July 11, 2007

Even though the light is fading to the tune of about four minutes a day or an hour every two weeks it was sunny when we rose at eight. The cool air was quite bracing as I stepped into it to fetch the morning paper.

Coffee and tea preceded breakfast and breakfast preceded our swim.

By one in the afternoon we were back in the coach.

A call was placed to Larry Croft to try to arrange a halibut trip. I got his voice mail and left a message.

Onie worked on cleaning the house. Many folk think the coach is really big. It is thirty seven feet long and with the slides extended has about three hundred twenty feet under the roof. That means we live, for four to five months, in an area smaller than many dens which are twenty by twenty or four hundred square feet. Of course our space is divided into driving area, living area, dining area, kitchen, bath, hall and bedroom. I only mention this so the reader will understand that almost everywhere in the coach is a high traffic area and as such needs almost constant cleaning. We do remove our shoes at the door and that helps but dirt still comes in so Onie has to spend some time almost everyday doing some cleaning.

Notes were placed onto the hard drive before yours truly went to the river to fish. Not too long later yours truly retuned from the river. Whatever fish were there before my arrival were still there at my departure.

The sign that hangs on the front of the coach, declaring to all who venture near that Tom and Sylvia Blomstrom of Coldspring, Texas reside within the confines of the Marlin, endures the rain, sun, cold, heat and UV rays. From time to time it needs a fresh clear finish coat. Today it got such a coat before Onie and I sat down to a snack and a crossword.

Frank’s smoked fish had been in refrigerator for two days and it was time to deliver it to him and Bea. We placed the bags in the car and headed off to his house. When we got there he and Bea were at the supper table so we left the fish with them, no visit, and returned to the Marlin.

Ever the optimist the writer returned to the river, fishing pole in hand. There he made one hundred flip, drag and snatch passes before returning to supper.

Not trusting to memory he then made a few more notes of the day’s events before crawling into bed.

Onie was watching a movie on LMN when he went to sleep at nine thirty. The next morning she said she had stayed awake until ten.

July 12, 2007

Rain was falling at one and the house was cold. By eight it was fifty three and the rain continued to fall. The coffee and tea were made and the paper brought in from the wet outdoors. With a warm bed beckoning and no urgent calling the scribbler returned to bed until nine thirty when we rose to get our coffee and tea. We had slept almost twelve hours.

After returning to bed around eight I had a vision. Young men have visions and old men have dreams. I had a vision. In my vision the oldest of our daughters, Clair, was twelve and her sister, Dawn, was eight. We were in Alaska. The girls were running through tall weeds in a big meadow. Their long blond hair was blowing in the wind. They were cavorting with calves their size. I stood ahead in the distance watching as the girls played. We climbed trails next to a river, watching for bears and when we got to the top of the trail we were overlooking a big empty valley. Two mule deer were running on the far side. I turned away from the tableau before me to look at the girls.

When I looked back at the valley the deer were gone and in their place loomed a large subdivision and lots of blacktop. Stunned I looked back at the girls and they are grown. On the way back to the camp the once big river was small and full of downed trees. I had had a wonderful glimpse of the girls again when they were young and carefree. It seems life passes us by in an instant and like life our children are grown in an instant. Their childhood is lost forever. Sometimes lives become small like rivers and are filled with the downed trees and debris of our existence. We too are older. The vision had been brief, perhaps momentary, but it had provided me a wonderful glimpse of the girls and their youth before the cares of the world caught up with them.

Haddock and oatmeal was breakfast along with our hot beverages.

We made our bed and headed off to Freddies to pick up the cake for Kyle’s birthday party. We also got paper plates, balloons, candles and a Mylar balloon before stopping by the Starbuck’s located inside Freddies for Onie’s latte and my Chai tea. Properly spoiled we continued our shopping filling Onie’s list of ingredients for blueberry cobbler.

A lot of men tend to wear their clothes until buttons are gone, holes appear in knees or elbows and most women are embarrassed to be seen with them. To men this appearance of being well worn is also a sign of vast comfort in the fit and a bonding with the clothing item. If the item happens to be made of cotton men intuitively know what the cotton plant went through to produce the fibers that make up the garment. They also know of the sweat and toil the farmer went through to grow that cotton and the labors of everyone in between to turn that cotton into fabric and that fabric into a shirt or pants. It is such knowledge that makes men keep garments long after women, and particularly their wives, would have relegated the items to the rag bag. It is also a lack of desire to shop that makes men wear "comfortable clothes". Today Freddy had a sale on men’s shirt jackets and hoodies. Onie and I found two new shirt jackets for me, that snap instead of button, and they were put in the shopping basket with the agreement that two of my old shirt jackets would be donated to someone less fortunate. It was a tough decision but at last I relented and agreed to the terms. The hoody was an easier purchase since yours truly owns no hoodies and consequently would not have to give up anything that was old and comfortable.

We returned to the camp at two with the cake and assorted party items as well as our own things.

We took the cake to Sandy’s and Onie stayed to help her prepare for the party at three. If the rain didn’t abate the party would be a wet one.

Shortly before three the rain quit but it had cooled things off to fifty five degrees. When the camp members began converging on Sandy and Dennis’s rig for the party they brought the usual chairs but in addition they brought coats.

Birthday Boy, Kyle, with Grandma Sandy

Most of the campers had contributed something in the way of food. Dennis and Sandy provided hotdogs and hamburgers. Dennis was cooking by three thirty and at four the food line formed. The rain cloud that had been percolating while Dennis was cooking decided the time was right for an old fashioned frog strangler. These occur very rarely on the Kenai but today was one of those rare days. Folks crowded together under the tarp Dennis had erected for just such an occurrence and the party continued even if some of the participants were a bit damp.

Doris, 80 years old, (left) just drove her motor home from Florida and plans to make Alaska home.

Near five, Kyle, the birthday boy who was celebrating his seventeenth, began opening his gifts, most of which were money or gift cards. They all fit his wallet and he was very happy with no need to worry about exchanges. Grandpa Dennis and Grandma Sandy did get him a couple pair of tennis shoes but of course they knew the right size.

The rain slacked off enough at five for the partygoers to disburse and that included us.

Tucked safe, dry and warm in the coach Onie watched LMN while the laptop endured my pecking. Later games were played until I heard the TV go off when I joined Onie in bed.

July 13, 2007

Fortunately the body will adjust to where it is, eventually. We are now able to sleep until the civilized time of eight or nine. This morning it was eight. When we woke it was fifty two and partly sunny.

The paper was retrieved and read with our coffee, tea and cheerios, for me, with blueberries sprinkled on top and raisin bran, for Onie. The crosswords were solved before we set off for the pool and our morning swim.

On the way back we stopped by the bank to take care of some business before going to the post office and then Safeway.

We were back home at three where we enjoyed a snack of steaming chili, from Safeway.

A few casts told us the fish were still at their home in the deep so we adjourned from the grate to Dennis and Sandy’s where we visited with them and Kurt and Becky.

The rain came.

While the rain fell plans were made for the morrow. Sylvia, me, Kurt, Becky and their son Christopher laid plans to raid razor clams on the beach during low tide at Ninilchik. We would leave the camp about eight thirty so we would arrive while the tide was still on the ebb. Kurt, Becky and Christopher seemed to be very knowledgeable about digging for razor clams so we inquired a little to see what we would need. Kurt said to bring boots and clothes that we didn’t mind getting dirty. Other than that they had everything we would need. It was a date.

Even in the great flood Noah lived through the rain until it eventually quit. Here it quit around seven and the sun had regained prominence by eight.

The fishing rod resting under the coach almost called out to me as I passed by on the way home. It was more than I could resist so the gear was gathered up and the short walk was made to the grate. An hour later the walk back to the coach was made carrying nothing more than I had ventured out with.

Onie had elected to remain in the coach. Now that I was back our supper of warm-ups was laid out.

Later we refilled our pill boxes before settling down to make notes, for me, and play computer games, for Onie.

Near midnight we surrendered to the fatigue that had crept in.

July 14, 2007

We woke at six to find the camp wrapped in fog. The forty four degrees felt colder in the damp air and for a minute I thought I might be back home in the East Texas woods, in December. As the sun started burning off the fog we could see patchy clouds passing overhead.

While the early birds, outside, were getting the worms we were inside getting our coffee and tea which were soon followed by eggs, bacon, ham and grits.

At seven thirty the group climbed into Kurt’s spacious Ford pickup and headed off for Ninilcik and another adventure for Onie and Pawpaw. Becky, Onie and Christopher sat in the back and discussed whatever ladies discuss when they are separated by a nineteen year old young man. Kurt and I talked about his business, the one I retired from, our families, deer hunting and bird hunting. Way before the hunting discussion was over we were at Ninilcik. It was nine.

Ninilcik is a small Alaskan fishing village that is bisected by a stream that is euphemistically called a river, of the same name. It seems to the writer that a more fitting name would be "creek". One look at the buildings in the village told me that a really good paint salesman could make a good year’s commission in this village alone, unless there was a village ordinance against painting ones property. From the looks of the place that might be the case or perhaps the good folks of Ninilcik just like the rustic look.

When we left the pavement we began driving on a road that matched the village in its lack of maintenance. Soon Kurt reached down and engaged the four wheel drive insuring that if we got stuck in the loose sand we would really be stuck but if we didn’t get stuck we would still be moving, as Yogi would say. As we followed the line of trucks and SUVs headed toward the beach we didn’t get stuck but if we had the vehicles following us on the one lane road would surely have pushed us all the way to the beach, such was the crush and rush to get there.

On the beach we found a place to park. Believe it or not there were hundreds of vehicles on the beach and even larger numbers of people dotting the beach almost as far as the eye could see.

Perched high on a cliff, overlooking his domain, a bald eagle was perched watching the scene unfolding below him. When the clamming was over there would be pieces of clam floating in the incoming tide and dinner would be served, for him.

Our outing would not be one of quiet seclusion broken only by the cry of the gull and tern rather it was one of cacophonic noise. Unmuffled ATV’s roamed the beach driven by folks who undoubtedly lost their driving license due to multiple charges of reckless endangerment. Children yelled for parents and parents yelled for children. Adults, assaulting the sand, in search of clams, like one crazed on drugs, called to one another as more clams were found or a bed played out. Add to this the sound of the rolling ocean waves and a brisk wind and it was all one could do to not run into the distant dunes seeking a little peace and quiet but peace and quiet would not be found until our five gallon buckets were filled with razor clams.

Out of the truck we donned our boots while Kurt, Becky and Christopher put on rain bib overalls. Shovels and buckets were grabbed as well as a thing called a clam gun. I had no idea we were going to shoot the clams since I thought they were buried some six inches to a foot under the surface and besides the clam gun didn’t have a trigger.

In fact a clam gun is a piece of aluminum, or other, pipe about six inches inside diameter and two and a half feet long. To the top of the pipe is affixed a handle in the shape of a tee. The pipe is sealed at the top but has a small hole that allows air to pass into the handle and out through a small hole on the bottom of the cross piece. When a blow hole of a clam is located the pipe is placed over the hole and driven down into the sand by leaning on the handle and pressing down. As the pipe goes into the sand one can feel air escaping through the hole in the handle. When the pipe is well into the sand the hole is covered with a thumb or finger and the pipe extracted, with some effort, bringing with it a column of sand.

When the pipe is out of the hole in the sand the "gun" is moved away from the hole and the finger or thumb removed from the small hole in the handle. Without the suction created by the evacuated air the sand falls out of the gun and the gun is immediately placed back in the hole and driven deeper and extracted again using the same technique. Usually in this column of sand the clam will be found. This is the easy and clean method for finding razor clams.

The hard and dirty way, and the way most of the hundreds of people on the beach were finding clams, is to use a shovel shaped like a sharp shooter but with a very short handle. In this method of clamming one finds a blow hole and kneels next to it in the wet sand mud mix. There may even be half an inch or an inch of water swirling about to keep one company. With a sharp eye on the blow hole one begins digging, far away from the blow hole but angling down toward it, with the shovel. When a hole of arms length has been excavated one drops the shovel and dives toward the hole ramming ones arm down into the hole, up to the armpit, all the while feeling for the fast moving clam. If one is lucky one will cut his fingers on the clam shell, remember "razor" clam, and feel the clam as he tries to dig free of the searching hands. If one is quick he will gain the prize and lift the clam from the wet sand before moving onto the next hole.

Tom with Kurt, Becky and Christopher

Christopher with razor clam

Kurt and Becky

The author was no good with the shovel and dive method so Kurt was kind enough to send him off with the "gun". It is a testament to his zeal that at the end of the clamming session, about two and a half hours, he had full grown blisters on his otherwise soft palms. Onie was to be thanked for this situation as she was constantly scouting new territory for Pawpaw to dig in and she was a good scout. We contributed our share to the three buckets and would have done better had I not been putting clams in the bucket of a tongue tied Vietnamese lady who was digging close to me. I’m sure the poor lady was handicapped as she saw me put more than a dozen large clams in her bucket and never said a word.

Sylvia was the photographer. See--no mud.

It is not often one is an eye witness to a true miracle but that day I witnessed one. The woman who had remained mute the whole time the clams were being placed in her bucket found voice when Onie apprised me of the error of my ways and we started putting our clams in the correct bucket. She yelled to her fellow diggers and fairly cackled as we plodded off to find more blow holes and dig more clams. It was, I thought, a real miracle and worth a few clams to find the woman had gained her speech.

Sidney, Sid, Barb and Frank had also gone to dig clams on this day of miracles. They were up the beach from us with three scouting for blow holes and Sid doing the digging with a "gun". It is a testament to his stanch back that he dug about a hundred twenty clams while we were digging two hundred twenty.

Sometime during our sojourn on the beach the tide turned. As it washed in it caused new blow holes to appear. These were explored and clams dug from some but not all. At noon we called a halt to our efforts and walked to the truck. Apparently someone had moved it while we were clamming because it was much farther away than it had been when we went to the beach. At the truck we stored our gear, changed back into our shoes and began the trip back.

Now the traffic that had flowed into the beach was flowing out. It was as if it flowed in contravention to the tide. Had we lost traction and become stuck we surely would have been pushed out by the crowd now eager to get home and clean their catch.

We got back to Castaway at one thirty and decided it was time for lunch. We took a break and met back at Kurt and Becky’s rig about two. We began cleaning clams. Thinking back on the rush to get off the beach I couldn’t for the life of me understand why any sane person would be in a rush to start the process.

Our clams, all two hundred twenty of them, we were entitled to three hundred and up until now I thought we should have stayed until we had them, were in three five gallon buckets. The buckets had salt water in them to keep the clams alive.

Now each of the two hundred twenty clams had to be taken from a bucket and have a knife run along each side of the shell detaching the membranes where they were attached to the shell. With this done the shell was discarded and later dumped into the river. The clam then had to be "digger" trimmed and the gut cut off. The digger was split with a pair of scissors and washed to rid it of any residual sand. The stomach was placed in another bowl to be cleaned later by me and Kurt at the fish cleaning table on the fish grate. Here we cut off the portion of the stomach with the most sand in it and then split the remainder and washed it out. This simple process was repeated two hundred twenty times and mercifully not three hundred. We finished at eight thirty. Well, we almost finished. The processed clams still had to be packaged for storage. Kurt and Becky placed the cleaned clams back in a bucket and we raided our ice maker for ice to keep them cool for the night.

At the end of the great clamming adventure we found our way to the motor home where we had supper, the details of which escape me.

At ten thirty we fell into bed with visions of clams dancing in our heads.

July 15, 2007

Two thirty came very quick. When I woke I could still feel the clam gun in my hand but it was not to be today. Today was another kind of adventure, halibut fishing.

Outside it was forty four and it didn’t feel much warmer as I hurriedly dressed for the upcoming trip. Most of the necessary stuff had been gathered last night and now it was just a matter of checking it to be sure I had everything that would be needed. While I was checking, a pot of hot tea brewed and was then poured into the thermos.

The porch light was on at Kurt’s so I went out to find him. He was walking toward the coach. He was loaded and ready to leave as soon as mine and Duaine’s things were in the truck.

By three we were rolling. It was true we were leaving early but we all agreed it was better to be early than late for a fishing trip. The acquaintance with Duaine and Kurt had been short and I hadn’t realized what dedicated fishermen they were but now it became crystal clear as we motored down the Homer highway and told fishing stories. Ever voluble and willing to share a story I began relating some of my more spectacular feats at fishing. That was a big mistake since the guys had time to think of some really fabulous daring do like the time Duaine caught the Loch Ness Monster in Lake Michigan or the time Kurt caught a Bigfoot on a two pound fly line.

I had no idea that Bigfoot was anything but a land creature but Kurt assured me they are amphibians and inhabit the Great Lakes and some of the big lakes in Iowa where he lives. Fearing to be viewed as plebian I didn’t bring up the fact I had never heard of a large lake in Iowa, only large pig farms. My tale of catching a two hundred twenty pound halibut paled at these feats of daring do and I was ashamed to talk about the time I caught a three hundred pound catfish in a cast net or the thirty four pound bass on a bent pin.

Fortunately there was no fog on the drive to Homer and we arrived there in almost record time, an hour forty minutes, sparing me the shame of not having any fish stories to match theirs. While they had been telling their unvarnished tales I had been drinking my tea and munching on some venison/feral hog sausage. At least they had no feral hogs where they hunted and they had been most impressed when I related the time I had been chased by a love-starved feral sow and finally had to shoot her, nine times with a 270, single shot rifle which I had to reload in a total of forty nine seconds. She had been a yearling and only weighed in at four hundred ninety pounds. Had she been a full grown sow I probably would not have survived to tell the story.

We had seen one moose cow on the way to Homer and as noted previously had encountered no fog. The exertion of relating all the hunting and fishing stories had caused my fishing mates to work up quite an appetite. We stopped at McDonald’s where we ordered four egg McMuffins. Eggs, bread or labor is very expensive in Homer as the four little sandwiches cost us fourteen dollars and forty cents.

Because of the light traffic we had arrived early and even after paying for our gourmet breakfast and fueling we were at the small boat basin at five ten. We parked and I went to slip H-9 to see if by chance the Larrys were there. They were. The diesel engines were idling, warming up, for the run out to the fishing grounds. Captain Larry told me he had to fetch a box of herring, bait, and we would be ready to leave as soon as the rest of the fishing party arrived.

Armed with this info Kurt, Duaine and I got our things together and while Duaine and Kurt took out things to the Solitude I parked the truck. By the time I got back to the boat the rest of the fishing party was there, Dave, a flaming liberal democrat with a great sense of humor and a potty mouth beyond compare, and Thomas, Tom, and Henry.

When I stepped on board little Larry, the deck hand, cast off the land lines and we were underway, Katchemak Bay bound. Captain Larry likes to leave no later than six. It was five thirty eight.

Had we been able to order the weather we couldn’t have done better. The wind was non existent and the sea was absolutely flat. In the clear sky the first rays of the sun could be seen in the east. The mountains of the Chugach Range with their snow capped peaks glowed in the morning light. It looked like a perfect fishing day was in the offing. As we cleared the breakwater I climbed up to the flying bridge where Big Larry, the captain, was doing the navigating and getting us clear of the marina and no wake zone.

Having my fill of fish stories that dwarfed the most fertile imagination we avoided that subject and talked about family and world politics. We solved all his family problems in ten minutes and were working on the world political situation when I was preempted by the liberal democrat who was demanding equal time. Not wanting to duel with an unarmed opponent I sought the forward vee bunk where I laid my head for a well deserved rest. Between the fish stories and the uncontrolled democrat I was in need of some solitude, myself. I went forward and lay down. Outside the hull the calm seas gently slapped against the hull lulling me to sleep.

In my sweet slumbers the throbbing of the diesel engines changed. It may as well have been a fire bell clanging. My sleepy head rose from the warmth of the sleeping bag and I was aware of the slowing forward motion of the Solitude.

On the fantail with the rest of the group I watched and listened as the anchor was dropped, held and the engines killed. It was time to fish. It was eight ten.

With a hundred ten feet of water under the hull we began fishing. Ten minutes later the fist halibut came aboard, but not for long. It was only thirty or forty pounds and we, as a group, had come for bigger fish. That is to say we wanted bigger fish to fry. That fish and many more in its weight class were sent back to grow up.

An hour later, with a couple of fish in the box, put there by pikers, the writer was able to boat a fifty pound halibut. With a little fanfare it was placed in the box with the smaller fish. The group fished on and my friend the vocal liberal democrat, Dave, threw back many fish in the forty pound range. He was looking for the "big one" and eschewed anything he considered small.

Now Dave is a true democrat and had many stories to relate of daring do and exploits only undertaken and accomplished by superhuman effort. This alone was credentials enough to qualify him as a true blue yellow dog democrat even if he wasn’t familiar with the term. He was most interesting and entertaining and his tale of killing a mastodon during the Nixon administration was a wonderment to the whole crew though no one dared question his veracity or the validity of the tale. He told us this was directly and incontrovertibly linked to global warming as proven by Al Gore and company and he asserted that no one could dispute the word of the man who invented the internet. I was in complete agreement with that statement as it appeared that to do otherwise was to sleep with the halibut tonight.

While we were all dumb stuck by Dave’s tales of unseemly bravery and fortitude the fog moved in. The whales that had been breeching five hundred yards astern and the mountains just off the bow quarter had been swallowed up in the vapor. We were fishing in a bowl of soup from which no sight could escape.

In this ocular haze we found ourselves with a changing tide. We had been fishing at almost slack tide, with a mere pound of weight on our lines. Now as the tide changed and the current picked up we switched to two pound weights and hoped they could find the bottom and the halibut which seemed to be more elusive with each passing moment. Though the decisions had been less than enthusiastic more halibut had been placed in the fish box and we were down to the last three fish. The writer had kept one of the many he had boated. That was the fifty pounder. Now time was growing short and the tide was running faster and stronger. Kurt and Duaine had both boated and kept nice fish but the story of the Bigfoot and Loch Ness Monster haunted the scribbler so he fished on in hopes of hooking and landing Moby Dick. Kurt and Duaine, at his invitation, fished to help him with his last scaly varmint.

With a mere thirty minutes left Kurt’s reel began to sing, and sing and sing. He had a fish. This was the one Dave had been looking for as well as yours truly. Kurt reeled and the fish resisted. Kurt reeled and the fish ran. Kurt reeled and the fish sulked. Kurt reeled and we watched. Anon, color was seen. It was a nice fish but it wasn’t Moby Dick. At last the fish was alongside and Larry’s trusty four ten was brought into play. The one shot angered the fish but he was wrestled inboard nonetheless. Lying at my feet he gave my legs a good whacking and blood soaking before being unceremoniously dumped in the fish box.

Big Larry pronounced him to be one hundred pounds. Two more fish were boated before the anchor was peaked and we headed home. My new friend Dave, the raving liberal democrat, had settled for two thirty pounders after throwing back several forty and forty five pounders. Such is the plight of the liberal democrat, never happy with enough and always hoping for more.

Thomas and Henry, probably closet liberals, ended up a fish short. They opined as how the governor, Sara Palin, a republican, should make up the deficit out of the budget surplus. That is called bucks for fish or "help me, I can’t catch a halibut".

Little Larry secured the anchor and we began the trip in. The wind and tide combined to make for lots of chop and turbulence as we made our way back toward Homer and the small boat basin. When the wind finally subsided, the fog moved in forcing our return to be by GPS and radar. Wherever one looked it was the same, a gray shroud of fog.

Alee and aweather we knew not how distant the shore lay or for that matter what lay ahead. What we did know was we were experiencing a bumpy ride home.

When the seas calmed and the ride smoothed we knew we were near the small boat basin.

The headland provided protection and at three forty we entered the harbor.

Larry pulled alongside the wharf where guys from Buttwhackers, the folks who fillet the catch, were waiting. A few minutes lapsed while the group took pictures, gathered belongings and debarked.

Duaine and Kurt

Then we followed our catch up the pier to the fillet tables. No filleting can take place until everyone has a picture of the catch so the fish were hung by the gills, with care, and then we fisher folk stood behind them as shutters clicked and images were captured.

Then the real work began. Kurt, Duaine and I had decided that we would pool our catch and divide it, evenly. One of the filleters picked up our tubs of fish and began slicing and dicing taking less than a minute a fish to do their job. When it was over the fish were picked up by guys from Coal Point Seafood Company.

While the fish were en route, a few hundred yards, we went to the truck, exchanged our boots for street footwear, stowed the rest of our gear and then walked back to Coal Point to await the arrival of our fish. They had beaten us there.

We had one hundred sixty point eight pounds of fillets. A little quick arithmetic told us that came to about fifty three pounds each. Since Kurt was taking his fish to the camp to do his own processing we placed his portion in a bag and then divided the remainder between Duaine and me. From my portion one fillet was removed so Onie and I could have fresh halibut, soon. The remainder was left with coal Point, as was Duaine’s, to be skinned, cut into one pound portions, vacuum packed and flash frozen. On my return of the twenty second, with Gary and Kyle, I will pick up the fish and take it to the park where it will go in our freezer and Duaine’s freezer.

With Kurt’s fish tucked in the back of the truck we headed for Sterling but stopped at Safeway in Homer for ice to go on the fish. While there a Chai Tea somehow found its way into my hands.

Now we headed for the house with no more stops anticipated. As we neared Ninilchik the sea fog rolled in covering the pastures on the bay side of the road before rolling on over the road and enshrouding us as it had done earlier, as we fished. We drove in the fog for some fifteen or twenty miles before finding the sunshine again.

In Soldotna we stopped at Freddies where Kurt went in to get a Foodsaver and an extension cord for his freezer.

The folks in the camp saw us roll into view at twenty minutes to seven. It had been a long day. We stopped in front of the Marlin where Duaine and I unloaded our gear. A small group gathered to inquire about our success or lack thereof. They seemed to be duly impressed with the poundage we had managed.

When the gear was in the coach the good fillet knife my friend Jim bought me last year was taken to the cleaning table along with the halibut fillet where the skin was removed. Back at the coach the fillet was cut in half and stored to be cooked tomorrow.

Supper, at nine, was the ever present salad along with sautéed shrimp.

At nine forty five the laptop was opened to record notes of the day.

The writer was tired but not yet relaxed from the adventures of the last few hours. Later with the little hand and the big hand on the clock pointing at twelve it was decided to get in a prone position, preferably in bed. Lack of sleep, twelve hours in the last sixty three, had finally caught up with me.

July 16, 2007

If it is Monday it must be a swim day.

The paper was brought in out of the forty nine degree weather at seven. The coffee and tea brewed while yesterday’s and today’s paper were read. Onie joined me at eight and we had our raisin bran and blueberries before gathering our things and heading off to Skyview.

The obligatory stop was made at Safeway, on the way home.

On our return we worked crosswords and notes were made. Notes become more important as memory becomes shorter.

Monday also means cleaning day including doing the wash. While the wash sloshed about in the machines, we usually have three loads, Onie and I read email and surfed, the web. Later we stored our clean clothes and made the bed.

Ever the optimists we headed off to the river for a little arm exercise for in truth that is what time at the river has been so far this year. Of course you will recall the fish grate was carried away by an ice jam this spring but it was rebuilt with knowledge that if it was built they will come, they being the reds. We were still waiting.

With no fish to clean we started in on the appetizers, early. Later we followed them with supper and then Snood. Onie tired of it soon and went to the back to watch LMN. I stayed with the laptop in an effort to finish a few more stories.

July 17, 2007

There is a price to be paid by night owls. One is that you are often the last to rise. So it was this morning with Onie getting up at eight and me later. She did the coffee and tea thing and then sat down to work on the stories to be posted, tomorrow. At nine I showed my face and sat down with the tea Onie handed me.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and the temperature had already reached the seventy four degree mark.

Onie read my mind when she asked if I wanted biscuits for breakfast. She prepared them along with an egg and some sausage.

Rested and fortified I resumed the position at the laptop, played three games of Snood and then turned to writing.

We were going to dump our tanks today so we both worked on getting the kitchen clean and the dishes washed and dried. The drill I had done a couple of weeks before by myself we did together. It went much quicker and was infinitely easier with her helping. When we got to the dump station we thoroughly cleaned both holding tanks before moving back to our site. Onie guided me in very carefully so we didn’t hit the TV dish.

Everything was put back together and better than it had been. Onie stored a lot of things in the basement that I had sitting under the coach. When we had to move again it would be easier.

While it sounds repetitious it is true that I went back to the grate to fish, to no avail. It was not a long session as we were expecting company for supper. That would be Kurt and Duaine as well as their wives, Becky and Bonnie. We invited Christopher, too.

At the coach I helped Onie with the dinner preparations. On the menu was World Famous Digby Scallops, wrapped in bacon and grilled over charcoal. The entrée would be beer batter halibut. Sides were potato salad, courtesy of Becky, and rice pilaf from Bonnie’s kitchen.

The party got under way a little after five. As is the custom everyone brought their own chairs and drinks. The grill was fired up for the scallops while Onie served salmon spread and salmon salad with spicy crackers and a little venison summer sausage. Kurt brought his Cajun cooker to cook the halibut on. We have a small Fry Daddy but it was too small to cook for so many. The writer started off cooking but soon all three fishermen were involved in the cooking and tasting. When the rest of the halibut reached the picnic table all gathered round and the meal began in earnest.

By eight all parties had eaten past the comfort level and even though much fish remained a halt was called to the gourmandizing. Everyone pitched in to clean up the table then took their leftovers and chairs, said their goodnights and walked across the road to their rigs.

At ten I went to fish leaving Onie to play computer games.

After losing a king and a solitary red in an hour of flipping, dragging and snatching I rejoined Onie.

After a game of Snood the writer began adding a few more notes and expanding on some that were already there.

At twelve thirty Onie deserted and went to bed. The expanding continued ‘til one thirty.