364 Days Ago

I gotta write!  I gotta do something!  364 days ago I was ambling down a sand bar on a big sweeping bend just a few hundred yards from the pick up point.  The previous day had been oddly difficult.  While Pablo and Hondo continued to catch dolly varden and rainbow trout on a regular basis, the fish gods where exacting penance on me.  My Fishtosterone was low, shoulder aching and the morning of the last day wasn't shaping up much better.  I was flinging, swinging, stripping and wiggling through perfect looking water to no avail.  I'd raced ahead of the pack to try and shake off my drought by getting first to the best seams and edges.  I'd about given up on this particular bar, I'd worked the top seam hard and nothing, I was in the middle section, mind wandering to the inevitable end of the the most perfect trip when my rod jolted so hard I almost dropped it.  Instinctively I jerked it up and back hard and instantly saw a writhing chrome  missile explode from the surface!  SILVER!  Holy chow, I'm into a silver!  Heart racing I chased it down river, it running, jumping, shaking it's head furiously.  Can't be a bow, too big, could it be, holy cow, that'd be one huge bow.... gotta land it, gotta land it!  Hang on hang on!  Where are those idiots with the net!

After that fish of the trip, with still a few precious hours remaining I broke down my rod and stowed it in the tube.  Volume 3 of the anthology of my fishing evolution- didn't need any more, that fish was the capstone of the trip.

That was 364 days ago.  4 days ago I started looking at packing lists.  2 days ago my family headed up to Palmyra New York to see the grand parents and the pageant.   3 hours ago I packed my dry bag and back pack.  Now there's nothing to do.  So I write, I savor the last few hours of expectation, of dreams soon to be reality, the next chapter to be written.

The Bowtastic River Life

Six years of wild Alaska river experiences weave in and out of my conscious and unconscious thoughts.  Those sun drenched corners, the waves of chum and sockeye darting away from the raft, the incomprehensible streak of giant red that marks the king.  The individual fish.  Sometimes the savage take or the fierce run to the backing or the gentle bump and heavy head shake.   The acrobatics and immediate adrenalin rush with the glimpse of "fish of the trip".  The relief of a sweet gravel bar just when fatigue has taken over.  The sting of rain on the cheeks and popcorn on the tent fly. The nonsensical conversations, the new sayings and the unspoken coordination of camp set up and take down.  The perfect unplanned plan for the day.  It's become such a part of us.  As soon as summer breaks in NC I get the questions, "when you going?"  "How was the trip, been yet this year?"  "Man, so you go every year to Alaska?  How many times have you been?  Just you and your brothers huh?  You see any grizzlies?"  To the lower 48 AK is THE last frontier.  Many have been via cruise ship, some have been via lodge and jet boat, none have been unguided on a raft down an obscure river.  It's become a defining part of my character, my story, who I am. The next chapter will begin unfolding in seven days.