Goat hunting with Craiggars

October, 2009

After only two years of trying, I was lucky enough to draw a goat tag out of Sadie Cove across the bay from Homer, Alaska . Not many people get a tag, and I was told by Fish and Game, about 2% actually fill it. I take it that means about 1-2 people a year kill a goat in this area. I had planned to go across Kachemak Bay with my friend Craig who has a sailboat. We set off in early October.

The trip across Kachemak was beautiful. We saw whales and dodged seals and rafts of ducks on the way. Craiggars has hunted in the area and was a wealth of knowledge. We started spotting goats right from the start. The ridge bordering Sadie crawls out of the ocean and quickly climbs into the clouds topping out around 4000 ft. There are a few cabins inside the cove, and one lodge that sits inside the only break in the ridge- Sadie Creek. I had asked them if I could use the creek basin as an access weeks prior to leaving, and they responded very nicely that they didn’t want to help me kill “their” goat herd. The only advice they could suggest was from the beach, which was the steepest. I wasn’t real excited about climbing from the beach, but had no other choice.
The first day, we spotted some relatively low lying goats on the south side of the cove inside a small runoff. Craiggars anchored nearby, and I paddled the raft to the beach. On land, I could not see the creek or the goats. I made a guess as to the best approach and started braiding my way through the alders. The path I chose required climbing a few rock faces between 10 and 20 ft high. I made it up the first two, but was unable to top out of the third. At one point, I was within reach of it when my shoes lost grip and I fell all but the last three feet. My shirt had caught a spruce limb and I hung just off the ground. The shirt ripped but still works fine. Kim has asked me to throw it away several times, but in the end, she’ll sew it for me and it will be a reminder of my adventures.

I slowly and quietly made my way up the crick. I couldn’t see the goats above me nor the boat below me. The boulders that made up the crick bottom were cold and wet, and each step was more perilous than the last. I stopped below the area I knew the goats were and sat down. I waited and listened and glassed and waited some more. I couldn’t see or hear anything but the water rushing by. When the sun began to set, I headed back down to the ocean and paddled the raft towards the sailboat. I glanced up to where the goats were earlier, and there they were, still lounging on a rock bench, maybe 40 ft above where I had sat to rest. Craiggars said they hadn’t moved.
The hike up to these low goats had exhausted me, but thankfully, Craig had dinner ready on my return. I was a little disappointed that I was so close to my target without seeing them, but Craiggars was enthusiastic about tomorrow, and helped bolster my hopes.

We woke on day 2 and settled the boat beside the beach. Again, I left the raft above high tide, and found my way through the alders, my rifle catching on each tree with every step. I had planned to climb the mountain inside a crick that at its top, was 500 ft from the goats. I took a small meal, and no water, planning on drinking the water the mountain provided.

Halfway up the hillside found me so tired, I sat to rest every 10 steps. My lungs burned and my legs quivered. I guess it took about 2 hrs to emerge from the brush and alders. I was dizzy with exhaustion. I lay down in a dry ravine and fell asleep for a short time. When I woke, clouds were beginning to roll in, covering the mountain top. I walked to the crick for a drink of water and gorged myself. The water came right out of the rock face, and tasted like the best water ever made. From where I stood, I could see half a dozen goats above me. I found my way up and behind a huge boulder to hide me from the herd, and half walked half crawled closer. Suddenly, above and behind me I could hear something walking on the rocks on top of the mountain. It was a goat, and by this time I had told myself, the first legal animal was dead. Lying flat on the hillside left me no where flat. The mountain was steep here, and I was holding a bead on the goats head, lying around a 60 degree angle. The first shot hit the rock wall behind her head. As I rolled another shell in, she started running up and over to the other side of the mountain. I took another shot but missed again. The noise the shots made echoed against the rock, and I could hear the 6 goats I was originally headed for scramble in all directions. I was upset at myself for taking a quick shot, and scaring the rest off.
With no goats, and the clouds now allowing 30 ft visibility, I hiked down the mountain. Every step forward made my legs cramp solid. I had to reach down and help each leg finish the step. I found the raft and paddled back to Craig. He had dinner waiting, and the heater inside the cabin on. As I stripped down to my long johns, I told Craig nothing could make me climb that mountain again. I fell asleep fast.
The 3rd day in Sadie Cove was overcast, and raining. We decided to run to Homer for water and gas. The top 1000 ft of mountain could not be seen, and neither of us wanted to sit on the boat all day long. On our return trip to Sadie, the sun poked its head out showing us the goats above. Somehow Craig convinced me I would go up tomorrow, our last day hunting.

We woke early. The forecast was calling for winds and rain, but for now, it was clear enough that we spotted 15 goats scattered across the mountain top. We discussed an easier route, climbing as much of the grassy hillside as possible instead of the ravine. In two hours, I was in the same place as two days prior, much less exhausted. I had taken a bottle of water this time along with a small meal. Once near the top, I was sitting about 300 yards from a small pod of 5 goats. I could see a nanny with a kid, and 3 smaller nanny beside them. I decided to turn south and climb where I could not be seen. The last 500 ft was much steeper, and it was another hour before I reached the top. From here, I walked on a 6” trail towards the target. The mountain fell steeply 100 yards or more on each side. I took my time, peaking at the goats now and then. Stalking these goats on top of the world was the most amazing experience I have ever had. The anticipation would have been overwhelming had I not been so drained of energy.
I walked along the goat trail until I reached the place where I imagined they were lying. I slowly crawled over the mountain top and saw all five goats sitting 20 ft from me, without a single sign that they were spooked. All five goats remained stacked side by side, staring at me. If I had shot one now, the bullet would surely pass through the first, and kill the next two behind her. I took a few steps closer and they stood and separated. I raised my rifle flicked the safety off and put a bullet through one. She ran a few feet and stopped. I jacked another shell in, and put it behind her shoulder an inch from the first. The nanny bolted down the hillside. By the time the next shell was in she was 100 yards away. I put the sight on her neck and pulled the trigger. The goat collapsed, rolled down the mountain, and lay there twitching.
I slid down the grassy slope on my butt, and found her tangled in the alders. Both horns had popped off, and I could only find one. After gutting the nanny, I decided to take her down whole. I lifted her onto my back and headed down, but each step had me falling or caught up in the alders, so I tied a rope around her head and dragged her to the beach. Going down with the goat was just as bad if not worse than climbing up alone. When I made the beach, I tied the goat to the raft, and paddled to the boat. Craig was beaming. He had a meal ready for me, and quickly started out of the Cove. The weather was starting to turn, and we had an hour long ride back to Homer.

The first thing I told Craiggars was that this was the greatest hunt I never want to do again. A few days later, I decided if I had another tag, I might do it again. I guess its kind of like having a baby. So happy with the result, you forget the pain.

Moose hunting with Zach and John- Sometime in September, 2009

I had such a good summer this year. A lot of fishing and hunting with family and friends. Kimmy and I were married last fall, and I had the opportunity to meet a lot of her outside relatives… outside meaning not from Alaska. I had promised my friend and former college Nursing instructor Karla that I would take her husband fishing if she brought him down to Soldotna. For one full week, the three of us were on the Kenai hunting Reds. I was successful in catching a few every day, but they had some trouble getting the hang of flipping for Reds. Both of them caught a few Pinks, and took them home along with my Reds. Working nights made it an exhausting but fun week.

In late August Zach, John and I did a moose hunting trip beginning at Watson Lake in Sterling into the East Fork of the Moose River. We were giddy talking about it… like little girls discussing little boys, or Hannah Montana. Zach and Jenny have three children, the last two being twins. John and Rebecca have 5, the last two also being twins. You can imagine why they would want to get out of the house and into Alaska.

We researched the trip using satellite images from Google Earth, and the lakes appeared to show an uninterrupted crick right to the Moose River. We could barely contain ourselves anticipating our coming adventure. John and I headed out early to set up camp at the end of the third lake while Zach finished work. We paddled our overfilled canoe across the first lake, through a slough, across the second lake, through another slough, and to the end of the third lake where it emptied out into a very small crick. Overgrown alders and grass clogged the drainage dashing our hopes of making our way into the Moose River. I had never been this far back on this series of lakes, and was just beginning to understand how difficult this hunting trip was going to be. John and I walked up the crick for a while hoping it would open up, but it did not. After talking about maybe changing plans of crossing over, we set up the tent and collected some firewood for later. We paddled back out to the car and I got a nap in while we waited for Zach.

It was pitch black paddling back to the tent, which was a lot harder than you would think. It was very difficult for all three of us to balance without seeing each other. Once again, we paddled across the three lakes and somehow found the tent despite our blindness. We pulled out our sleeping bags and prepared for sleep. I could hear John rustling inside the tent while I sipped some coffee. Zach whispered “He’s afraid of bears so he’s moving his bag into the middle…“ John got shit for that the rest of the trip. In the morning we decided to explore after breakfast and coffee, resigned to the fact that we would not be able to push through to the Moose River. Hoping to make the best of it, we split up looking for the elusive legal Bull, but soon found that we were not as far from society as we’d thought. We could hear people target practicing nearby. Why people feel the need to fire hundreds of rounds somewhere in the middle of nowhere while moose hunting, I will never understand. The amount of noise those people made was depressing. We decided it was useless to stay here. We could either turn tail and go home or try dragging the canoe through the drainage and push on ahead. It turns out it this initial obstacle wasn’t that difficult compared to what lie ahead. On the other side of the drainage the crick widened and deepened into a beautiful small valley. We found an old campsite that was perfectly set up and decided to stay there for the night. The next morning Zach and John successfully called in a very friendly Bull who nearly trampled Zach coming in. The young moose was so excited at the sound of a cow call, he completely ignored the three of us. His horns were no where near legal and we went back to camp. It was tough letting him go.

We decided to pack it up and head out Northish. It was a rough haul. More often than not, we were dragging the still overfilled canoe while trying to keep our feet dry. At one point, beavers had dammed the crick completely, adn behind the dam, spawned Reds were stacked for hundreds of yards.

The crick opened some, but seemed like it had baffles every 15 feet. The three of us had to get out, drag the canoe over the sandbar, hop back in only to repeat it all over… and over… all day long. In a flash of brilliance while taking his turn dragging, Zach decided keeping his feet dry was no longer priority, and bulled his way downstream. It made the time fly by, and the distance ahead shriveled. Somewhere earlier in the day, we heard what sounded like a cat. “MMMEEEOOOWWWW…”. Zach said “Is it a Lynx?” They don’t meow dude. Someone is messing with us. Ahead of us on the bank hid two hunters in the 6ft tall grass. The smart ass thought he was pretty funny, and whispered “Don’t worry, it gets easier”, holding his fingers up to form quotes. Zach, John and I wondered if that meant easier but still hard. It didn’t take long for us to understand. Each mile passed with more difficulty. Near the end of the day, we were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Luckily Zach had brought beer from his brewery which provided us with the calories necessary for such exertion, as well as filled us with courage to keep on keeping on. We decided every hour, we would stop for a pint. Good decision. It allowed us frequent breaks and time to empty our boots. Empty boots didn’t matter much as they were again filled within 30 seconds of walking. After pulling for 6 hrs straight, we set up camp and I strung a cord between two trees to hang our soaking clothes. I gathered firewood, and Zach and John attempted unsuccessfully to catch a few spawned Reds. I told them if they brought one to me, I’d cook it for dinner. I was so hungry I would of eaten the ass out of a dead dog.



That night the temperature dropped. I woke up early, fighting the need to urinate. I noticed the tent was covered in ice. I had no desire to step out into that cold. As the sun rose higher, Zach started a fire and put the water on. When I was pretty sure coffee was up, I decided grudgingly to join him around the fire. I was amazed that I didn’t have a single sore muscle. I give the beer credit. There must be magic in the stuff. After packing camp, we decided we didn’t have time to hunt. I had to work that night, so we made like a baby (headed out). We had 8 hrs to paddle about 6 miles as the crow flies, of the most crooked river known to man. It reminded me of the story of Paul Bunyan hitching Babe his blue ox to a crooked river so she could pull it straight.

The flow of the East Fork is very slow. We had to look at the weeds at the bottom to know which direction was downriver. At times the current picked up speed and it seemed a joker (God) had set up sweepers around every blind corner. I was sitting in front, and became very good at reading the river ahead. If we’d had more time, we could have lazily drifted down, taking in the beautiful day. As it was we had no time, no beer, and had eaten the last of the food that morning. John found hot chocolate packets and passed one to each of us. The three of us paddled the rest of the trip until we reached the Sterling bridge. While waiting for the boys to retrieve the car I set up Johns gas stove to heat up some coffee, but it didn’t work so I drank it cold.

I’m pretty sure all three of us were disappointed at the time, but despite the challenges and no moose, this was a great trip that I'll never do again.

A trip to the farm with Kim and Porter- Thursday, November 13, 2008

It's been a while since I wrote about our adventures, 4am is as good a time as any.

This summer, the family met up in Delta for our annual week long camping trip at the farm. We usually do a lot of sitting around the campfire, eating grouse and rabbits that the kids have shot, and not much more. Usually- we get our fill of relaxation in the Delta heat. Vacation not so far from home. This year was gonna be different.

Dad is building a cabin out in the middle of nowhere and needed help getting the roof on before winter settled in. He started it earlier this summer, got the pilings in, floor down, and walls up (which is an amazing feat considering he did it all by himself with a hammer and nails). I hadn't visited or seen pictures since he had started construction, and I wasn't totally convinced he had done as much as he said he had. Men tend to make things bigger sometimes.

Kim and I finished our night shift at the hospital, and quickly made our way out of town. It took a bit longer than normal to escape Cooper Landing due to poor road conditions (do RV's count as poor conditions?). Kim assumed her usual position of sleeping against the window with her seat pulled way back. We made a stop in Anchorage, picked Porter up from his mama's, and took off, heading north. Porter and I have made this trip many times, but this was Kims first Delta visit. I understand it isn't every girls dream to vacation in Delta, Alaska, but I baited her with stories of high temps and long days (I don't like to leave the state).

It is a long drive from Soldotna to Delta, and after working 12 hr shifts you'd think I'd have to pull over to take a nap. But the excitement of having 10 full days off was making me high. One traditional stop in Glenallen for gas and snacks, and before you know it we are pulling into Delta Junction. The sky was filled with dark clouds. Kim asked me where the heat was. I didn't respond.

By the way, the rabbits were thick as weeds this year. I counted 43 in one mile, and only hit a few as they dashed across the road. Oftentimes, one would run in front of me, only to run back to its original sitting place after I had passed. Must be peer pressure that drives them.

The farm is off of the highway, down a dirt road, down a trail, and across a field of grass. Typical Alaskan directions. We pulled into the campsite that evening and the only thing missing was the blue tarp. There stood the cabin, on top of pillars, wrapped in Tyvek. I was impressed that so much had been finished, and told my dad I was proud of him. It's a big cabin, and he nailed every board down with a hammer. Crazy...

He dragged an old van that doesn't drive out there a few years ago. He and mom have been staying in it when they are in Delta. The first thing mom pointed out is how she's painted the inside of the van. I looked in and saw a little sign hanging that says HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS. "Is it pretty?" I don't know mom, ask Kim. Why would you paint the inside of a crappy little van? "Its my home! I can do what I want." Ok.

Porter hopped out of the car, grabbed his box of shells and his rifle. "Can we go hunting?" How about in the morning buddy. "Can I shoot anyway?" Sure.

Dad set up targets while Kim and I rested around the fire. It was still overcast, and I could smell the rain coming. I knew Kim could see this, but I didn't bring it up. She was promised sun, so I stayed optimistic that the morning would be brighter. We ate dinner, and hit the hay. Man I was tired. I have no problem falling asleep, and it has been the focus of many arguments between Kim and I. She sees me pass out instantly, and gets frustrated. Plus, she's been single a long time. Kim likes having the bed all to herself. That entire trip she was crammed into a camper every night, between two Fannon boys who sleep talk a lot, and migrate all over the bed. Tons of fun.

I'm pretty sure Porter woke us the first morning. "Can we go hunting?" Sure buddy. Go get your rifle. We left Kim in the camper. As I stepped down, I looked to the sky and saw that nothing had changed. Gloomy clouds were still settled over us. I started the fire and put the water on. I looked in the coolers for some cream, and settled for milk to add to my coffee. I made Porter tea, and we were off. It was an unsuccessful hunt, but it was nice to be outside with my son. He isn't the best shot in the world, but he doesn't let it get him down. Jacks another shell in and keeps at it. The only way to get better is to shoot.

Dad had breakfast ready by the time we got back to camp. We ate eggs, bacon, toast and more coffee. Kim was itching to get started on the cabin, so we got to looking closer. Dad started cutting and Kim and I were nailing as fast as we could to finish the floor. I hit my thumb three times. Each time, I tightened up in anger, cocking the hammer back behind my head, ready to swing wildly, and each time Kim said, "Don't!" She doesn't like my outbursts...

After finishing the floor, we took the rest of the day off. Kim only noted the lack of sun a few times. Mom backed me saying, "Its usually too hot to work! This is so strange." Thanks mom. Porter and I took off on the 4 wheeler looking for anything, but once again, came back empty handed. That night we sat around the fire, ate hamburgers, and relaxed under a cloudy sky. I said a little prayer asking for some sun, but didn't get my hopes up.

We spent the next few days starting the roof, working through howling winds and pouring rain. There were 4 hrs of sun somewhere inside the first 4 days, and instead of working, I took off with Porter to find the Tanana. I had looked at the map several times, and was pretty sure it was less than 2 miles through the woods. He carried his rifle, I had mine, and took a backpack of various survival gear. We took off through the trees, and not far from camp, hit flood water. At first we hopped from hummock to hummock, but soon, we were both wet. I said screw it and started wading to get to the other side, but the other side never came. Porter was a trooper and didn't whine. He was wet up to his thighs, but kept on pushing. We did find some blueberry bushes which raised our spirits some. We stood in knee deep water, and ate every single berry in reach. We decided to walk back to where we came from to escape the water, and dad was there waiting. He took Porter back to camp to dry out, and I kept on. I did find the Tanana, and had a good time, but I was soaked. I came across a berry I was unfamiliar with, and filled a baggy with them. I headed back towards camp almost totally exhausted. I fell into the chair and had a big cup of coffee. It was 75 degrees for another 4 hours, then the sky clouded back up. It felt good to cool off, but I would of been just as happy to see Kim soaking up rays. I pulled out the berries and my berry book, and learned that they were soap berries. I have read how natives used to whip them into a froth, add sugar, and use it as a dessert topping. I set to whipping at a few of the berries and the froth filled the cup- at least 4 times the amount of I started with. It tasted ok. I wouldn't suggest you go looking for it, but it was edible. Kim nor my parents were excited about it. Porter actually said he liked it, but did not ask for a second taste.

Around day 5, some more Fannons showed up, and were impressed by our progress. My brother had hauled the metal roof up from Anchorage with him. After putting OSB up on the trusses, the metal would finish it. The last 5 days were sunny, but windy. Putting a metal roof on in the wind is dangerous, and it was not fun. I'll rephrase. It was fun having the family there working together, but not fun moving metal panels 15' in the air. It's like a kite... a big, sharp kite.

I wouldn't say it was the best roof ever built, but it did the job. Day 10 came fast, and I didn't feel like I was ending a vacation. I was tired, sore, and kind of missing work (I know its weird). Mom and dad were ecstatic about the work we got done together, and my brother and his family stayed to finish the walls. It was a good time, and I'm pretty sure even Kim had fun.

On day 9, we had some excitement. While working up on the roof laying OSB, Kim made us stop because she thought she heard a kid scream. We all stood still for a while but didn't hear a thing. I made fun of Kim, but she swore she heard a scream, so mom took off on the 4 wheeler looking for the twins. They were down the dirt trail hunting squirrels, and when she found them, one was crying and visibly shook up. Supposedly, while off the road looking for squirrels, a brown bear confronted one of them. He said it was face to face, and he screamed for his brother who was nearby. The bear turned and walked away. When mom brought them both back to camp, the big boys (adults) took the crying kid back to where he saw the bear, and made sure it had taken off. We found tracks, but never did see anything. The boys were shook up, but even more upset they were told not to go hunting without an adult from then on out.

We left Porter there with his cousins, and made our way home. I didn't have nearly as much energy leaving as I did coming. I was eager to be home.

On a side note, somewhere in the middle of nowhere we saw tire tracks heading off the road down a hill and into the woods. I turned around to check it out hoping to come upon a car full of money, but only found an empty mangled ball of metal that once was a car. CD's of angry rappers littered the ground, and a carseat was lying on its side in the back seat. Baby toys were scattered all around. Kim said, "It must of been a black guy", referring to the CD's. I called her a profiling racist. While I was down there, someone stopped on the road above me and asked if everything was Ok. I think they thought it was me that had wrecked.

Hiking with Porter- Friday, July 11, 2008

This past 4th of July, Kimmy, Porter and I decided to hang out with some friends up on Crescent Lake. Now, Kim and I love hiking. We've never gone on a long hike together, but separately, we love hiking. This might be a test...

The morning we were to begin, I packed what I needed- the bare minimum, while Kim was in charge of food. We had a slight disagreement about what to take, but I decided she would probably do a lot better job packing for a family than I. I knew I would have the biggest bag... because I'm a man... and it's my job to be the mule. I didn't want to know what was going in my bag.

I told Kim to find a gallon jug we could fill with water and I'd carry it. I know this sounds like a stupid idea, but its the way I've always done it. I've heard of water filters, but always thought they were more expensive than good. Kim is such a good girl. She rarely argues with me, unless she's positive my idea will end in horrible failure. She made me stop at the store, and we bought my first water filter. The cheapest one was $70. I bought it, and I wasn't happy.

As the car made its way to Cooper Landing, I realized I had never been to Crescent Lake, and I had no clue where to start. I do this a lot. Gung ho to go, but haven't really thought it all through. After a quick call to a friend we had a starting point, and quickly found the parking lot of the trail head. I'm getting better as I get older.

Porter was excited to get started, that is, until he found out he had to pack a bag also. It wasn't heavy... I am a good daddy. Some clothes, a knife, some cookies, and in the bottom of the bag, a surprise can of soda I thought he'd like something sweet after hiking all afternoon. I found out later that 6 yr olds don't usually pack bags on long hikes. Within the first 100 yards the whining began, and did not end until we sat on the cabin porch.

The hike was amazing. Waterfalls, cricks (creeks), wildlife, and bear scat all over the place. I won't bore you with the entire trip... it's just filled with all Alaska is and a ton of 6 yr old whining. It took us somewhere around 3.5 hrs to finally reach the cabin. Six miles in 3.5 hrs. It seems like a long time to walk 6 miles. We emptied the last of our water bottles by the time we hit the top.

We stopped at the cabin porch, dumped the bags and collapsed. Kim used the filter to fill the bottles and then started on the tent while I found something to burn. Because the cabin is used a lot, there is no wood for at least a couple hundred yards in all directions. It took me a while to find enough to last the night.

When I was finished with the wood, I grabbed my pole and headed to the boat. I was tired and wanted to eat a fish. All three of us hopped in, and I started paddling into the middle of the lake. We only got a few casts out before we saw our friends walk up to the cabin, so I paddled back in, against the wind. Almost back to the landing, and Kimmy hooks into a big fat grayling. She always outfishes me, even though she doesn't eat fish. I don't really care though. I'm not the type of man who feels belittled by a capable woman. As long as she feeds me, it's fine.

I started the fire, gutted the grayling, then wrapped him up in some tin foil covered in seasonings. I always take a roll of tin foil and salt with me when I go out anywhere. I have cooked just about every wild thing in Alaska using tin foil. It's versatile, and sometimes, one piece can be used over and over. A 14" fish will cook in about 10 minutes in hot coals.

When the fire burned down some, I tossed the silver package into the embers. Kim was doing her own thing with the food she brought, but I didn't really pay attention until she pulled a sauce pan out of the bag I carried on my back. Not a little lightweight cookpan, but the sauce pan from the kitchen. Then she pulled 3 bowls... again from home. Big fat bowls. I usually make a bowl out of the foil...

I ask "Whats for dinner?"

Rice.

"Sweet, I can throw some of my fish in it. Anything else?"

Hot chocolate.

"Hot chocolate for camping?"

Yeah, and marshmellows.

"I hauled hot chocolate and marshmellows up here?"

Don't be a baby.

I will admit, it was good flavored rice, and the fish in there made it great. Then the hot chocolate after dinner was tough to beat. But I wasn't happy about carrying all that stuff 6 miles. I'm not sure if I've mentioned it, but I can be a real ass sometimes. I usually know it, but find it easier to just let it out and get it over with. When hiking alone, I take salt, peanut butter, water, tin foil and one extra set of clothes. I always have a gun, and usually a fishing rod with a little tackle. In the last year, I started carrying a GPS, because I was lost once, and I didn't like the feeling. All together I might be carrying 10-15 pounds and a rifle. I know for sure that bag I carried up Crescent weighed at least 30, and now that I knew what was in the bag, I was in a bad mood.

The tent I have used for the last 3 yrs is a good $20 tent from Fred Meyers. It has worked fine. Its a little small, but its easy to heat, keeps the water off, and the wind blocked. Well, from the second we slid in for the night, the bitching started.

"Your tent is too small."

This thing works great. Small tents are easier to keep warm. Once we settle in, it'll be fine.

"We are getting another tent before we go hiking again."

Thank the Lord I fell asleep fast.

I woke early the next morning and started the fire going for breakfast. I had a little fish left over and started throwing it down the hatch. Kim made some instant oatmeal appear from my bag. I made some mean comment about packing oatmeal 6 miles, then ate it. It was good.

The rest of the day, we fished, slept, and fished some more. Porter made friends with a little girl camping with us (Corrine, but I called her Corn just to bug her), and I'm pretty sure it was love at first sight. He climbed trees for her, caught minnows in the lake with his hands, made a bow and arrow, and in general showed he was a little man. Her parents were surprised at his woodsman skills, but I've been working with him since birth on all that stuff. I expect it from him. Later in the day, he found a piece of shale that we tied to a stick with roots, to make a hammer. It lasted about 3 whacks before we had to tie the head back on. We would make great cave men...

The 2nd day was bad for Kim and I. I guess all of my nasty little comments had finally reached a boiling point, and she was fed up. So I took a 4 hr nap. When I woke, I apologized, and made an attempt to appreciate the meals she packed. I admitted they tasted a lot better than what I would of brought, and told her the water filter was a really good idea too. I loved her up for the rest of the day, and bragged about her fishing skills to everyone. See, I know she's smarter than me, and way nicer/ prettier than I deserve. And I know I can be mean sometimes, so I have no problem apologizing after. She's such a good girl. Not many could stand me for this long.


One more sleep and we started packing things up for our trip down. Porter told Corn goodbye, but it took a lot longer than I thought a simple goodbye would of. I told Porter no whining on the hike down or I would bleed in my head. He got wise. Every half mile or so, he'd say, "Potty break!" After the third potty break, I informed him that his bladder was empty, and we wouldn't be waiting for him again. Then he started asking how much further... every half mile or so.

Kim is so smart. Porter likes to show off his counting skills, so Kim told him 280 steps more. I started doing the math in my head and realized she was off by a whole lot, but it didn't stop him. He hit 280 and kept counting. It was a good distraction. Before you knew it, we were back at the car, heading home.

So I guess I passed this relationship test. Not with flying colors or anything... more like a B-. But a B- is still passing.

Halibut fishing with Porter- Monday, June 09, 2008

A couple weeks ago, we made our way to the first adventure of the summer. Halibut fishing out of Seward with friends.

I set the alarm for 0400, but I woke up at 0230. Boys never change no matter what age. We all get giddy the night before hunting or fishing. Its tough falling asleep when your hearts pumping adrenaline instead of blood.

I woke Porter, and he jumped out of bed like he was in starting blocks. He had gone to sleep in his clothes, I guess to save time. While waiting for Kim to wake up, we packed extra long johns, socks, camera's, and a few snacks. At 0430, Kim finally woke, and we climb into the car.

Our first stop, we have to pick up Joshy in Soldotna. and he's looking really tired. "I had a hard time getting to sleep". Yeah, us too. "I guess I was excited to go fishing". Yeah, us too. We made our way to the last of our group in Sterling, and all climbed into one big rig. Angus is driving, Mikey is shotgun, and Kim is cuddled between Joshy and I. Porter quickly fell asleep in the back seat.

We rolled into Seward, and the day is already looking perfect. Suns out, no wind, flat water. Can't ask for more. We loaded gear onto our backs and slowly walked down the harbor ramp. We easily find the boat, and everyone is ready to go. I had invited a friend, Karla, who had recently moved to Anchorage from Oregon. She was one of my Nursing Instructors in college, and when I found out she was in Alaska, I felt compelled to show her a good time. She likes to say Alaska is her "Last Great Adventure". She's not too old for adventure yet, and I tell her so. She smiled at that.

On our way out, we saw otters, porpoises, whales, and sea lions. This alone made the trip worthwhile for Karla. Two hours after leaving the boat harbor, we finally let go of the anchor. It didn't take much encouragement, and everyone had hooks baited and wet. Someone hollers, "First fish gets $10 from everyone else". Right away, Kim is hooked into a Black Bass. Ugly little suckers. I quickly yell, "If you've kissed the one with the first fish, you don't have to pay..."

My first date with Kim, Porter and I took her fishing on Nest lake out the Swanson Canoe Trails. She smoked us. She doesn't even eat fish, and she still smoked us. Some people just got it I guess.

Soon, we came into a school of Black Bass. Someone gives Porter instructions, "Let the hook down, count to ten, and start reeling." He does, and he pulls in his limit of Black Bass in about 15 minutes. No one else is catching much at all. A total of 4 very small halibut, 2 Yellow Eye, and 12 Black bass. I had a nasty looking skate up at one time. He was a mean looking dude, with 2 or 3 spikes off his tail. It was a beautiful day for fishing, without much catching.

We all grew tired, and even though we were short of halibut, we headed home. Everyone was sitting in the cabin except Joshy. He was standing in the middle, holding a beer in his hand, and completely asleep (I once saw Joshy fall asleep in the middle of putting a new bag in the garbage can). Most Alaskans have a summertime philosophy- we'll sleep this winter. Porter has crashed against Angus, Kim is leaned against the wall, and across from us, everyone was asleep sitting straight up.

What a great day. Fish, friends, sun.

Everytime we go out, I'm sure to tell Porter, "We fish for the fellowship, not the fish", hoping it will guide him to appreciate all that Alaska is. I think when you have only known one place, it's easy to become complacent, or blinded to the beauty all around. This is the best place in the world.

King fishing with Porter- Wednesday, May 21, 2008

It was a great day even though the Kenai was packed tight. After a while, you get use to the boats being so close while you fish. You don't like it, you just get use to it. Most people practice an unspoken river ettiquette. Most people are nice.

Porter, Joshy and I had just dropped Kimmy off on the beach so she could go to work while we finished the day fishing. Up til then, not a rod had jumped, but who cares. It is a beautiful day. We fish for the fellowship, not the fish... serious.

Joshy is my best friend. A master fisherman. He's one ugly dude, but I think thats why he's so successful. The fish underestimate him. I've been fishing with him many times, and rarely have we come up skunked. We are down to the last few days of King season, and I'm counting on him to get Porter on a biggun. He's 5, it's time. I don't think he really cares, or maybe he doesn't know he cares. He likes poking their eyes, squeezing eggs out and watching them die. Sick stuff every Alaskan kid enjoys.

Joshy motors around the river for a bit, and before you know it, "FISH ON!". It's tough, but Joshy is able to guide the boat, and help Porter reel in his pole, while I work the fish. It's a nice 40 pounder. As I lead him to the side of the boat, Joshy realizes we forgot a net. I ask him, "What kind of Master Fisherman forgets the net?" His reply is mumbled, but he quickly decides he can scoop it into the boat with his fist. As he begins to roll one sleeve up to his elbow, I quickly think about a big what if. What if he goes in?

I decide he better hang onto that King if he goes in...

Joshy is a big man. Really big, and really strong. Not the most balanced guy in the world. One time he and I took his wife and my girlfriend out to Nest Lake for a date. The girls are in the canoe, and its his turn to climb in. His first step filled the canoe with 4" of water. I grabbed the walls, turned it upright, and shoved off. We paddled across with about 1" of freeboard. I said, "Nobody move and we might make this dry". Don't ask me why we didn't turn around. We did make it, with soggy socks.

Today we only care about strength. It takes pure muscle to haul in 40 pounds of live fish into a boat without a net. He stumbled across the boat, and with lightning like speed, slid a fist inside one gill plate, and heaved the beast into the air. It was a thing of beauty. Not something you see every day. I brained the fish, and Porter started his spectating the death of a King. I look around, and I can see a lot of people are watching. I think the focus is on Joshy netting a King with his fist. He's my hero.

We put Porters kwik fish back in, and it doesn't take long before another King is on. Two Kings in 1 hour is not normal for most people, but its normal for Joshy and I. I holler at Porter to grab on and start reeling. As I hold the rod, Porter slowly begins to drag the beast in, the whole time telling himself, "You can do it Porter, you can do it". It's funny to hear a little kid cheer for himself. Soon he had a 25 pounder at the side of the boat. He was a beautiful red, with very little life left in him. Porter recognized this and said, "We gonna keep him?" Well, he's a little spawned out buddy. "Yeah, let him go." Right then, the hook popped loose, and his first King slowly swam away from us.

What a day! In all, we had 4 Kings on, two in, and one on the bottom of the boat. Not too shabby for a couple of big ugly dudes and a 5yr old...

Porters first kill- Monday, May 19, 2008

Porter and I accompanied Papa to the Delta property this weekend, which has been named "The Farm" by the family. There isn't anything planted there. Nothing cultivated. Just 1000 acres of Alaska.

The Farm was an agricultural land sale by the state a few years ago. After proving up on it (fulfilling specific rules by the state), we now have several fields mowed down, and trails criss-crossing it. The family runs back every fall for a Fannon family vacation. My parents are planning on living there year round, and so Porter and I were helping them move some of the things they would need.

I woke that morning feeling a little nauseated, but nothing was stopping me from getting out of the house. I've been eager for a couple months to get outside, maybe kill something yummy. I drove while Kim tried to sleep beside me, as usual.

We stopped in Anchorage, ate some mexican, visited a friend, then picked up Porter and headed to Papa's.

Upon our arrival, we hopped in the truck loaded down with belongings, and my nausea was magnified 100 times. Now, I don't really vomit. Alcohol can change that, but viral illnesses only nauseate me. I don't say anything to my dad, I just hold my hat in my hands like a bowl begging to be filled. I start to burp a foul smelling gas. It tastes like rot. Like mexican rot. I am totally wishing I hadn't eaten lunch...

Dad noticed me holding my hat, both arms wrapped around it. "You ok?" yeah, just a little nauseated... "You want a bucket?" sure...

During our traditional stop in Glenallen, he produces a small 2 gallon white plastic bucket for me to hold instead. I fell asleep still wrapped around that little bucket. My gut starts to grumble, and the burps keep coming. Dad says, "I wondered what that smell was..." yeah, it my stomach. He rolls down the window. Porter asks "Are you farting?" No dude, its my stomach. "That stinks like poop." Thanks buddy.

We get to The Farm about 9pm, and start unloading the truck. The sun is bright, a little breeze keeps the bugs off, and its beautiful, but I still feel bad. I tell Porter I need to go to bed... with my bucket. I set up his sleeping bag, and then die wrapped up inside my own.

I woke up at 5:30am, still feeling horrible. The nausea is overwhelming, and now I feel like I might stay in the outhouse for an entire day. I start a fire, heat up some water, and brew some tea. It settles my stomach pains. Porter wakes up and wants to go hunting. We grab our rifles, and walk down one of the many paths cut through The Farm. From the start, we see 3 rabbits. He begins to sneak up on the first, shooting at it every few steps, until it finally, casually hops into the trees. Porter needs some practice. We make a big loop back to camp, and have seen 7 rabbits. Not one ended up dead.

Papa makes a target on a plate and nails it up. I give Porter 500 rounds, and say, "I want every single bullet shot". Papa starts making breakfast, which is a choice between hamburgers or hotdogs. The only beverage is pepsi. I pass on breakfast, taking more tea in, and Porter hollers out "Hamburger!". Kids are so easy.

Porter gets started shooting up shells. I tell him to focus on taking his time, controlling his breathing, and all the other jewels of wisdom I can think of. Papa interjects his own now and then. After half the box is gone, and the hamburger is devoured, Porter wants to go hunting again.

We start walking down the same path, and see rabbits... probably the same stupid beasts that were there this morning. More rabbits than I have ever seen on The Farm. You could make a freakin 3 piece suit outta rabbits if you wanted. You could make a 7 course meal... just out of rabbits. But not one dies. I try to hide my disappointment, and we start walking back to camp.

Its lunch time, and Papa yells out, "Hamburgers or Hotdogs!" I want to vomit so bad. Porter takes a hotdog this time, "I already had a hamburger...". We unload the truck, and Porter is ready for one more walk around the property. Once again, rabbits everywhere, but they all refuse to die under Porters rifle. On the way back to camp, a big red squirrel hops in front of us. I stop, not saying a word, and Porter begins his sneak attack. The squirrel is in a tree, maybe 5ft in front of him. It doesn't last long, and big red is dead. Finally. Sometimes you just need an easy kill to find your groove. Hopefully Porter finds his.

We walk back to camp, show Papa the trophy. I drink more tea, and we pack up the truck for the 6hr drive home. I still feel horrible, but the short trip was worth it. For the rest of the weekend, Porter tells everyone, "I got my first kill.", which is what you want every 6yr old to say in public.

Porters first mushing race- Monday, February 05, 2007

A few days ago, during the Peninsula Winter Games, Porter had a chance to run his first sled dog race. That morning, we had stopped by Kaladi's for a pregame hot chocolate, and to meet up with his mama. I'm watching him, looking for some sign of nervousness. Porters lounged back in his chair, looking at all the people, talking about things that no adult would even think of. Normal stuff for Porter.

I guess he isn't nervous at all.

We head to the airport where the trails have been groomed for the last week. For some unknown reason, Porter is infatuated with Balto- the famous dog that led mushers to Nome with life saving serum. He decides we should make up a song about Balto. Its a short song, but cute...

Pushing through the snow in the middle of the night.

Every shadow in front of me is coming alive.

We push a lil harder hoping we might find,

the trail that Balto left behind.



We're flying through the sky, my sleds on fire.

Faster than the wind could ever dream.

Lean into the turns and hold on tight.

looking for the trail Balto left behind.

Dogs are getting tired, barely feel my feet.

Fingers feel like frozen chunks of meat.

But deep inside I'm feeling alive,

thinking I might find the trail Balto left behind.

A heavy snowfall days prior made the head guy nervous, and as we rolled into the parking lot there was nobody there. I began to wonder if it was called off and no one let us know. So we sat in Joshy's truck (a truck without a heater), waiting. Waiting for the crowds... Finally trucks full of kids, dogs and sleds pulled into the lot, and started setting up camp. Unfortunately mushing isn't the most popular sport to the youth of our time.

3 kids sign up.

Regan decides 1 mile is far enough for Porter. I really wanted him to go further, but I have come to know, you don't argue with mama. Porter gets his lil bib on over his snowsuit, and jumps on his sled. Mindy and I hook a couple dogs up and lead him to the starting line. Today, Panther and Crusher would be his only company down the trail, racing him on a loop that ends where it starts.

Porter has a large crowd. Kimmy, Valerie and Nate, their kids, Pamela and her kids, Regan and her newest beau Nick, and even Grandma Jeanie flew in from Haines. And lots of camera's.

The other 2 kids racing have a daddy each.

The funny thing about watching a sled dog race is lots of cheering on take-off, then idle chit chat, then lots of cheering on landing. There isn't a camera following the racer. No play by play.

The head guy starts his countdown. I whisper to Porter, "Lean into the turns and hold on tight". He nods in agreement.

And he's off...

Here comes the idle chit chat. Regan just can't believe our son is racing all by himself. "He's gone Anderson. Our son is gone!" I really wish I was with him, the crowd is already starting to bother me. I found Kim off to the side capturing take-off pictures, and stood with her. Everyone is smiling. Everyone looks happy. I guess it's strange to think a 5 yr old would be able to take off with his dogs alone into the woods. I just stick with Kim. She's not much of a chatterbox. It's probably why I'm comfortable around her.

8 minutes and 30 seconds later, Porter comes into sight, rolling over a small hill. Almost 9 minutes after he started, Porter hits the line, and I catch two running huskies to stop the sled. The head guy says, "He's got the only cheering section out here". That was funny to me.

I lead the dogs to the truck and Porter jumps off to meet his fans, kiss the babies, sign autographs, and pose for pictures. He's a hero, a champion, the King of the World, at least for today.

Walking on the Kenai- Monday, January 08, 2007

After working a long and quiet night in th ER and sleeping most of the day away at home, I was beginning to feel cooped up again. Around 1am I head to work to eat lunch with Kim (good stew Gina), but she's too busy to visit much, and so I make the quick and cold ride home to watch a movie, and maybe pack a few more things. I rolled into my driveway and started the short walk to the door, when I noticed how bright the moon was. It was slightly less than full, sitting atop a mostly clear sky, lighting the dark up like it was midnight in July... a little dusky, but enough to see the river below my apartment.

The Kenai had frozen completely in front of my place earlier this winter. But a few days of warmth had opened a lane on the far side. Porter and I walked the Kenai's edge in December, looking at the amazing ice crystals that lived in the nooks and crannies of the massive heaves that had formed. You may not know it, but the river doesn't freeze flat. It is a maze of ice that refuses to lie down or stay put. 100yrds of frozen river is a never ending playground for the brave.

Tonight, with the air so cold and clear, and the moon so brightly shining, I've decided I needed to check out the small slough of river still open. I carefully made my way through the woods and down the bluff on a trail only a few people use, ending just south of Slikok Creek at the rivers edge. In the moonlight I can easily see the tracks of different animals criss-cross the path the river had cut. I follow them.

Slowly, I trudge in shin deep snow, on top of 4 ft of ice (hopefully), feeling the cold penetrate the meat of my face. My beard was frozen from the first second I stepped out of the car, and now my fingers began to feel the sting of winter inside my gloves. My trusty mittens were left in Kims car earlier. I missed them dearly.

At 20 below zero, you begin to appreciate long johns a whole lot more. A pair of good boots and long johns under my flimsy jeans are my armor. Half way across the river and the heaves are no longer giants, making walking much less difficult. The quiet of night allows me to hear the sounds of the world. Nothing interrupts the music made by nature tonight. The breeze throws branches against branches, the rivers ice cracks loudly, and the water rushes against the icy wall of the narrow slough.

I started to wonder why I wanted to make the hike across the ice, and turn around in the direction of home. On the river, the breeze is more of a wind. With nothing to weaken it, the wind whips down the rivers path, and lashes at anything sticking out. I stick out badly. Without stopping, I pull my Carhart collar up higher and stocking cap down lower. Back on the bank of the river, I decide to make a little fire.

It's important for a man to feel like he has roughed it now and then. I dig beneath the snow finding the dry frozen grass I expect, then gather small sticks from the base of the spruce trees nearby. Proudly, with only one match lit, my small fire is alive. I can hear something moving in the woods, and wait to see where its going. The footsteps crushing frozen ground get quieter. My small bundle of collected sticks is already gone, so I kick snow on it, and climb back up the bluff. Another 5 minutes finds me kicking my boots off and starting the hot tea brewing.

A small but fulfilling adventure.

On a side note...

... as I walked into the new hospital admiring the clean smell and learning the road to the Med/Surg, I spotted a big fat dust bunny making his way down an adjoining hall, reminding me of the tumbleweeds in Idaho. It hit me that this dust bunny probably knew the place better than anyone...

Really no point to the story, but funny in my mind.

Mushing with Porter-Tuesday, January 02, 2007

We woke late this morning to that face numbing, clear sky cold, that half Alaskans love, half hate. Some longjohns and a quick cup of hot chocolate each, and we were out the door towards our newest adventure.

Because of work and a business deal that took far too long, Porter and I haven't had the most active winter. No bonfires. No icefishing. No snowshoeing across frozen lakes. Nothing. I've been feeling cooped up in our little apartment, and so, when Jane the Musher (aka Cowgirl Jane, aka Nurse Jane- depending on the season) invited us out for the day, we jumped on the chance. And it turned into a perfect day for playing with dogs, (but cold enough to take toes if you stood still too long).

This is our second year mushing with Jane. Porter rode a few times last year and impressed us all with his instinct. I'm not sure what other 4 yr old kids look like on a sled, but he did ride well. He even fell off once, jumped up running, caught the dogs, and then passed Mindy riding in front of him.

We arrived a few minutes before the other kids, and Jane asked if I could get the snowmachines warmed up to start the trail. I am a man, but I have never owned, nor played with these winter toys. And, days prior, I had forgotten my gloves in Joshy's truck. My fingers dreaded leaving their warm holes.

Common sense told me to turn the key, pull the kill switch, choke it, and yank like never before. After my supply of energy was used up and the fingers on my right hand were white, I got one started. I was spent. I let it warm up, and figured it was cold enough that the track might be frozen. I picked up the machine... back, then front, and jumped behind the windshield.

I gave the beast some gas, and nothing moved. I gave the beast more, but he refused to budge. So I said screw it, and moved to the next.

Again, after draining the strength in both shoulders, and experiencing a new level of cold, I finally had him running. I picked up the back, then the front, and slid into the saddle. I gave beast #2 some gas, and nothing moved. I gave beast #2 more gas, and he showed he was just as stubborn as #1. I wondered if the two of them had discussed this as I walked up. I'm beginning to think there is a emergency brake set I don't know about.

More gas...

I hear lots of noise, I see clouds of exhaust big enough to hold water, but I can't force either machine to take flight. Damn, here come the girls... now I look bad. Inept. Incompetent. Unable to perform my masculine duties.

Jane jumps on #1, rocks him side to side, and off she goes. Jane makes me look like a girlscout.

So... I climb onto beast #2 like I own him, rock side to side, gas him, and nothing happens but more noise, and bigger rainclouds. Its gotta be a conspiracy. Dan (the only other man there) grabs one side, I grab the other, and we push, forcing the track to turn.

And I'm airborne.

Jane has a track thats close to 400 yards around. One lap, and I'm heading to the trunk of my car to see what I can find for the last couple fingers I have left. I feel like I have little wooden twigs stuck in stumps. I emerge with my trusty leather mittens. These mittens have protected me through fire, water, and chill cold enough to kill. I feel stronger just wearing them.

By now, Jane has the sled hooked behind the snowmachine. I saddle up and Porter (who hasn't muttered a whine yet) jumps on the sled. I look back to be sure he's ready, and the top of his hood is all I see, but he yells "GO!".

So we go...

I start slow, looking back to be sure he's still hanging on. Porter clings to the sled. He is the magnet, the sled is steel. Porter is squatted low, leaning into the turns, his eyes peering out of his big red hood. He is a flexible fluid mass that looks like he was conceived on the rails of a sled and born in the midst of huskies. He rides like it is his purpose... his reason for living.

I pick up speed, throwing powder behind me and into his little face. Around the next corner and Porter is leaning so hard, his little right knee lays in the snow. The sled fishtails a little, he hangs on. Two more corners and we pull into the dogyard. Porter steps off like he's just finished shopping. Like he's walking down the street. Like it was any other daily experience.

No one else wants to go? Hell, Porters already back on the sled.

We take off, this time faster. 15mph. 20 mph. 25 mph. I picture in my mind Porter holding on to the sled and his body flapping in the wind like a sheet on a clothesline. I glance back, sure that the fear in his eyes will force me to slow down, but the kid is crouched low, leaning right, straightening up, leaning right, straightening up... most of the time I can't even see him he's so low on the rails.

Hooking dogs on the sled only makes it difficult to stop. Porter only weighs 45 pounds, and it takes more than that to keep the brake dug into the trail. He did great though, then retired to the car to warm his toes.

This is a kid who whines when he has to clean his plate at dinner. Whines when I make him pick up his toys. But mushing in circles in the freezing cold? He doesn't say a word. All smiles. It may have had something to do with all the little girls present...

25mph might not sound very fast, but ride a sled and you may think different. Stand tall, and the sled goes top heavy. Stand stiff, and the sled goes top heavy. Don't lean into corners and the sled goes over. In a flash, the dogs could easily use you for a plow. Now imagine you are 5 years old. Imagine you can barely see over the handrail. Imagine doing it all alone...

I can honestly say mushing 400 yards is not difficult. Probably even say any grown human could do it. The difficulty lies in mushing for miles. The endurance. I see no joy in it personally, but Porter is a natural. Pulling into the dogyard, Jane roughs his head up and tells him he is a great musher. There is no way I will ever own 20 dogs... Hell no. I'll just take him to Janes now and then. She can mold him. She can fulfill his need to run.

I gotta tell you guys with kids. If you get a chance, ask Jane for a day of mushing. She's a great teacher. Eager to pass on the knowledge and very careful with your children. It is an experience few people get in a lifetime. Every Alaskan should try it once.

Fishing with Porter- Teusday, October 17th, 2006

Yesterday Porter and I went fishing out swanson on a little string of lakes 40 miles out the road. We have been out there before, and I have a canoe stashed making it easier. I don't have to haul the thing all the way from home, then drag it 1/4 mile "over the river and through the woods."

We left the house a little after 8am, and 45 minutes later we pull into the parking lot. After a short walk to the lake, I dragged the canoe from its hiding spot and we jumped in. I paddled across the first lake, through a little slough, and right at the mouth of the second lake, started fishing. It was cold. Really cold, but we are Alaskan, so Porter stuck his hands in his crotch, and I fished with numb hands.

Right from the start, little 12" silvers were chasing my lure back to the boat, batting it back and forth. There were hundreds of them coming at the canoe like pirahnas. Like tiny torpedos.

If you have a child, you know thats all they need. It could be 20 below and their fingers could be swollen and splitting. But as long as they see fish, it's all good. I kept one little 12" fish, then started paddling into deeper water looking for something bigger. I ended up with a nice 20" or so rainbow, so I handed porter the rod, and let him fish a little.

A 4 year old could be a hired killer with a fishing pole. The last time I took him out, I started teaching him to cast, and he did OK, but by the time we were done, I had been slapped in the face twice with the lure. The funny thing was he was looking out in the water to see how far he had thrown the hook, when the dang thing was sitting in my lap.

But that was last time...

He musta been working on it in his dreams, cause the kid was tossin the lure out in front of him about 20 ft, and actually throwin it where he wanted! Of course I expect no less from my son. He is a Fannon...

I moved the canoe slowly around the edge of the lake, dodging little communities of lily pads as we floated along. I warned Porter I didn't want to get my hands wet, so stay away from the weeds, but he insisted on casting right to the edge of each island of rot we floated by. As I was formulating a plan to make him get the snag out, his line went tight, and I could feel the frustration building up. I prepared to lose my fingers to the cold...

I looked out to attempt to spot where he had snagged his line when I saw a flash of silver. His rod wasn't bouncing, and his line was steady tight, and I wasn't sure what he had caught. "Do you have a fish on Porter?" No answer... "Dude, start reeling faster and keep your tip down! I think you have a fish on!"

He did... and he did. Soon, a little 10" silver was sitting in the bottom of the canoe, beating his head hard enough against the metal, dents were left. Porter fought the urge to squeeze the life out of his new friend (we had already decided we weren't gonna keep any more small fish), and he threw it back in. I caught one more fish, and we headed back in. Before the hike out, we made a little fire, and cooked the two little fish in some tinfoil.

Does this get any of you droolin for ice fishing? I miss our group of friends going out every week to fellowship and have fun around the fire. Can't wait...