Taking Flight
All ten fingers pressed into the ground
Twists and turns
Uncomfortable constriction mixed with determination to grow
Lengthen
Lighten
Breathe
A firm foundation
The only way to fly
Author: Leigh
Adventures in Bear Country: Part Three
This is part three of our bear hunt in Alaska. If you missed part two you can get caught up in a hurry here. Also, a heads up for our readers: This post contains photos of field care, so there is blood. It’s part of life and certainly part of hunting, but we felt it was worth letting you know before you scroll down.
When I pulled the trigger, I lost sight of the bear in my scope.
“Dead bear,” came the immediate assessment from Edgar. He’d watched the boar crumple to the ground.
But seconds later, the bear got to his feet and was rushing to the tree line. I had chambered another round, but Edgar was faster, and followed up with another shot. He walked toward the trees and motioned for me to stay back. Minutes later I heard another shot, and then Edgar waved me forward.
“It’s a big bear.”
When we walked up on the bear, I was in awe. This was a huge black bear, much bigger than I expected. I felt so many emotions all at once. I felt a little sad, but also in shock. I had thought about this hunt for so long, and had taken a long time to determine that I wanted to shoot a bear. I also knew I might cry when I did, or feel intense regret. But I didn’t. It’s hard to put into words everything I was feeling. But the best way to describe it is, I loved this bear. I know how that sounds. I just put him down, but he was an incredible animal and I loved him.
We dragged him into a clearing and got to work. It was nearing ten o’clock at night, but we still had light for another hour, and needed to make the best of it. We dressed him out there in the field, being careful to take all the meat that would be good to eat, and cutting the hide away.
With the bear dissected in front of us, we could see that my first shot went into his neck, traveled diagonally through his body and exited out the opposite thigh. It would have killed him, but big bears don’t die easily, and I didn’t want him to suffer, so I’m glad Edgar was there with the follow up.
It took three hours to get the meat into bags and pack the bear to the boat. Captain Scott and first mate Dave had been anchored off a short distance away, and watched all the action, but they couldn’t tell how the land dipped so they were puzzled as to why we didn’t shoot the bear from that first downed tree. We told the story and stayed up a little while, walking them through it. Then we tied the meat bags to the railing on the stern, had seconds on fish dinner, and climbed into bed.
In the morning, after coffee and a quick breakfast, it was Edgar’s turn to find a big boar, and he had one in mind. We hopped in the skiff and zoomed over to the beach where we’d spotted the cinnamon bear the day before. We got out quietly and crept over to the clearing. The cinnamon bear wasn’t around, but another bear was. From that distance we could tell he was a shooter… big and furry, and not looking in our direction.
We moved in a little closer and paused behind some tree cover. Still there. We closed in a little more, and I put my fingers in my ears as Edgar took aim. One shot and the bear was down.
He was beautiful… all black with a brown heart on his chest. He was already in a clearing so we got to work, dressing out our second bear in less than twelve hours. This time it took two hours to pack up meat bags and skin the hide. Then we let Captain Scott know we were ready for pick up.
On the way back to Seward we stopped for a little more fishing. I brought up my first ever halibut, and Edgar caught some beautiful yelloweye rockfish.
We also caught a lingcod that matched perfectly with my outfit, but he was not a size we could keep.
Back in Anchorage, we went shopping for a grinder, vacuum sealer and smaller freezer bags and got to work in Edgar’s garage. (We figured getting all those supplies beforehand would be presumptuous.) Edgar cut the bear meat into strips, and I worked the grinder, mixing the lean bear with some pork sausage, then bagging it and marking it for the freezer.
How much meat do you get from two Alaskan black bears? We processed meat for 17 hours.
I’m writing this recap a couple weeks after the hunt, and I’m realizing how the hunt isn’t over when the trip ends. I’ve brought meat home… meat that I’ve harvested myself. My freezer is full, and so are my neighbors. They came over for bear chili and asked for seconds. My coworkers all asked to try some, and they’re organizing a potluck where we all bring in something we’ve cooked with the meat. I’ve told the story of the bear, and I’ve shared photos. I’ve thought a lot about this bear’s legacy, and I don’t take any of it lightly. I will forever be thankful for this trip, the Alaskan wilderness and my bear.
Adventures in Bear Country Part Two
This is the second part of a story about my adventure hunting black bears in Alaska. If you missed part one you can get caught up here.
Captain Scott zoomed on over to get us, and he’d used his time wisely, cooking up a great dish with the fish we’d caught earlier. It was nice to have a warm meal as we recounted our efforts to track the cinnamon bear. When Edgar followed the path in the woods, he’d discovered there was another path the bear could have easily ducked into without our knowing, and we chatted about how he’d probably successfully avoided hunters this way before.
Our stomachs full, we were ready to get back to work. We loaded into the skiff and the captain took us over to another cove. We didn’t see anything as we neared the beach, but there were lots of dips and trees for a bear to hide and lots of grass to enjoy for a just-out-of-hibernation snack. Captain Scott dropped us off and quietly motored back toward the Viking.
The previous beach showed signs of bear, but at first glance this one did not. We glassed, walked, listened and glassed some more. No footprints. No scat. No bear. We took our time, making our way down the beach and enjoying the extra hours of daylight. A while into our venture, Edgar happened to look across the water, at a narrow beach clearing on the opposite side. A bear was having a beach day, scratching on trees and turning over rocks. There was nothing to hide us, but he hadn’t noticed us and was quite a distance away. We spotted a big rock cropping that jutted out almost into the water, and quickly made a plan to have the captain drop us off on the other side of that. The thought was that the bear wouldn’t make the effort to go up and over the ridge, and we could sneak around it for a good shot.
We radioed the captain and caught a ride over. He dropped us as planned. Right away we saw bear scat and began to tip toe our way toward the ridge. We’d traveled about 100 yards when Edgar saw movement and swung his rifle. We just caught sight of the bear bounding away. He’d climbed the ridge we didn’t think he’d be motivated to do, and was racing off into the woods.
On the slim chance that wasn’t the bear we saw, or on the chance he’d relax in the woods and venture back out for another beach visit, we made our way to the planned spot anyway, and hunkered down on the rocks. We got still. Waited. Quietly. I watched that beach so hard, willing the bear to appear. Nothing. A foot behind me, Edgar softly laughed. I turned to see why. He had his binoculars trained across the water, on the beach where we just were. I copied him. Sure enough, a big black bear was wondering the grassy area where we just were, having a nice snack.
“Hey there, Scott.” A call on the radio, and our captain was back, sneaking us over the water again, but this time, to the far end of the peninsula. It was a mile or more from where the bear was, but he was headed that way, so we planned to use the trees for cover and slowly make our way to him.
We moved and glassed. Moved and glassed. The ground was pretty soft so we weren’t making much noise, and the wind was decent, but we didn’t see the bear. Move and glass. Move and glass.
When we reached the area where we thought the bear was headed, he didn’t pop out of the tree line. We wondered how we’d missed him, and decided to climb a little ridge to see if we could spot him at a higher elevation. At the top of the ridge we looked right and… there he was.
I guess I should say, there he was for Edgar. I’m a little more vertically challenged, and I could just barely see the top of the bear’s back, just an inch or two of black fluffy shoulders to rump. We tried to lightly tread on the rocks to make our way to a dead tree lying on the beach. We ducked below it, eased up, and looked again. This time I did see more of the bear, but it was facing away from us, pawing at the rotted roots of old tree stump. We waited. The bear scratched, sniffed, pawed and just generally had a marvelous time with this stump. We waited. I was hoping the bear would turn broadside to us, but he was determined not to give me a good shot. We spent nearly an hour on the beach, watching this bear, but always either out of my sight completely, or in sight but with his rump to me.
In one of the moments when I couldn’t see the bear at all, Edgar said he was headed down the beach and out of our lives. “We gotta go.”
We started up the ridge in a strange walk/run with packs and rifles and a poor attempt at silence. The rocks were large and loose and kept crumbling and rattling under my boots. We topped the ridge and rushed down another 150 yards to another downed tree. I was winded from the weird sprint and my adrenaline had kicked in hard. I could feel my heart thumping as we arrived at the dead tree. There was the bear, right in front of us, but leaving. Edgar made a deer bleat and the bear stopped and came back a few feet, putting him about 25 yards away.
“Shoot him” Edgar whispered.
I could only see his head at that moment, and was aiming from a standing position, admittedly not my strongest stance. I got down, my hand under the rifle and on the downed tree. I could see the bear’s head. I didn’t want to shoot him in the head. I wanted to shoot him broadside, like the videos I’d seen, like the articles I’d read. I wanted to aim at the heart/lungs and I had no view of heart/lungs anywhere in my scope.
“Shoot him.”
The bear picked up his head and turned. I saw something other than just his head. I saw his neck. I squeezed the trigger.
Stay tuned for part three….
Adventures in Bear Country
Alaska.
It was time to return to the wild… another rolling suitcase packed with essentials…another multi-leg trip with little sleep… another adventure waiting to begin.
“Who is the one with the firearm?” an airline attendant asks.
That would be me.
I had practiced for weeks, set up in my backyard with a target, several layers of backstop and a pellet gun. I walked off 25 yards and shot an entire container. My neighbors wondered what I was doing. Sometimes I wasn’t so sure myself. The pellet gun was necessary, as the ammo shortage didn’t allow me to practice with an actual rifle. The goal was to get more comfortable with the scope, the aim, the trigger. Shoulder pocket. Cheek weld. Find the crosshairs. Squeeze.
I’ve been on a lot of hunting trips. Some of them have been cataloged on this site. I’ve hunted wild hogs in Texas, elk in Idaho, antelope in Wyoming and caribou in the arctic circle. But I’ve never pulled the trigger. I’ve never made that decision. But for some reason I wanted to hunt a bear. The thought would come to me, and I’d toss it out, but it always made its way back around. I couldn’t explain why, but I wanted a bear.
Hence, the target practice. I read articles and watched videos. I knew I would be nervous, adreneline pumping and maybe too far away to be comfortable. I studied shot placement and bear anatomy… and I kept firing off rounds in the backyard.
Travel day came and I rolled a large bag and an even larger gun case into the airport. The airline attendant was patient and checked that I had packed everything appropriately and had the keys to the gun case locks…. and then I was on my way. Three flights later, Edgar was loading everything into the back of his truck in Anchorage and we were on our way to Seward.
It was late, but it was also summer in Alaska, so the light was with us until about 11:30p. We found our lodge, which was clean, comfortable, and right down the road from where we planned to target shoot in the morning. It was a strong start, but a short sleep, and we were back at the truck bright and early, ready to see if my backyard efforts had paid off.
I’d be shooting a 7mm-08. I’d shot this rifle a couple times before, but it had been a while, and I didn’t know how it would feel compared to the pellet gun I’d lifted and fired 250 times. Turns out, it wasn’t a whole bunch different. Edgar shot it once to make sure it was on. It was. He handed it to me, and I shot two rounds that landed just outside the target circle. We looked at each other and nodded. I was feeling good, and confidence would be a big part of the process. We packed it up and headed for the docks.
We were going out with a transporter, which is different than a guide. Our captain knew the area and would take us to some good spots, but it would be up to us to find the bears and track them. He also knew where to find the fish. Once we got on board and made our introductions, the captain and his mate suggested we plan ahead. “Let’s stop on the way out and catch dinner.”
Our accomodations came in the way of a 44-foot boat called the Viking. It was custom made for hunting, fishing and surfing adventures, so we found ourselves right at home. The views on the way out of Seward were amazing, and even though it was overcast, the temperature was just fine for hanging out, sipping coffee and watching sea lions laze around on giant rocks.
Partway out we stopped in an area Captain Scott said should have some rockfish. We dropped lines and sure enough, brought a few right up. We wouldn’t be starving after all. We pulled up lines and got back on our way.
The Viking brought us close enough to a few coves to glass from the boat, but at first we weren’t seeing any bears. We’d slow down… check both sides…. make sure there was nothing there and then move on. Enough snow had melted that there were patches of green, and a few spots were looking good for grazing.
Eventually we spotted an area that was too good not to take a closer look. We didn’t see a bear, but it was worth going to shore. We loaded into the skiff with Captain Scott, and he buzzed us over to land. Just as we were about to hit the beach, Edgar said, “There’s a bear right there.” Sure enough, a large black bear with reddish brown markings on his sides was meandering along, about 1000 yards from where we were.
We unloaded as quietly as possible, and tried to stay out of the wind. Bears don’t have great eyesight, but their sense of smell is incredible, and we knew if he got a whiff of us he’d be gone in a hurry.
We made our way into some cover. The bear was still there. But the shot was still too far for me.
We covered a little more ground and found another area to stop and check. The bear was still there, but this time he was moving a little closer to the tree line, and it was still about 380 yards… too far for me to shoot. Edgar could have taken it, but he had agreed to let the rookie have the first go.
We took the long way to reach the tree line down the way from him, still hoping to be down wind. When we peeked out, the bear wasn’t where we’d last seen him. We hoped he hadn’t gone far. Maybe he’d been bumped into the woods for a quick nap, and he’d come back out to graze. We slid off our packs, got comfy and waited.
About an hour later, no sign of the bear. Edgar offered to sneak into the tree line, and scout the wide path the bear probably used for cover. I stayed put in case the bear was spooked back out into the clearing, but no such luck. After a bit more stillness with no bear, we radioed to the captain that we were ready for a pick up.
Next up: We catch a glimpse of another black bear across the water, and form what sounds like a foolproof plan.
Prince of Whales – Part 8 (from the field’s perspective)
Kate has told you what happened back at camp on day 8 of our trip to Prince of Whales island, but I thought it might be fun to also give you the perspective from the field.
We got up early, packed our usual snacks of trail mix, pb&j and snickers, and headed out in the borrowed truck. We wanted to finally see some bucks, and our new friend we’d run into the day before said he knew where they were hiding. Sam didn’t just tell us; he showed us. He had multiple pictures and videos on his phone from game cameras and drones. This guy was like the sitka deer whisperer, and we were grateful for his guidance.
Sam told us about his spot because we were visitors, but he also let us know it wasn’t going to be an easy trek, even for locals. The walk in would take a couple hours, and it was slippery and dense. He warned us to keep track of the time so we didn’t face walking out in the dark.
Off we went, layered up with Gortex top and bottom, so the rain didn’t dampen our limbs or our spirits. We spotted a couple of does out in the open as we approached the tree line. We were hoping their boyfriends were somewhere in the green forest beyond.
The journey was tough, but enjoyable. We stayed quiet and focused on tracks, chewed leaves, bedded down weeds…anything that might clue us in to where the bucks were. We saw lots of those signs, but walked for hours without seeing a buck.
We eventually reached a creek and a wall of rock on either side. It looked like going up higher and crossing over the water was a possibility, but we were also conscious of the time. When we made the deal to borrow our neighbors’ truck, we did so promising to pick them up from the docks at 4:30, when they finished their fishing trip. If we went up higher, we’d add more time to the push in and the climb out, and we might miss them. We were feeling like it was time to go.
Just as we’d finished this whispered conversation, I turned my head and saw a beautiful big buck. At first I thought I was kidding myself, and it was just some sticks/leaves/stump combo. Then it moved. It definitely was a buck, with a rack bigger than anything we’d seen. I was afraid to move or make noise, but Edgar was facing the other direction. I slowly reached out and tugged on the bottom of his coat. He turned. “Buck!” I mouthed, eyes big and fingers up by my ears to communicate the size. He followed my gaze and his eyes went big too. I squatted down put fingers in both ears, bracing for the shot I knew was coming.
BOOM. The 7mm vibrated in the forest, and our deer was hit. Edgar saw it stumble as the bullet made contact, and then the big buck took off. We paused a moment to breathe and then made our way over to where we thought we’d find him. No deer. We did see a small piece of bone and blood, confirming the shot, but needed more to follow the trail. The first option was to check the buck’s backtrack – wounded deer will often spin around and go back to the assumed safety of where they’ve already traveled. We traced that path as far as we could, looking for traces of blood and finding nothing. Back to the original spot, we selected another possible path, this time downhill. After taking it down to the valley below, we backtracked again. Sideways. The other way. Uphill, in the unlikely event the buck tried to find a way up and out. Nothing.
The rain was still coming down, and we were slipping and sliding quite a bit. I had mud covering my pants… but the gear was doing its job and I was still dry underneath. A check of the time confirmed we needed to do the two-hour hike out and get to the gas station. We were flying out early the next morning, as were the neighbors, and the borrowed truck needed a full tank before then. The only gas station on the island closed at 5pm.
We downed our last snickers and made a hasty retreat to the truck. Even after wearing our legs out on the search, we actually made good time getting out of the forest, up the hill, through the flat (avoiding the dangers of the muskeg ponds) and up the downed timber to the truck. There was no time to celebrate, and we sure didn’t feel like celebrating. We knew there was a wounded deer out there, and we were losing the light to find him.
It took a few miles through the gravel roads to get to town, and then to the gas station. We filled up quickly, and made the decision both of us had already made to ourselves. We were going back to find our deer.
Back on the logging road, we found the spot, parked the truck, shook out our layers, climbed down the clear cut, skirted the muskeg ponds, scrambled over and under trees and across streams, and back to the last place we saw the deer. Where to now? We hit the backtrack again, taking it farther than before. We ran into a flatter area with lots of deer droppings and trampled down beds… this was likely home for him, and he was no where to be found. Back to the start. Another path. Nothing. The ground was sopping by now, and the continuous rain was rinsing away tracks. We tried to hold onto hope that our deer was just around the next stump, the next big rock, just around that bend… but he was gone. Vanished.
We had to leave before dark, and we pushed it right to the limit. We had just enough light to find the truck and climb inside. As you read in Kate’s recap, our friend Sam went back out and made another effort to find our buck, but never did. Back home, a test fire of the 7mm confirmed it was off. The jostle around in the truck when it slid off the road must have done it, and we didn’t think to sight it back in.
But we are still thinking about that buck, and planning for another journey to Prince of Whales.
Invisible Progress
A student walked up to me at the end of class last week and asked, “How am I doing?”
I was surprised he didn’t see the “obvious” changes over the past few months, but I shouldn’t have been. If you’re a runner and you succeed in dropping your time on a certain distance, you have a measurable way to claim success. If you melt a quarter of an inch more into your forward fold, chances are you won’t even notice.
When I was first learning how to do crow pose, I fell out of it a lot. I wobbled and tumbled and rubbed the backs of my arms and thought, “This is impossible.”
Then one day I thought really hard about pulling my navel up and in, and pressing into my whole hand, and I balanced with my feet in the air, just for a second. Maybe not even. But I balanced.
Not long after that, I was in class and the instructor, who knew I had just succeeded, asked me to be her “body” for the crow demonstration. I walked somewhat nervously to the front of the class, and followed her cues as she talked us all into crow. I balanced for a moment and then came out of it.
My confidence in crow pose skyrocketed. Since it’s often considered the gateway to other arm balances, I became curious about those, and with my new-found belief that I could do it, I practiced and eventually landed a couple more.
When students ask me how long it will take to get to a certain posture, I can only tell them it takes time, but maybe I should start saying it also takes faith. You can get there, and that belief will drive you forward and actually influence your progress. Celebrate the small victories, the nearly invisible progression. You’ll be flying before you know it. Practice and all is coming.
Keeping Her in the Ditch: Part Three
The following is a recap of our cruise from Rockport to Kemah, Texas via the ICW. If you missed day two you can catch up on that here.
We awoke early at Matagorda Bay, and we weren’t the only ones cutting lines in the half-light. It made for a pretty scene as we cruised our way back into the ICW.
Sunrises on the water are incredible, and we were blessed with another gorgeous one on day two.
We took turns at the wheel and planned our day. There was another set of locks, and we’d need to plan a fuel stop somewhere along the way. We’d kept tabs on how much we were burning, and it was possible for us to make it to Kemah on the same tank, but it wasn’t a sure bet.
The next set of locks went pretty smoothly. At this stop we heard more chatter on the radio, and we let everyone know who and where we were. The lock master coordinated with the other boats in the area, and they even let us move ahead in the line.
Have you heard of Chocolate Bay? It’s probably named for the color of the water, but just it case it was a suggestion, I took the hint.
It was getting later in the afternoon and we decided to plan a fuel stop, and used our chart plotter to look ahead. Our first choice was right on the way, but they weren’t answering the phone, so we sorted out a few back ups. They’d be a bit more out of the way, but would work in a pinch. We headed for option number one, knowing they could just be busy with customers and away from the office. The way in was narrow and shallow. We motored along for about twenty minutes before we spotted another boat. The passengers confirmed the fuel station wasn’t open, so we flipped around to head back into the open water.
Another place finally answered the phone and agreed to stay open for us, as long as we were buying at least 50 gallons. No problem. The Bow Out holds at least 200. That was the good news, but the bad news was they were near Galveston, and about an hour out of the way. We took a right by the bridge and followed the channel markers, but ran aground in a shoaling area. We didn’t come to an abrupt stop, but the sound of oyster shells scraping the bottom had us all picturing what might be going on below. We put that out of our minds as we pulled up to the marina and got filled up with fuel.
It’s strange how one boat can seem both big and small. The Bow Out is 40 feet long, but it felt like a battleship when pulling into the marina and sliding up between boats to reach the dock. The same boat in the channel felt the size of a bar of soap.
We thanked our new friends and headed back into the ICW. The entire route is a busy thoroughfare for barge traffic, and it wasn’t uncommon to see something like this cruising right beside us. It made for difficult steering, as vessels this size create strange currents, and I could feel the Bow Out being sucked in sideways. I gladly handed the wheel over to Edgar when this happened during my shifts.
With the sun setting, a little concern set in as well, as I realized we had a couple more hours to go, and no spotlights on the boat. We’d all planned to be back at work on Monday morning. We also didn’t have another place to stay, so we’d have to drop anchor and be out of the way of passing ships, a solution that didn’t seem ideal as there were no good anchorage options along the way. We decided to keep on.
As we entered the Houston Ship Channel, we first tried to avoid the traffic by staying just outside the channel markers, using our depth finder and chart plotter to look for any obstacles. Trouble was, we were finding out the chart wasn’t completely accurate, and we spotted some obstructions with the naked eye just in time. We decided to move into the channel and stay a comfortable distance behind the ship in front of us, confident that his electronics would be more sophisticated that our own.
The initial turn toward Kemah wasn’t hard to spot, because we could see the lights of the carnival rides from the water. But once we brought the bow in that direction, it was very difficult to see the red and green channel markers in the dark. Edgar kept his eyes peeled from the captain’s wheel, while I gazed out one side and Kate the other. We shouted to each other as we spotted marker after marker just in the nick of time. To make things even more interesting, our iPad was running out of juice. The 12 volt on the boat wasn’t quite 12 volt, and the iPad was smart enough to know it. It was dying, and along with it, our electronic visual on the route.
We scrambled up top to the fly bridge in hopes of a better view. We planted our feet wide; I downloaded the app on my phone, and as Edgar steered, I held the small screen in front of him. From up there we spotted what we thought were channel markers, and headed in toward the boardwalk. As we got closer we could see it was the right path, and we were all smiles as we celebrated along with the music blaring from the rides and nearby restaurants.
I’m not exactly sure how we navigated the final twists and turns, or how Edgar found his slip in the dark. The next thing we knew he was turning us around to park “bow out” – after all, that’s her name. It was late, but we were giggling with excitement and adrenaline. We’d cleared the locks, admired the dolphins, made friends at a fuel station and navigated the Houston Ship Channel at night. It wasn’t exactly as we planned it, but it was a success, and a true nautical adventure.
Keeping Her in the Ditch: Part Two
The following is part two of our cruise from Rockport to Kemah, Texas via the ICW. If you missed part one you can catch up on that here.
Morning came with butterflies of excitement. We made some last-minute checks and cut our lines loose. The sunrise was beautiful and we pulled away from Rockport excited about the day ahead.
Just a few hours into the morning, we had company. A group of dolphins decided to go surfing in our wake, and I could not stop smiling at the sight.
We had other company as well. Huge barges passed us every so often, sometimes filled with products and sometimes looking lighter on a return run. We heard some of them on the radio and spoke to some, but it soon became clear they weren’t used to speaking to pleasure boats and we trailed off communication. They weren’t rude; it just seemed like they didn’t know why were were calling out to them.
Just an hour or two into the journey, we could tell something wasn’t right. Edgar was at the wheel and not getting the response out of the engine like we had been, and there was a smell in the air…
We rushed to get out of traffic, dropped anchor and flung open the floor panels to expose the engine room. As we did, a big white cloud filled the cabin. We’d blown a radiator hose. We gave it a couple minutes to cool down and then added several bottles of water. Edgar worked his magic and we got ready to get back on track. It was a delay in an already tight schedule, and we had a lot more (watery) ground to cover.
It was smooth sailing for a while, and then we hit San Antonio Bay. The wind was whipping so hard, it made it difficult to keep the bow pointed in the right direction, and we had to stand with our feet at least shoulders’ width distance apart to keep our balance. We knew we were slipping behind schedule, but we had no choice but to ease off the throttle as we bounced our way across the chop.
Just on the other side of San Antonio bay, the wind died down and we passed several peaceful neighborhoods, like this one in Calhoun. Happy to have the rough seas temporarily behind us, I celebrated my newfound skill of boat-steering with a break… and a pb&j.
Later that afternoon, it was time to go through our first locks. We’d looked ahead on the schedule and saw that they were running, so when we got close we started listening to the traffic and getting a better idea of how it went down. We called ahead to the lock master and let him know we were coming, and he gave us the instructions to wait a few minutes until he could get another vessel through. When it was our turn he asked us to come through and then go to the right to wait another minute before going to the other side. We did, and found ourselves in the shallows. The Bow Out drafts four feet, so we needed five feet of water to cruise through. We made that right turn and ended up in four feet or less… and stuck. Edgar wasn’t too worried, since he knew he could twist his way off, and that the ship coming by would also give us a wake and help us move, but it didn’t erase our concern about what we were doing to our fresh paint job below.
When it was our turn to move we told the lock master it would take a second. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you it’s shallow over there.” Yeah, we see that. We wiggled off without too much trouble and continued on our way.
About 7pm we found ourselves in Matagorda, which was not quite the halfway point, but we knew there was a marina with facilities, and they turned out to be very nice. The guy running the place even let us borrow a power adapter so we could plug in for the night, and get a charge on our iPad, which we were using for the navigation app. It felt good to have a shower and a meal on land, and a little funny to be walking around on solid earth.
We settled in for the night, knowing we’d have a long day in store. Our hope was to make Kemah by dusk, and we’d need to be up and moving early to do it.
On day three we watch our fuel tank drop to an uncomfortable level, and make a risky run through one of the busiest ship channels in the country.
Keeping Her in the Ditch
So there we were, in the middle of the Houston ship channel, coming on dark and with only running lights on our vessel. Huge barges, ships and tugs surged by on our starboard side, and all I could think about was… Do they see us?
Fresh off our adventure down to Sayulita, we had another one in the works. Edgar has always wanted to live on a boat, and he’d been walking by this particular one for months. It was docked at a marina not far from where he was living, so he often passed it and commented, “That’s a really nice boat.” The idea took hold and even though there was no for sale sign on the Bow Out, he decided to do some investigating. The harbor master at the marina said he knew the owner, and that the man did want to sell it. Edgar got his information, arranged a meeting, took a tour, and a fair price was found. The Bow Out sold, as she was and where she was, and a new adventure began to take shape.
Edgar’s job was moving to another city, and the idea was that the boat would move with it. We’d spend some time fixing her up in Rockport, Texas, and then spend a long weekend cruising to Kemah, just outside of Houston.
For several weekends we cleaned and took stock…spent time in the engine room and cleaned some more. The prior owner had lived on the boat for eight years, and left a lot of stuff behind, so it seemed every time we opened a cabinet or drawer, we were met with a new stash of boat parts. I was holding up a lot of mysterious items and saying, “Does this look important?” or “Do we need an extra one of these?”
Our first attempt to move her ran into snag when we put her in reverse. There was a strange noise and then…nothing. She wouldn’t go. We eased her back into the slip and Edgar dove down for a better look.
It was the propeller key, which had slipped out and allowed the wheel to turn freely on the shaft. One of our new neighbors at the marina was a retired machinist and was able to give us a piece of stock, which had to be shaped, and then Edgar made another dive to put the propeller back on, and the key in its slot.
When a local shipyard could take her, we motored two hours to get her pulled out of the water and get a good look at the bottom. The barnacles needed to be scraped off, the blisters repaired, the propeller addressed, through holes replaced, new zincs installed, and a fresh coat of paint applied. We stood back with our hands on our hips and declared her ready. It was time to head into the Intercostal Waterway… known locally as, “The Ditch”.
The ICW runs for 3,000 miles and includes wide open sections in broad bays and other areas where you need to mind your depth finder or you will find yourself run aground. We got maps and downloaded a chart-plotting app to help us find our way. We estimated we’d average about 8 knots per hour, and that it would take the entire weekend to get there, especially since we didn’t have spotlights on the boat, and weren’t planning to travel at night. We spotted some marinas along the way, and planned to stay in Matagorda the first night. There were a lot of unknowns. This was our maiden voyage on the Bow Out, other than the short trip to move it from the marina where we bought it, to the shipyard. We’d done a bunch of checking in the engine room, but weren’t sure if other problems would emerge on a longer journey. We filled up on fuel and snacks and picked up Kate at the airport… she flew in especially to be a part of the adventure. We got a good night’s rest so we could leave at first light.
On the first big day of our adventure, we were greeted by some surprise visitors, and faced our first locks of the journey. Check back in tomorrow for the next installment.
Surfboard Run: Day Eight
The following is a recap of Day Eight of our surfboard run from Houston, Texas to Sayulita, Mexico. If you missed Day Seven you can catch up on that here.
We wandered into the lobby of the hotel for breakfast, and were pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t a buffet but cook to order. We made our selections and enjoyed our last morning of the trip.
It took some zipping and zagging out of Monterey traffic to make it back on the toll road, or cuota . We were only a few hours from the border, and the morning slipped by without incident. Soon we saw the long lines and guards that signaled the border crossing. The other giveaway was the gobs of people on foot, weaving through traffic and selling everything under the sun. Before you leave Mexico, you can pick up a sombrero, statue of the Virgin Mary, stuffed animals, blankets and all manner of drinks and snacks.
We no gracias’ed our way to the front of the line. There was a brief discussion with the agent about where we’d been and where we were headed, and then we were directed across and into the United States.
Our destination was Houston, but we made a quick stop in Rockport. Edgar had purchased this 40-foot Defever trawler and was doing some work on it while it was on the hard stand. That seemed to be going well, and it wouldn’t be long before it was ready for its journey out of Rockport, into the Intercostal Waterway and all the way to the Houston ship channel. But that’s another story for another post….
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