How does it happen that time passes so quickly? Is it possible that this is the beginning of week nine? If it is then we have more than half our time away from family, friends and Lake Road behind us. It hardly seems possible. After all we have only begun to fish.

To make up for a clock that won’t slow down we did a quick start this morning and had our breakfast in the car, around eleven.

Big things were brewing on the Kenai and we had to get on with the show. We hustled the fish off to a fish processor/packer/shipper/smoker, etc. Then we headed off to buy some cheap gas, $1.79 per gallon. Believe me that is cheap by Alaska standards. The next time you pay a dollar forty-nine there should be no whining.

When we pulled back into our parking spot at Swiftwater I swear I heard a low sigh issue from the river. Word was out, the fish slayers had returned and the fish were fearful of things to come. In fact when I walked down the stairs I saw a fish that had just been caught. It was shaking so much that it would have been able to swim away had someone put it back in the water. Yes, it is true, our reputations had preceded us.

We lay a finger beside our nose and giving a nod down the ladder we strode. It was fish fish here and fish fish there everywhere fish fish but alas none on our line, to stay. Those hooked protested and those missed passed in silence. I feel certain that the anglers around us were wishing we would pass in silence but it wasn’t to be. We persevered and after only six hours in the burning hot Alaskan sun we had five fish. The limit was six but our five weighed more than the average six so we felt justified in taking our burden to the fish processor and leaving it there.

With only a moderate amount of fish odor and blood on our clothing we felt we were perfectly acceptable in gentle company so we took ourselves off to the Chinese restaurant where we were greeted just like anyone else with a credit card not yet maxed out. Oh, but we enjoyed the meal as we ate in the solitude of our own room. We had been placed there in deference to the fact that we were somewhat sunburned and our great degree of exhaustion. The waitress was even nice enough to bring us a whole pitcher of ice water and leave it on our table so she wouldn’t have to interrupt our reverie. At the end of our meal a dog, off the parking lot, brought our check along with a note thanking us for our business and advising us of a recently inaugurated service. We could pay on line anytime in the future that suited us. We could also leave out the fire exit so the noise of the other diners wouldn’t disturb us. We read our fortune cookies "You will be long remembered after your passing" and found our way out the fire door in the back of the building. The air outside was cool and crisp and we thought how fortunate we were to be allowed to leave so quietly in addition to being able to pay on line. I told Onie to be sure and leave an extra tip due to the courtesies extended us.

Although we were loath to leave such a friendly place we knew we had to get home and sort clothes. It would be easy as my not quite dirty jeans stood in a corner while the rest of our soiled clothes mouldered in a basket. When that task was dispatched we turned to a more important agenda. Onie played spider and I played solitaire before making a few notes.

When the day was growing long and we could stand no more fun we took ourselves off to bed around 12:30.

Oh what a day it had been and what a rare mood we were in when we rose from our night’s sleep.

We breakfasted, did our laundry, cleaned house and left for Anchorage to get David Matthew.

We hoped to have time to get a few stars in the windshield of the Subaru repaired but it was not to be. Too much time had elapsed while we washed and cleaned.

We pulled into Anchorage International Airport with just a few minutes to spare. After parking the toad we hurried off to the Continental concourse to await David’s arrival. In just a few minutes we saw him carrying his backpack and a book. After greetings and hugs we took some pictures and went to get his luggage.

On the way to the coach we stopped at Beluga Point to watch the bore tide and look for whales. My running commentary on the points of interest passing by our windows held his rapt attention until the effects of a six foot four frame being cramped in a modern airplane became too much and he dozed off.

At the coach we got his luggage into the house and he got it stowed. Then it was time for happy hour and Onie and me listened as he brought us up to date on the happenings in Spring, Texas. Our visit ran on into supper and later.

Darkness was not yet about to fall but eyelids were drooping so we said our goodnights and tucked ourselves in for the sleep to come.

To be successful in your own business you need to be a self starter, highly motivated to succeed, organized and a little bit nuts. David and I both have our own business and Onie came along for the ride. We were up at 2AM, had a breakfast of sockeye salmon, asparagus, salad, coffee and tea before we headed off to Swiftwater and the grated walkway.

Halfway to Swiftwater Onie asked if I had put the net in the car. I hadn’t. We went back for the net and finally got to Swiftwater at five.

The action wasn’t as fast as it had been the last time Onie and I came here but it was okay. With a couple of minutes instruction David began fishing. During the next four and a half hours the Kenai gave up nine sockeyes to us, two to David, two to me and five to Onie. During that time we had each yelled "fish on, fish off, enough so it became automatic.

By nine thirty we were at the fish processor where we added this to previous catches and then headed to Cooper Landing and the coach.

Soon after we were back in the coach the only sounds to be heard were those of three sleeping people.

We were back up at 2pm. There were fish somewhere out there waiting to be caught. First we had to grab a bite to eat and then prepare our ultra light tackle and a backpack. While Onie prepared the meal we prepared the tackle and backpack. After we ate David and I set out in the car, again.

This time we only drove a short distance to the Fuller Lakes trailhead. We would walk a short two miles and then start catching fish. I had bought a map of the area and the trail seemed like an easy one. Sometimes we arrive at wrong decisions by not using all the available information. I had done it this time. The map I bought, in addition to showing fishing lakes and trails, was a topo map. Had I spent as much time reading the map as I did rigging the fishing rods I would have noticed that the trail would be difficult due to the great gain in elevation. In other words we would be climbing a big hill for several hours. At the trail head a sign said the trail was strenuous and hiking time in and out was four to six hours.

David and I looked at each other, hitched up our pants, tightened our belts, adjusted the backpack, picked up the rods and dip net and took the first steps. Fifteen minutes later we were chugging along with sweat dripping from our brows. In another fifteen minutes my jeans were beginning to feel damp. The low humidity and seventy degree weather just wasn’t cutting it to keep us cool but we stayed with it. The trail was well marked and there were few rocks on the steep grade but tree roots crisscrossed the trail, everywhere. One had to be careful or a case of tangle foot and skinned chin would very quickly overtake them. When we found a fairly flat spot, three or four times, we stopped, pulled off our caps, wiped the sweat from our brows and caught our breath before pushing on. We agreed the fish were in for a big surprise when we got there.

Almost to the lake we met a man wearing a backpack with a fishing tube and a pair of fins hung in it. In his hand he carried a fly rod. We stopped to chat. He noticed our ultra light tackle and asked us if we expected to catch fish with it. We of course said yes. With just the slightest bit of malice in his voice he advised us that the grayling in this lake were connoisseurs and only dined on flies. We would be fishless with our hardware. Then he very magnanimously offered us a couple of black gnat flies, which we accepted. We could put on a casting bubble and they would work just fine. After thanking our benefactor we resumed our little walk. David reminded me we had heard this story before, many times before, and in each case the fish had liked our little hardware just fine. Perhaps these fish would be no different.

The local, he had been an Alaskan resident eleven years, had told us we were close to the lake. He was right. We rounded a turn, topped a little rise and came out of the spruce forest and there before our eyes in a two hundred acre meadow laid the lake. The lake itself was a hundred acres. At one time it had been smaller but the local beaver population had done a good job of damming the small creek that drained the lake. Three active beaver lodges dotted the lake and near the center we could see a beaver’s head and his tell tale wake as he plied his home water. The edges of the lake were full of water plants and downed trees. Where the lakeshore ended and solid ground began was hard to tell as the same plants that grew in the water segued right onto the marshy ground surrounding the lake. In fact in my walk, later on, around the lake I found very few spots that didn’t yield water if they were stood on for a minute or two. At the edge of the meadow the tree covered mountains rose up to the blue cloudless sky. In my mind’s eye I could see a moose or maybe a bear coming to water later in the day. Right now we were alone, in this idyllic place, with just the beavers for company. The quiet was palpable. There was no drone of traffic or aircraft, no hum of conversation and even the breeze seemed quiet. Standing still the loudest sound one heard was the honey bees flitting from one marsh flower to the next as they worked to store food for the coming winter and the sound of the myriad mosquitoes as they worked to drain our bodies dry of anything resembling blood. A generous application of mosquito repellant held the bugs at bay while we negotiated clumps of grass and puddles of water that made up the shoreline as well as while we fished.

David tied on one of our secret pieces of hardware and began venturing to the waters edge. Before he knew it the ground gave way and he was in muck and water up to his knees, his hiking boots full of water. With his boots already wet he decided to venture on further out. Soon he was standing in water up to his waist among water grasses. Two or three casts yielded a nice Grayling. Caught in the euphoria of almost instant success he yelled for me to come on in. By now my body was retuning to it’s normal temperature and the dry breeze and low humidity were combining to provide cooling I didn’t need. I pulled on a shirt jacket and began searching for a place I could fish without getting water in my boots. My search led me further and further away from where David was landing the Grayling. As I traversed the lakeside I stopped here and there to pitch a piece of hardware into the waiting water. Once or twice I had a reception from a minor fish but he was too minor to take the hook so I moved on. On the far side of the lake David called to me, barely raising his voice above a normal level, and asked me if I was doing any good. I wasn’t catching any. He asked me to come back and fish with him. I told him I was on my way. Completing my walk around the lake I found a little high ground where previous venturers had made a fire ring and camped.

By the time I got back to David he had caught his limit and urged me to come in and do the same. A combination of hunger and weariness had overcome me and the urge to fish had left me. I asked him to fish on, for me. Ever the obedient son he complied. He even tried tying on the black gnat fly and casting it a few times. Fish rose to the bait but he was never able to hook one. Finally he examined the hook and discovered it was barbless. The fellow who had given it to us looked a little strange but I had put that down to living in a place that has sixty days when the sun never really sets and sixty days when it never rises. Now that we had discovered he fishes with barbless hooks I just put down the strangeness to a case of early onset dementia. He was lucky to be in Alaska. Folks who live in the lower forty-eight and fish with barbless hooks end up in the rubber room. Here they end up on mountain trails passing out their wares to trusting unsuspecting tourists. Back with the tried and true hardware David caught most of my limit while I sat on a moss covered downed tree and tried to recoup some energy for the hike down.

The hike up had taken just minutes under two hours. It was nearing nine thirty so we thought it would be good to start the walk down. By the time we had our act together for the hike it was approaching ten. When we reached the trail it was just a tad after ten. We put ourselves in high gear and started for the toad. Down is not up but that doesn’t necessarily mean it is a cakewalk. The roots were still there along with the steep grade. Tangle foot and skinned chin, or worse, were a definite possibility but we stepped spryly and avoided a spill. One stop was made for me to shed my shirt jacket for even though we weren’t climbing the constant scramble was enough to work up a sweat. The sound of traffic told us we were nearing the Forester and our ride home. We began putting our gear in the car as soon as we got down. It had taken forty minutes to walk/scramble down. We congratulated each other on making the trip quickly given our ages.

Onie had dinner waiting for us when we got home at eleven. She listened patiently as we recounted our adventures, in detail.

When our hunger was satisfied the real fatigue sat in. Midnight found all of us tucked in our beds.

I woke at seven thirty to take care of some personal business. It was fifty eight degrees and raining. I went back to bed. David rose shortly after I went back to bed. He isn’t yet retired so he had some business reading to do. Onie and I slept on until around eleven. The rain was still coming down as we cooked our breakfast of eggs, feral hog bacon, biscuits, figs, coffee and tea. This was a meal that would be short on our lips and long on our hips but we enjoyed it nonetheless.

After our morning feast we took our turns in the shower. While I waited for mine I made a few notes. Our fishing schedule was not allowing a lot of time for writing and unless I made a few notes the memories of the days would run together and then my critics would be on me for writing things that aren’t factual. It would of course have no basis in fact but it is important to me to keep the naysayers at bay. Onie played a little spider while she waited for we boys to get the gear ready to go to the Upper Ohmer to catch some trout for the frying pan.

The wipers kept the windshield clear as we made our way to the lake. This was our first trip off the pavement since David had arrived and it was an eye opener for him. The vistas along the way were breath taking and we stopped from time to time to take pictures. Once we saw a bear dart across the road.

At the trail head to the Upper Ohmer we got our rubber knee boots on, gathered the fishing gear and set off for the lake in a light drizzle. The brisk wind quickly chilled us and coats were snugged around us. Along the trail we pointed out the bear scat to David.

Mini whitecaps flecked the surface of the lake when we got there. The north wind was blowing unimpeded and where we were fishing it was blowing almost directly into our faces. Determined to have trout for dinner we fished anyway. I finally caught a fish too small to keep but neither David nor Onie could entice one to bite much less get caught. It seemed like hours but it may have only been one before my compatriots advised me that trout should be taken off the dinner menu. I immediately concurred and we packed our gear and hit the trail for the toad and home.

Back at the coach Onie fixed a meal that would have put any trout to shame. Why we had decided to trout fish was beyond me, at the moment. When we were well fed and fortified the urge to hook a denizen of the deep returned.

We took the ultra light toys out of the car and loaded the red rigs and headed off for our appointment in Soldotna. We knew success awaited us. We parked in our spot at Swiftwater and soon joined the other anglers on the grated walk way. The fish weren’t jumping into landing nets but some were being caught. With each of us contributing we strung nine reds before calling it quits. These were added to our growing stash at the fish processors and then we headed home.

Perhaps July has finally arrived on the Kenai. As David and I broke camp and prepared to move on down to Castaway Riverside RV Park the rain from the night continued to fall. It seems it seldom rains hard, like in south Texas, but rather just rains long and cold.

Onie drove the toad and David and I enjoyed the hour’s ride down to Sterling. LaVonne surprised us and had a spot ready for occupancy when we arrived. We had been prepared to dry camp for the night as she had said she didn’t have a site available. With David’s help we got out the heavy jack pads and put them in place. This is the campground that led to the decision to make big heavy pads in the first place. Gary had helped with that project and the pads had been used many times before but this would be the acid test. The gravel on the sites is loose and the subsoil is very soft. Jack pads on the end of the jacks go right through the gravel and small pieces of wood don’t do much better. When the jacks hit the pads the coach leveled and stayed that way for the entire stay. The pads were a success. We completed our new home site by putting out the awning, table and chairs and then getting ready to fish.

We fished. We ate. We fished. When we finished fishing we had five more reds to put in the freezer. We would have stayed with the fishing but we had to get ready to go to Homer in the morning, to go fishing. Yes, we like to fish.

When all was ready for the morrow we turned in. It was about eleven thirty.

Why we didn’t get more rested during our three and a half hours of sleep was a puzzle to me but we were up and at ‘em anyway and left the coach at three thirty, headed back to Homer, a quaint drinking village with a fishing problem, the Take Down, Larry Croft and an appointment with some halibut.

The drive down was on familiar road but we kept a sharp look out for errant moose. Hitting a moose with your vehicle could definitely mess up your day to say nothing of the moose’s. Fortunately we had no moose encounters of a close kind nor did we see any other thing in the road to cause us alarm, that is nothing except the goofy drivers.

We arrived on the Spit in one piece, after stopping for a latte for the boy, and grabbed our backpacks and headed for the Take Down. Larry and his deckhand, Terry, were ready to go. Two fishermen were already on board and the other two showed up shortly after we boarded. Before the shorelines were cast off I found my way to a forward vee bunk and snuggled down for a nap. David had dozed on the way down when I didn’t keep him awake with my chatter. With the twin Cummins pushing us out of the berth I slipped into sleep and stayed there until David came down and told me it was time to fish. The run out to the fishing grounds had taken two hours and I had taken advantage of every minute. I woke refreshed and ready to experience a tight line.

On deck I saw we had stopped near Flat Island. That meant we hadn’t gone as far out as we had on my previous trips. A quick glance around gave me a clue why we had stopped here. The sea was moderately rough and there was a strong wind blowing. David said that Larry had told him that around the headland, that was providing us protection, the wind was blowing to thirty five miles per hour and the seas were running six to eight feet. That weather, besides the fact it would be very hard on man and boat, would make fishing impossible, even on the thirty eight foot Take Down.

Terry saw that everyone had a rod and then he began rigging them, circular hook and two pounds of weight were the order of the day. Add a piece of squid and a small piece of fish and you were ready for a fish encounter. We had encounter after encounter and most of them ended up with our cranking in a chicken, the name for small halibut. Some folks even reeled up some ping-pong paddles, three to five pound fish. Eventually we did boat some thirty pounders, maybe a few in the thirty five pound range and perhaps a couple of forty pounders but all in all the big guys never showed. Philosophically, we reminded each other that the really big halibut don’t have the good flavor of the size we were boating. Perhaps another fisherman bought that but we didn’t. We still wanted a big halibut. When the anchor was lifted off the bottom and the Take Down headed for home it was already decided that a return trip would have to be made. Pawpaw might not be there but David Matthew certainly would because the feel of a hundred pound halibut cannot be explained, only experienced. I was glad the big guys had stayed away. David needed and deserved another shot at Alaska and my guess was that his next trip would only be one of many.

Now we headed in and it was David’s turn to find a vacant bunk.

I stayed in the cabin and watched, through the open door, as Terry filleted the fish and then cleaned the fishing area.

As his job was winding down I climbed the ladder, amid sea spray, to the Bimini bridge where Larry was conning the boat. Even at that height spray flew past us as the boat made heavy going of it in the rough seas. I was glad we had the extra eight feet and twelve tons over the Obsession, Larry’s old boat. I watched with interest as the Halibut Hunter trailed us in our wake. At twenty eight feet and many tons lighter she had rough going even in the relative calm we created for her. With seas increasing along with the wind it was a good bet that there would be a lot of charter captains and patrons on the beach tomorrow. They were almost a lead pipe cinch to be blown out.

Boat in Our Wake

When the shorelines were secured David came up into the early afternoon sunlight. Goodbyes and well wishes were exchanged before we followed our fillets up to Coal Point Packing. The fish were weighed and instructions given on packing before we went in to pay the piper. That detail out of the way we sought out some hot chocolate and a latte. Stimulated by the caffeine intake we set off to visit the local merchants on the Spit.

Our children grow up and develop ways that we as parents aren’t aware of no matter how much we feel we know our kids. Today I saw a side of David I hadn’t seen before. The man loves to shop for stuff. Me, I don’t shop unless I have an idea of what I want to buy. David shops to get an idea of what to buy. I can’t understand where I went wrong in his upbringing. This shopping thing is almost feminine.

Men don’t just wander in and out of stores like mindless females. Men go with a mission. Women seek a mission. As soon as the right opportunity presents itself I will have a serious discussion with him about this weakness. Perhaps the next time he is butchering feral hogs will be appropriate. After all, hog butchering is a very masculine thing to do. It seems the burdens of parenting never cease. By promising him another latte I was able to coax him out of the stores and into the toad where I would have better control. We headed off the Spit and toward the City of Kenai for some sightseeing.

On the way we passed through Ninilchick and Deep Creek. These appear to be just another place on the map until you realize that something very interesting takes place here every day of summer. There is no port here but there is a large charter fishing fleet with boats up to thirty feet in length. The boats launch every morning with the aid of large diesel tractors that run the trailers down the beach and into the water. When the day’s fishing has come to an end the boats return to their trailers, which have been placed back in the water by the same tractors. Now comes the interesting part. The current along the beach is quite swift and strong. The boats cannot be guided onto the trailers with the engines at idle or even close to it. We watched as boats approached the trailers at full throttle and then when one or two boat lengths out, cut the throttle and rode their own wake onto the trailer and safety. Several times we watched this process and each time we were amazed at the whole thing.

David talked to a fisherman off one of the boats. He said he couldn’t believe it when the captain approached the beach and trailer at full throttle and then rode his own wake onto the trailer. It was, he said, one of the scariest things he had ever had happen to him. I have learned, I think, of late not to make too many vows. For one thing they usually turn out to be harder to keep than I supposed when I made them and for another I have a hard time remembering them for more than a day or two. Today we made a mutual vow to never subject ourselves to this kind of boat retrieval unless there was absolutely no other fishing venue available. With that solemn oath behind us we set our sights on Kenai.

Ah, t’was not yet to be. We passed a little gift/art studio that just cried out to be visited. In addition the hot chocolate I had in Homer had completed it’s journey and was begging for escape. We turned into the drive of the place, stopped outside to take some pictures of the OLD pickup parked in the fireweed and the beautiful rock gardens that set off the totem pole, before we made our way inside.

As soon as I saw the prices on the items offered for sale my urge to visit the outhouse became even more urgent. David just smiled and browsed along among the gimmcrackery that was being passed off as art. I grant that tastes in art differ but I know junk when I see it and it doesn’t have to have "Made in China" printed on it. Sure, some of the stuff was really good art, but art at three times the value ceases to be art and becomes commercialism of the worst sort. I returned to the shop to listen to David exchange small talk with the shop owner. It was interesting but I was getting a little anxious to get on down the line. I knew at some point my energy would start to flag and I wanted to be close to the Marlin when that happened.

Kenai was out next stop. We drove through town, as David napped, and stopped at a viewing point for Cook Inlet. Here we could see the mouth of the Kenai River and the dip netters. They had long handled big mouth coarse mesh nets. Holding the nets they walked in the shallows of the river heading toward the inlet. Salmon trying to reach their spawning creek were swimming into the river and the nets. As a netter felt a fish in the net her or she walked to the beach and put the fish in a cooler before returning to the river for another fish. Each head of an Alaskan household is entitled to twenty five fish plus ten additional for each member of his household. We watched a little while and even saw some of the commercial netters that are permitted to use gill nets once the escapement is reached. The escapement is the number of desired fish that are deemed to have reached their spawning place. This year the number for sockeye salmon in the Kenai drainage was about 900,000.

Crossing the sparsely grassed sand dunes we got back in the toad. We headed for a local point of interest. Russian fishermen and fur hunters had originally settled Kenai. They had brought their own style of architecture with them. The local Russian Orthodox Church had been established in 1848. The building that we looked at, with its onion domed steeple, was built in 1902 and completely restored in the last two years. This was a photo op of note. As we pulled away from the church building David pointed out other buildings that had the same characteristic dome.

We never really got in the country on the Kenai Spur hiway that runs down to Soldotna. Civilization is going to soon join the two towns, into one. From Kenai to the coach was just a hop, skip and a jump and the next jump landed me in the shower.

By eight thirty dinner was on the table.

Washed and fed I sat down to write for a while before closing the books on another day.

David and I had enjoyed the day adventuring together and Onie had enjoyed a day of rest, peace and quiet.

Cool temperatures and the sound of rain on the roof usually mean a good night’s sleep for Onie and me. Around midnight a definite cooling was taking place inside and outside the Marlin. We reached for more cover and scrunched down further into the bedding. At six thirty a gentle rain followed. The sleep we had been missing was being made up and it was great. When the rain stopped at ten it was coffee and teatime. Onie followed that with breakfast tacos. Now we were well rested and well fed. All was right with the world.

Tackle was limbered up and we headed for the river to catch more reds. We pretty much fished all day but David did take time out to make a reservation with LaVonne for a return trip in ’04. The gold bug of 1898 hadn’t bitten him but the redbug of ’03 certainly had. In addition to the fishing opportunities it was easy to see that David was taken with the whole Alaskan experience, which was to be expected. Anyone who loves the outdoors and beautiful surroundings would be hard put to not fall in love with the Kenai Peninsula. All of Alaska is grand but the Kenai is the best.

Onie baked some reds for lunch and we each took a break, of our own choosing to savor this delight, before returning to the river.

The limit had been increased to six a day, last Saturday. Today I caught my limit. David contributed to our stinger and then we drove into Soldotna to take the fish to the processor.

Back at home we had more fish before climbing into the sack, late.