Grandpa and Grandma

Alaskans by nature are friendly, patient and helpful people. Perhaps it's because many live in areas of little population and harsh climate. Things often go wrong and there probably is not an Alaskan who hasn't had to rely on another Alaskan for help. Whereas a New Englander might watch someone struggle and even be critical of the attempts being made to solve a problem, Alaskans are all too ready to lend a hand. Such was our case as we left Clam Gulch after a long day of clamming. Bucky and I have grown accustomed to a loud squeal that coincides with starting the RV.  This has been happening since we've owned the vehicle.  Although annoying to me, Bucky has lost that range of hearing so he has not been bothered.  After a few minutes of squealing, it usually fades away to quiet. However, when it occurs, it is of a pitch and loudness causing people to turn their heads and look our way. It is almost certain that if someone is close by when we start our engine, they will stroll over and offer an opinion as to what is making the noise. In Skagway we were told by a nice older gentleman that it was something to do with our power steering and should be looked at right away. Since then we have been told it's a belt which is either too loose or too tight, a pulley, the compressor for the ac, something to do with our alternator and that propably our belts just need dressing.  This conjured up images of nude engine parts and the need for a shopping spree to cloth them. On this particular day, as we pulled away from the beach, a fellow clammer motioned us over and said that we should have the vehicle looked at immediately. It sounded very serious to him. Having nothing pressing to do and being near the large town of Soldotna, we promptly went to the Ford dealership, only to be told that they no longer work on RVs. We were sitting in the cab discussing what our next move should be when Billy approached the driver side window. He had overheard our dilemma inside the dealership and in true Alaskan fashion was prepared to help. Within moments, he looked under the hood, diagnosed our problem, called NAPA on his cell phone and the necessary part was ordered and ready for us to pick up. We were soon sitting in Billy's driveway alongside his fishing boat. Soon Billy's friend Gordy arrived and they buried their heads under the hood. I peered from inside the camper just as Billy placed a stethoscope to the engine. Like an experienced surgeon he listened to our pulsating squeal. Shortly there after, with a new pulley in place, we were given a clean bill of health by Dr. Billy and were seen as fit to resume our normal activities. Billy wanted no money for his help but willingly accepted a jug of VT liquid gold, grade A fancy. He shared with us that he would be leaving soon for NV where he worked in a gold mine, but he had "screwed up his tests". Bucky and I shared a look wondering if it was written, oral or drug. We returned to Clam Gulch to resume clamming, parking away from the man who had sent us "immediately" to the Ford dealer and also away from a couple in a 5th wheel who had been  fighting earlier. Clams can bring out the worst in people. Now, all seemed quiet at their site despite the earlier screams of "I want a divorce." Our new neighbors, helpfully showed us their clam cleaning technique which is now our go to method.
                                                                    

Alaskan golf 

It was just hours later that we met Grandpa, Grandma and their granddaughter Kiley. As Grandpa, Grandma and Kiley strolled along the beach, Grandpa would point out the dimples for Grandma to begin digging. Grandpa would  cheer wildly after Grandma got the clam and then call Kiley over to pick up the dug clam. Grandpa told Kiley how Grandma would clean and cook the clams when they got back home. Grandpa talked to Kiley about the ocean and the sea life while pointing out another dimple for Grandma to dig. Grandma rarely said a word, focused on digging one clam after another. Before long, she was stripped down to a tank top, quickly digging where Grandpa pointed. Grandpa continued to cheer her on. Several hours passed as we dug along side Grandpa and Grandma. Sometimes we were ahead sometimes they took the lead, but never once did Grandpa touch the shovel or a clam. We left the beach with our buckets full and we were thankful that we had counted our clams when an Alaskan State Trooper checked us from his ATV. After a quick change of clothes and a turn of the key in the ignition, followed by an all too familiar squeal, we were headed north to Anchorage. No doubt someone down the road will have the solution for this !

Hunt

Sept. 13
Rain, heavy at times, passing afternoon showers, partial clearing, light drizzle, heavy fog; all applied in the days leading up to our hunt.  A break in the weather allowed us to hastily spread a blue tarp in the driveway under the watchful eyes of our two huskies.  They seemed to question our behavior.  On the out stretched tarp we sorted our hunting gear keeping a watchful eye on the sky in anticipation of another downpour.  Living in tiny houses, our RV and cabin, makes the driveway our largest unencumbered space. Over the past few days, mud puddles on the lawn had gradually morphed into small green swimming pools, bringing back memories of tile pools outside old motels, no longer frequented with the arrival of Holiday and Comfort Inns with their indoor pools and spas.  These tiled relics remain, surrounded by chain link fence with feathery green algae floating on shallow water.   Carlisle's 17 year old husky, Lady, gingerly moved between the puddles, forced to perform dance like maneuvers, resembling a drunk stagger. The weather forecast calling for 2 or 3 more days of rain, literally hung over us like a black cloud. 

3pm
Carlisle and I exchanged a smile while our pilots fueled the airplanes and loaded what seemed like a mountain of gear.  Wearing boots and skinny jeans they appeared better suited astride a Montana Charolais then bucking the air currents of AK.  But, as we all have come to know, "dress does not make the man". It was with the utmost confidence that we fastened our seat belts, heading skyward as the opaque ceiling lifted and lowered like the shades of the RV.







I watched as James and Lisle taxied onto their watery runway  and became quickly airborne.

                                     Fall beauty in the Talkeetna Mountains surrounded us.

                                               Flying below the clouds and still above the bald hills.

                                                              The upper Talkeetna River.

                                                    Our home for the next few days.

We hiked a bit before finding a high spot among the spruce on which to place our tents.  Almost an island with the lake in front and large seep behind.

James and Lisle used the remaining daylight of our fly day/no hunting allowed day, to investigate the opposite side of the lake.

It wasn't long after our camp was established that Carlisle saw the moose.  He stood unabashed at the far end of the lake, feeding. The tremendous width of his antlers and the numerous points he nonchalently displayed were visable even to my old eyes.

The twinkle in Lisle's eyes when something "big" is about to happen has always captivated me and I felt lucky to have captured it here.

Bucky admitted to having dreamt about the bull that night. His dream became reality the following morning when out of the mist appeared Mr. Wonderful.  Let the hunting begin!





















Sept.14
The mile walk from camp to where the moose was sighted consisted of rutted game trails, tangled in blueberries, willows and spruce, winding along the lake shore but, occassionally leaving the bank and dropping down to the water.  The uneven terrain and slippery rock shore led to more than one fall into the soft muskeg followed by a chuckle.  It was a toss-up as to if one stayed drier walking the soggy trail or by carefully picking a route along the water's edge, all the while trying to not top one's boots.

Pack raft travel was the most efficient way to cover the mile.  Many times we said, "I wish we had brought waders."

Regardless of which path we traveled, by day's end we were uniformly soaked.  The predicted rain raised the lake level so that each trip along its edge became wetter. Pulling damp wool socks over cold feet and then trying to stuff these into wet rubber boots was about as useless as trying to gain entry from a security guard when you've forgotten your ID. One day we were able to build a smoldering fire after locating some dry spruce hidden near the ground in a tight stand of trees. The heat generated did very little to dry our clothes, but the sight of yellow and orange flames lifted my soggy spirits, if only for an hour.  Everyday, I tucked my "good" camera inside my damp rain jacket but, over time, the moisture and temperature fluctuations left my lens in a fogged state, much like the view in the bathroom mirror after taking a shower. They didn't recover until laid out to dry back at home.

Our time at camp was seldom idle as an abundance of waterfowl and migrating caribou kept our binoculars warm.  My photographer friend, Jane Ogilvie, would have been in heaven!

Some chose land while others preferred to swim.

Intermittent groups of caribou moved down from the high hills to follow well beaten migration trails along the lake shore, begging the question as to when James and Lisle would be ready to take their animal. The plan was to focus on the moose for a few days and hunt the more predictable caribou later. But, like a slip of paper suddenly sucked out the car window, so went the plan, fluttering away in the wind when several nice bulls were spied in the distance.

                                                 "There are still two good bulls coming."

We scrambled hastily from our moose hunting location to get within range before the caribou arrived. Witnessing hushed conversation between Carlisle and her father, I wasn't sure what was planned after the disappearance of the original plan. My answer came when Lisle sat down finding a solid rest.

                                                   "I'm taking the second in line."

                                                                      winter meat

                                                             loving support and paternal wisdom

                                                                Alaskan pack horse

It is difficult to find the appropriate language to describe for those who have never killed an animal, the emotions felt by those who have.  I am also sure that the feelings are as individual as the hunters themselves.  So, I can only speak for myself when I say that the killing is the smallest part of the hunt.  Yes, there is happiness when a plan works, pride in a well placed shot and even celebration recorded in photos. But, the hunt is infinitely more complex than the kill alone.  For me, it's spending time with my family in a most intense unique way, often in incredibly beautiful surroundings.

It's never feeling closer to someone despite spending hours in silence, quietly watching the world unfold before your eyes.  It's about sleeping on uneven ground in a crowded wet tent and sliding my frozen fingers under Bucky's waistband without him ever saying a word.  It's being handed a spoon after someone has finished their oatmeal so I can now eat mine out of a used bowl and not worry that I'm going to get sick. For me, it's pulling on Lisle's last pair of dry socks knowing that her feet are just as wet and cold as mine, but she wants me to be warm. Old and young blend together in a mission that can only be relived accurately by having been there.

Mr Wonderful was never seen again.  On our fourth night, I lay awake listening to the squeaking of voles as they scurried across the nylon tent fly into candy wrappers in our trash.  Bucky and I took turns hitting the tent sides only to send them away briefly, just to have them return with their relatives.  I finally fell asleep before waking to the sound of tearing nylon.  Perhaps these weren't voles, but rather squirrels now feasting in our action packer, shredding the nylon stuff sacks holding our food!  Somehow.... I fell back asleep.  What had sounded like tearing nylon was in fact snow sliding from our tent.

Sept. 17

Clear skies returned and the decision was made to leave.

The flight home with our neighbor, David, was as scenic a plane ride as I have ever taken.  The Alaska range rose up white against the blue sky while the rivers and lakes nestled in the Talkeetna Mountains invited us to set down.  As appealing as it seemed, we were headed home.

David assured us that a storm was brewing.  He had just dropped off hunters and the weather he flew through was a swirl of rain and snow, following each other like a dog after its own tail.

We have worked hard the past few days canning, smoking, making the best VT maple jerky, grinding burger and delivering meat to be made into brats.  Several hundred pounds of caribou will be enjoyed by our family and friends.  The questioning huskies received their answer with treats from the cutting table.