TSY recently shared an awesome adventure. When it hit the Facebook bunch it received a lot of attention, some of which was very favorable, and some that came in the form of an ugly attack.
I’ve heard a phrase come up many times in and around the surfing community. “Only a surfer knows the feeling.” This phrase is a bit abstract. It is a bit inviting and sends several messages.
After reading Leigh’s bear hunting article, I see the phrase in a new way. For most of surfing’s life, it was frowned upon. Surfing was thought to be a waste of time and simply not productive. Only a surfer knows, was sent to the folks judging and berating. It was a message that said, “Hey, you ever surfed?” It asked “Could you, even if you tried?” It said, “If you made the commitment that I made to do this thing, your perspective would not be what it is.”
When I spent more time with it, it echoes other sentiments found in the Indian’s Prayer. Do not judge your neighbor until you have walked a mile in their moccasins. It is says judge not, lest ye be judged.
These simple ways of respecting one another have a common thread that seems to be lost in our cyber space. I’m certain the cyber bullying would diminish if it were not cyber. In a one-on-one session, cowardice would silence this hate. With no accountability, some folks simply can’t behave or don’t understand how to control themselves.
We don’t all agree on everything and that’s good. The world is a lovely melting pot of ideas and pursuits. That’s beautiful, until ugly hate is allowed to creep in. This is the stuff that perpetuates ill will, and we can control it. If you can’t say anything nice, zip it.
It’s very simple. If you are not able to apply some empathy, learn.
Only a surfer knows the feeling is not exclusive to surfing. Only a Yogi… Only a Vegan…. Only a Woman… Only a Hunter… Only a whatever…don’t be ugly to one another. One more interesting point, and please fact check this, if you look at the hate-filled childish comments, they seem to come from a crowd that touts inclusion when it’s trendy. Interesting to see who says what. Enjoy what you do, and let’s all just be little sweeties. If you can’t find sweet, then just zip it up.
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.
Captain Scott is next to my right eye, slipping away to the big boat.
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.
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.
This is part nine of our trip to Prince of Whales island. If you missed part eight, you can catch up quickly here.
The next morning we needed to leave at 5:30am to catch our ferry to Ketchikan. Brent was scheduled to drive us there in his truck. When he knocked on our door, he didn’t mince words. “You want a ride to the ferry? I need thirty five hundred dollars.” Edgar started over with a friendly, “Good morning” but Brent had clearly prepared for a fight and was determined to have it. There was a heated discussion about who was responsible for what. Edgar finally agreed to give Brent $3500, saying that he did not accept the responsibility for what happened, and the truck shouldn’t have been given to a guest, but if Brent needed the money that badly, he would help him. By the time they’d walked to Brent’s cabin and the credit card machine, Brent had reconsidered and tried to lower the amount, but Edgar told him to run it for the full $3500.
It was a strained ride to the ferry but we made it with time to spare and had a lovely three-hour ferry ride back to Ketchikan, complete with whale spotting! We had become friends with our neighbors, who had shared the awkwardness of the morning, and who were also disappointed in Brent’s actions. We spent the rest of the time catching up on other travels we’d been on, and sharing photos of our families. They kindly offered to buy us lunch, and we ate in the ferry restaurant as we eased our way back to land.
Meanwhile, the search for our wounded buck wasn’t over. The local hunter who had given us the tip on where to find the deer had also given us his phone number. We let Sam know what happened, and he was determined to go back and find our buck. He was flying a drone and sending us photos to better determine exactly where we’d fired the shot.
Once in Ketchikan, a Sourdough Cab took us to our hotel, where we checked in and dropped off our gear, and tucked sixteen pounds of Alaskan salmon into their freezer. We also dug up all our wet clothes from the day before, and created a clothesline across our room.
All three of the adventurers were tired. Excitement and very little sleep invited a short afternoon nap, followed by a city walk and sushi dinner. The salmon fisherman were still on the bridge, tourist boats still docked at the wharf. The streets bustled with people until after seven when the cruise ships left, shop keepers closed their doors and evening settled like the mountain fog over the town.
We sat around the hotel room discussing our trip and our lives back home. Lights were out before eleven.
Morning broke with my phone grunting out messages on the night stand. Cam, a close friend of the family, had expectedly passed away. I got dressed and went to the mezzanine to make phone calls and have a cup of coffee. Sadness was mixed with relief after a long fight with cancer.
When Edgar and Leigh were ready we went across the street for a few mementos and then had a snack, sweet roll and reindeer hot dog, before catching the ferry to the island airport.
Before we left Ketchikan, one more chat with Sam confirmed our deer could not be found. He’d covered the same paths with the drone and searched for the deer, or the ravens and bears that would surely be taking advantage of the food. He found nothing, and the search had to be abandoned….. for now. Edgar is already talking about a return trip to the island, and to the forest that the big bucks call home. As heartbreaking as it can be, it’s the memories of the ones that get away, that keep drawing us back for more.
The departure from Ketchikan went smoothly and we were soon on a flight to Seattle and the lower forty eight.
From Seattle we left for Houston, and once landed we caught the same Uber driver we’d had on the journey to the airport intially. (What are the chances?) Two in the morning and showers were completed, lights were out, as they both had to get up early and go to work.
I slept in but got productive when I got up, doing laundry and making business calls and of course playing fetch with Max, Leigh’s scruffy puppy. Leigh arrived about four and we headed toward the Blue Dolphin Marina and Edgar’s floating home. It took us three hours to go fifty miles.
We stowed our gear on the boat and went out for a pizza. Edgar brought lots of left over pizza home so I would have breakfast, lunch and dinner. We took showers and had quiet time with laptops/books.
Edgar left for work before six and I slept until eight thirty. Then I was on the phone with rental work ready to get back to it. Mid-morning I called a cab and made arrangements for transportation to the Houston airport. I headed back home looking forward to meeting a friend for dinner.
This is part eight of our trip to Prince of Whales island. If you missed part seven, you can get caught up here.
Edgar and Leigh borrowed the other guests’ truck, dropping them off at the halibut fishing boat and went hunting. I stayed at the lodge, using heat and ice to relieve the pain in my neck and shoulders.
The other hunters had given us a nice deer roast, and I put it in the crock pot with potatoes and onions and a dash of garlic. I also made some coleslaw with the leftover cabbage.
Rain started early and continued all day. My body couldn’t decide whether to be hot or cold – probably just the trauma/drama from the day before. The day crawled along slowly with my neck and shoulders screaming pretty loud. I took more Aleve and iced and hot-packed my neck throughout the day. The rotation of ice and heat worked wonders.
In the afternoon I had a text bounce in saying they had shot a monster buck and were hunting for him. With spotty phone service for all of us there was little to no communication, so it was lucky I even got that notification. Edgar and Leigh were scheduled to pick up the father and son duo from the docks around 4:30p, but the father understood there were a lot of unknowns in the day. The deal they made was if Edgar didn’t show, our neighbors were close enough to camp to walk back. When the father and son appeared on foot, I knew my hunters were looking for a shot deer. It’s one of the worst things that can happen to a hunter, to know you shot an animal and can’t find it. I walked down to the pier three times where I had a better chance for phone service, but had no messages.
During my waiting time, Brent, the lodge owner, came over and said he needed money to pay for truck repairs. I told him he would have to speak to Edgar. I was shocked that he would think we should be liable for the truck when he knew the transmission was bad considering the sticker on the dash. The truck wasn’t even damaged except for a small dent in the camper shell. He still hadn’t asked if I was OK.
My hunters arrived about 8:30p, exhausted and with no deer. They’d found a piece of bone and a few drops of blood, created a grid of the area and worked it systematically for hours, but could not find the buck.
All withstanding we had a nice deer roast supper. I told Edgar what Brent had said about the truck. I also told him that Brent had told me he was desperate for money as he couldn’t even pay his bills for the month. Edgar didn’t go over and talk to him that night. Loosing a deer and walking the mountains for fifteen hours the day after a traumatic incident was not a good time to deal with this escalating situation. I went over and talked to Brent. He said he needed $3500 for retrieving the truck and repairing the damages. I went back and told Edgar and he said it was entirely out of line. We left it alone for the night. We had a ferry to catch in the morning.
This is part seven of our trip to Prince of Whales, Alaska. If you missed part six you can catch up here.
In the early morning and Edgar and Leigh were back on the hunt – “first light” as Hemingway would say. No sun to warm them at day break, not raining just heavy cloud cover.
I made egg salad and potato soup for lunch.
They came back early, 11:15. They’d spent a chilly morning scouting, before finding a makeshift coffee stand. The owner was catching rain water from the top of his camper to feed into a cooler, and then used that for his brew. The flavor wasn’t great, but they were glad for the warmth.
They’d also talked to a local hunter out in the timber who told them where the seasoned bucks were congregating. “I wouldn’t tell you this if you were locals,” he’d said. “But since you’re visiting, I’ll let you know where I’ve found the largest bucks.” They had devised a plan. We had a quick lunch and headed out.
The turnoff road was not far from the lodge. We then drove about three miles on the gravel and turned into a narrow trek for about another three miles. We came to an impassable creek. Edgar parked by the creek on a slight incline and he and Leigh got out of the truck to check the availability and distance to turn around. The plan was to turn the truck around, park it there, and walk farther up into the forest.
As they were looking over the situation I noticed the truck had began to very slowly roll backward. They must have noticed it at about the same time as I did. They were both standing right in front of the truck and I saw the shock on their faces as Edgar started trying to catch the truck as it picked up speed going downhill. Of course it was impossible; there was nothing they could do but watch and pray. The truck was rolling backward downhill faster and faster. I leaned up over the front seat to throw the gear shift into park in case it wasn’t. But the shift was already in park and wouldn’t budge. There was hardly enough time to become terrified, but I was praying that the bottom wasn’t too far away, the ride wouldn’t become too rough, or it would all end quickly. It’s amazing how much thinking a person does in such a short time. Then BANG! It all stopped. My prayers had been answered and one of God’s angels in the form of a tree stump had stopped the trucks’ descent. I was shaken and banged around. My head had hit the back window pretty hard, but I was okay.
Edgar climbed down and helped me out of the truck and back up to the road. The only choice we had was to get our gear out of the truck and walk out. We had no cell phone service where we were.
About halfway out Leigh got phone service and called Brent, letting him know what had happened. We kept walking. My achy spots were surfacing and I couldn’t quite stop thinking about the “what ifs”. Strange thoughts and not good. I was alive and fine. It was a crazy feeling.
After we had walked about four and a half miles Brent showed up. We all got in his camo four by four and headed back to the truck. I felt very uncomfortable getting into his vehicle and driving back in there, and to make matters worse he drove about three times as fast as Edgar had when we drove in. I wished I had just sat along side of the road in the rain and waited for them to come back.
Brent was angry with Edgar for driving back in there—which I’m pretty sure he would have done himself if he were hunting. Edgar was upset with Brent for sending people out in a truck with a slipping transmission. (There was a note on the dash which warned that sometimes the truck would not start in park and had to be in neutral.) I guess in hindsight we should have realized this and set the emergency break or refused to drive an unsafe vehicle.
No matter what, who, or how the truck was off the road needing a plan to get back up on it. The truck wasn’t badly damaged; it just needed to be winched back up to flat ground so it could be driven out. Brent had brought a chain saw winch with him which they used to try to pull the truck up, but to no avail. The truck needed to be lifted up and and then pulled forward, and the winch was pulling it down instead.
We all went back to the lodge and Brent found someone to go out and try to get the truck the next day. He formed a plan for morning but said he didn’t want Edgar to go along and help.
We had a pretty early night. I utilized Aleve and lineament, but still tossed and turned all night with discomfort.
On day eight, I get an exciting text from the field, and then radio silence.
This is part six of our journey to Prince of Whales island. If you missed out on part five, you can catch up in quick fashion here. It also happens to be our 100th post on TSY. We want to pause to say thank you to all of our readers, and hope you’ve enjoyed our many adventures! We’re always interested in hearing about your travels also, so feel free to share in the comments anytime.
Edgar and Leigh left the lodge early in a light rain and cool temperatures. I stayed back, not in a hurry to get out of bed but still up by six thirty. In Alaska time, that counts as sleeping in. I cooked the rest of the salmon that was in the fridge so I could make a quick salmon patty supper, roasted the two remaining apples and made Bisquick biscuits, as the bread was nearly gone.
The son of the father/son hunting team next door gave me four little strips of his deer already cooked. I said I should wait until we shot our own, but he insisted. In addition to my thanks, I gave him the remaining vegetable soup and two huckleberry pancakes. He invited me to go halibut fishing the next day. I wasn’t sure how much movement we’d get at sea, and if I’d get sea sick, but it sounded fun. I wanted to ask Brent, the lodge owner, how far the boat they were taking would go out. I was really entertaining the idea.
Edgar and Leigh came back for lunch around 1pm. I served them bacon and eggs and fresh biscuits. Nice for a change.
After the warm meal we went back to the hunt. They were walking a lot of rough miles, and seeing a lot of does, but no shootable bucks. The terrain varies drastically from soggy, muskeg bottoms, to deep rain forest, clear cuts, and tall pine forests. It is hard hunting; there are thousands of acres and bucks that stay hidden, especially this time of year. After giving it our best effort all day, we pulled into the lodge at dark again, exhausted and empty-handed.
Dinner was mac and cheese with broccoli and leftover bacon bits with salmon patties, and baked apples for desert. We were all in bed shortly after ten.
On day seven we got an insider’s tip on where the big bucks were hiding, but getting there proved quite the adventure.
This is part four of our visit to Prince of Whales. If you missed part three you can catch up quickly here.
Edgar and Leigh left early to go hunting; I stayed home and baked cookies, literally. I found the ingredients for made-from-scratch oatmeal raisin cookies in the kitchen cupboards at the lodge. So I baked up a batch. They are my favorite cookie and I very seldom get the time to bake them at home so I enjoyed the opportunity. I shared some with the father and son hunters in the cabin next door and carried some over to the lodge owner and his son.
Edgar and Leigh came back to the lodge for lunch and we had salmon salad out of left over poached salmon from the night before. Fresh and delicious.
Then we all climbed back in the truck to scout and do a little fishing. We saw several does but no bucks. We stopped at the same river bridge on the way back and caught eight pink salmon. Really, Edgar caught the fish. I was acting like a novice. I couldn’t cast the strange rod and I kept getting snagged every other cast and loosing lures. Oh, he let me reel one in, which felt good, but I’m not nearly the salmon fisherman that I am a bass fisherman back home. Guess I will just have to live with that humiliation.
Back at the lodge we cleaned and vacuum-packed our salmon, and put them in the freezer to await transport home.
Dinner was, you guessed it, salmon tacos. I turned some of the salmon into fried “catfish” nuggets just like I do back home. They were very good on the warm soft shells with raw cabbage and salsa.
Once the table was cleared and the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, all six feet, six legs, and six knees were ready for a hot shower and prone position. The walking and climbing around on unstable, steep, rocky terrain tires the lower extremities. We fell into our beds where sleep came easy and sound.
On day five, we enjoy pancakes fit for the bears and get close enough to a buck to give it a scratch behind the ears.
This is part three of our adventure to Prince of Whales, Alaska. If you missed part two you can catch up quickly here.
By 8am, a new installment of cruise ships arrived for a nippy, rainy, foggy morning in Ketchikan. The hotel provided another Sourdough cab ride to our float plane, which was to take us to our destination: Thorne Bay, a tiny town on Prince of Whales Island. A few other customers came into the office to ship packages, and we moved our luggage down to the four-wheeler with a wagon on the back, so it could be rolled down to the plane. One of the pilots came in muttering under his breath, and asking for a magnet. It seems the keys to his favorite plane had dropped into the water.
The flight was a thirty-minute panorama of fantastic postcard views. Breath-taking water ways, mountains, and small islands dotted the landscape.
The Thorne Bay Lodge owner picked us up in a 350 Ford, gas-powered crew cab with a camper cover on the full-size bed. The Ford could have easily been our abode for the week. But instead of camping in a pick-up truck he drove to our newly-constructed, modern, “rustic” home for the week. The cabin was located less than a mile from the one grocery store, gas station and bait shop that make up Thorne Bay.
We stowed our gear, had a hard salami and crackers snack and piled in the truck for a deer scouting afternoon. We drove to higher elevations, around three thousand feet, to get above the muskegs and alpine forrest terrain. We spied nearly a dozen large does and two-year-old fawns, but only one buck with a fork. He was more of a “last day” shooter. Coming back down the mountain we stopped at a river running into the sea, which was plentiful with salmon making their final run. Focused on fun and dinner, we brought five eight-pound fighters home. We cleaned our fish and headed out in a different direction to scout a little more.
Our second expedition didn’t turn up much, just a few more does, so we stopped at the grocery store for supplies for the week. After we organized and stowed our stuff, we enjoyed fresh poached Alaska salmon for dinner, and then turned in, ready to start the hunting and fishing in earnest in the morning.
In part four, I put my baking skills to use, and we find out why the bait shops in Ketchikan sold so many lures.
The following is an account of day eight of our trip to the Arctic Circle. If you missed day seven, you can catch up in quick fashion with a recap found here.
Thursday, day eight of our trip, was our last day in the field. Or so we’d planned. It was cloudy and rainy again when we woke up, and we were a little hesitant to crawl out of the tent. At 8:30 we used our Garmin inReach to send a text to our outfitter, giving them the weather report. The micro-climates of the Arctic Circle can vary greatly, so just because it was sunny with no wind at our camp, didn’t mean it would be the same at the base. The reply came that the odds of flying were marginal at best, and that we should text again at noon.
We didn’t want to break camp prematurely, especially in the rain, so we took some time for candy and a little more rest. The camp supplies included plenty of sweets to keep our blood sugar spiking, and we made a dent in the remaining stash while we avoided the rain for a bit.
Rain not pictured. Please enjoy this view from the tent on a nicer day.
Properly wired, we ducked out of the tent to glass for a while, but didn’t see any animals. At noon we texted with another weather update: light drizzle, no wind, clouds breaking up. This time the reply said to check again in 45 minutes. We glassed again, and decided to do a little more fishing while the wind was down. I could have gone for another hot lunch, but the fish only teased us with some showboat splashy moves, and no bites. Then came the text. Our pilot was taking off and would be at camp in a hour. That didn’t seem like quite enough time to get back to camp and break everything down into bags and tubs, but we surprised ourselves with how quickly we packed our dry bags, chairs, broke down cots and stuffed sleeping bags back into their sacks. We waited until we heard the plane’s engine to pull out the poles and fold up the tent.
All packed and ready to go!
All our gear had to be loaded into nooks and crannies on the float plane. We kept our waders on as we delivered our bags and gear to the pilot. Edgar even had to split his antlers so they’d fit on board.
It was a smooth 90 minute ride back to “civilization”. We saw two bull moose and a muskox from the air. Mike the pilot said most of the camps on the river saw bears that week, but camps on the lake (like ours) did not. We landed on the water “runway” in Kotzbue and unpacked the van. We took some time to cut up the meat back at base camp; anything we didn’t plan to take, we donated to the locals. Even the scraps were set aside as food for the sled dogs. We took the sections we wanted back to the hotel, where they agreed to freeze them for us overnight. Back at the hotel, we took everything out of our bags and reorganized for the flight home. I took my hair out of the braids I’d had for a week… it was time to lather, rinse and repeat.
The hotel had a restaurant that was a little pricey, but we were in no mood to bargain shop. We enjoyed a meal with a view and revisited the highlights of our trip. We’d conquered the tundra, taken a bull caribou, fed the locals and enjoyed the beauty of the Alaskan landscape. It was an adventure like no other, and we were grateful to have experienced it.
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