he wanted to go take one more look near the beach for the bear and would be back in an hour or so. I said to fire off a round if he found the bear.
As Jeff returned the 1/4 mile to the spot the bear went into the woods, I changed out of my wet clothes into dry ones, and hung the wet clothes up on the bars of the roof rack. Then I muscled the punt up onto the roof rack and secured it. Next I got out my gun case and started to case my rifle when the shot rang out. I dropped everything, put out the anchor with a line tied to it, and ran the line up to a tree. The tide was rising so the boat would float right here by the shore.
I walked back and found Jeff just finishing gutting the bear. I held on to the bears legs as Jeff finished removing the innards. The bear had been less than 10 yards from where Jeff hit him. He’d run into the brush, and fallen under a log. The bear was right there all the time. It’s one thing to go hunting and not have a chance at game. It’s worse to shoot, know you hit your target and not find it. We were elated.
By now, the tide was really flooding. After wading the creek mouth over an hour prior, I knew I could run up the creek not far from our position and load the bear. Jeff and I floated the bear across a slough into the creek. This was easier than dragging it, and helped to cool the meat down and wash out the body cavity. Jeff loves bear meat. He gave away much of his first bear so he was grateful to get his second bear as the season closes tomorrow. He mainly cans it, which ensures it’s fully cooked as bears can carry a parasite that can be passed to us humans.
Jeff continued to the rendezvous site, while I returned to the kill site to collect our packs and Jeff’s rifle, and headed for the boat. We were both happy campers now and the walking was easy.
I picked up Jeff and the bear, and we headed for home, reveling in our luck and grand adventure.
Field of Dreams
Went back to the pasture today for more fiddleheads. It was a rainy day and I was hedging on whether to go or not. I stacked firewood in the morning, made some bread with the rhubarb I had in the fridge, and was about ready to get my rain gear and go, as it was a light rain. Then heavy rain let loose and I lost interest. A couple hours later, the sun was out for about 5 minutes, and in that time I collected my empty gallon pretzel jars and scissors and headed up the mountain.
I dropped off some pesto I made from the first batch of fiddleheads, nettles and devils club buds, along with some bagels, for Laura and Bob.
I parked up the mountain and headed for the creek crossing. As Laura predicted, the creek was running pretty high. There was still some snow along the creek, and as I walked on it, it was very hard and supported my weight. Until I broke through in a little overflow channel along the creek. Down on I went sideways. Up to my elbows and soaked my pants. Oh well. Not going back now. I quickly pulled my pant legs out of my boot tops so they wouldn’t soak my socks, and walked to the tree that lay across the creek and served as my bridge.
I crossed without incident, but when I climbed up and over the root wad on the far side, I slid down the roots and figured I couldn’t get back up that root wad when I came back – how did Laura do it a few days ago?
All the devils club on the other side of the river had buds that were perfect for picking. But I didn’t need any more than those I’d already picked this year, and I didn’t have the salad tongs for picking them. But noted to self for next year.
When I broke out of the rain forest onto the hillside, I decided to explore to the left, as we’d gone to the right the last time. I already saw plenty of fiddleheads and wanted to see if nettles were more plentiful, as we saw few nettles on the first pick. I pulled out a plastic 1 gallon (?) container and stuffed it in my bib overall top. There was a zone of fiddleheads that were ripe for picking along the lower part of the hillside where the forest ended and the open avalanche chute began; not far uphill from this zone the ferns had already grown and unfurled past picking.
Maybe this zone was somehow more shaded by the mountains above and the tall spruce and hemlock behind than the plants further up the hill. And everywhere there was twisted stalk. I usually eat a few leaves of it when I’m picking fiddleheads but I’ve not collected it as I think it can only be eaten fresh, really, but boy was it everywhere.
Many of the ripe fiddleheads had long stems with a still tightly sheathed fiddlehead on top, and this made for a larger plant for each head picked than picking earlier in the year when the fiddleheads are just coming out of the ground, and I quickly filled my containers.
As I side-hilled and picked fiddleheads, I looked for nettles along the banks of the little creeks that came down the hill. I didn’t see any in the first creek bed or two. When I had nearly filled my 4 gallon containers of fiddleheads, I hit the right creek bed, and there were lots of nettles. After filling all my gallon jars with fiddleheads, I packed a 1/2 gallon jar with the tops of the nettle plants for Laura.
She had given me all of the few nettles we’d found on our first trip because she knew I needed it for my Tongass Pesto recipe, so now I could drop these off on the way home for her and give her the good news about finding the mother lode.
I ambled back down to the creek, and made mental landmarks of which direction I needed to go the next time I came across the log bridge to get to the nettles. As expected, I could not get up the root wad to get onto the tree bridge. The water was shallower above the tree, and I hopped to the middle of the creek, where I could climb up onto the log bridge from a shallow spot in the creek. I went over my boots a little, but not bad, and I was already wet from the first time. It was smooth sailing back to the car.
I dropped the nettles to Laura and relayed the news of the nettle find. When I got home, I went looking for what I had in my mind would be the best container for cleaning the fiddleheads in the dryer – a nylon duffel bag. I found two nylon sleeping bag duffel bags, each of which held a gallon of fiddleheads, and which I could tie three half hitches with the cinch line to tightly close the bags. I theorized if I used two bags in the dryer, they would tumble against each other and be better than just putting in one at a time. I was right! I pulled the first two bags out of the dryer after 15 minutes on air fluff, and they were clean. I did the same with the other 2 gallons of fiddleheads. I then put the fiddleheads in the salmon egg basket I garage saled from somewhere that has holes big enough to let the chaff through but not so big that the fiddleheads fall through. I shook the basket till the chaff had winnowed through and left behind cleaned fiddleheads.
I rinsed the winnowed fiddleheads again through the basket to remove any remaining chaff, and put the cleaned fiddleheads in colanders to fully drain and dry out a bit in the fridge. We’ll eat some fresh, and freeze the rest.