A channeling of my inner Hemingway — more in the facial, follicle category versus an eloquent style of prose or improper weapons handling and attributable untimely demise…

The days are growing shorter here in Alaska and fortunately my woodpile now fills the shed as we prepare for our second go at winter. The books codify last winter as the coldest in 50 years but with a “Super El Niño” developing in the Pacific, this winter is forecasted to be warmer with less snow.  We will see — I apply my old man’s rule of thumb: 50-50-90! You got a fifty percent chance with a 90% probability of being wrong!

Nevertheless, as a practitioner of the arcane art of ichthyological procurement, I say, “Go to the monger if you are in the market for getting…but if outside Sunday convocation you seek a quasi religious experience, head down to the river on a gorgeous summer afternoon with fly rod in hand…”

So, that brings us to summer in Alaska…all three days…the wood shed is stocked for winter and the honey do list, like the celestial radiance overhead is waning.  Last week provided beautiful blue skies with neither clouds nor bugs in sight, a turquoise river flowing hard and fast, air temperature about 63 degrees…Liberty Card and Fishing License in hand…let’s go boys!

Settling into a rhythm reminiscent of more than one FITREP documenting my past forays while in the navy: clumsy with brilliant displays of arrogance while maintaining the capability for demonstrating a modicum of competence — assuming I don’t, first, get everyone subordinate to me killed or injured and all senior to me relieved for cause…fortunately, that ultimately worked out okay! So we sally forth…and, well, still clumsy with brilliant displays of arrogance…

Initially I had a few of our targeted quarry throw the hook while developing a familiarity and symbiotic relationship with a new rod... Sadly, I lost one while trying to single hand with the net…ended up going for a short swim with that one…of course, I MEANT to do that… in order to uhm you know, cool off…I mean what kind of fool would actually fall into the river trying to net a fish…after all, I am already in the river; I don’t need to impersonate a spastic turtle suffering from Tourette’s syndrome with an ungainly plunge into the very waters I am navigating…

Then, as the sun warms my bruised ego and I find myself on the verge of a supernatural state of zen, BAM an absolute wall hanger of a buck salmon makes his presence known! In a heart stopping moment, nine feet of pole doubles over in carbon agony while the reel’s drag screams in violent protest …a brute of a fish defies his aquatic regime to catch air in an arrogant and defiant display of his full silver majesty for the dwellers of all domains…how, in the natural world can a monster this size actually suspend the incontrovertible laws of gravity?

I would need a bevy of Quantum Physicists and time on the CERN super collider in order to replicate this behemoth’s ability to demonstrate such defiance to Newtonian authority; he makes an Olympic Gymnast appear clumsy and an athletic simpleton. I have even heard that the PRC delegation is petitioning to file a complaint alleging performance enhancing drugs.

In a further distortion to the space-time continuum, time inexplicably slows as though ripped from a Gordon Lightfoot ode to the “Pride of the American Side”, when minutes turn to hours.  An aquatic induced tachypsychia mutes any sound as singular drops of water shed from the leviathan’s dinner plate sized scales and become the focus of tunnel vision!

Unbeknownst to me, other anglers, like their predecessors since time immemorial begin to look, point, and slowly gather.  The spectators seemingly drawn by an invisible gravitational nexus make their way closer — to either observe and recant for the historical cannons their proximity to this mythical clash, or be positioned to shake their heads and whisper in derision at a conclusion that only they could have forestalled had they been rightfully challenged.

Then, as though preordained, the legacy cadence of time slams me back into a now, surreal, reality. The rod suddenly unloads and tension falls from the line as irrevocable as the plunge of Newton’s famed apple when the leader parts and gives way. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry as I proclaim great indignation at the fishing gods and utter an unholy promise, like Ishmael, to continue my quest in defiance of their latest judgement favoring the colossal silver beast!

Absolutely epic experience that one — and a bruise or two on the ole rib cage from the rod to show for it…pragmatically an adjudication that decisively resolves the lingering question of whether or not my choice of 30 lb leader was sufficient for the activity at hand.

Finally the cast, the bite, and the angler’s actions seal the deal with fresh caught salmon for dinner!  Not nearly as massive as the previous combatant but enough to provide my wife and I a couple of fantastic meals!

Godspeed and Good Hunting, Always

This message has been edited. Last edited by: KP93,

Pretty good Prose Sir.

Your Homeric apostrophe to the salmon is wasted on the likes of us, KP93. But seriously, only 122 posts since August 5, 2009--that is, 17 years tomorrow?

Oh hide not your precious talents from us mere mortals, pray! We have a Norman Maclean among us.

Alaskan Summer--only the mosquitoes prevent it from being a brief paradise on earth.

quote:

Originally posted by sjtill:
We have a Norman Maclean among us.

My first thought as well.

Great writing KP93.

There is nothing like standing knee deep in a gin clear mountain river in the evening with a fly rod in your hand. Nobody around for a hundred miles. That perfect cast. Watching the line uncurl and your fly landing softly right behind that rock where you wanted it. A gurgle of water and the line tightens...

I've got to get out there. Next week.

quote:

Originally posted by sjtill:
Your Homeric apostrophe to the salmon is wasted on the likes of us, KP93. But seriously, only 122 posts since August 5, 2009--that is, 17 years tomorrow?

Oh hide not your precious talents from us mere mortals, pray! We have a Norman Maclean among us.

Alaskan Summer--only the mosquitoes prevent it from being a brief paradise on earth.

Doc,

Ha — unlike the soliloquy that follows and with no sophistry intended, I attribute a paucity of posts to a zealous adherence with my Alma Mater’s motto, Acta Non Verba.

Seventeen years lurking on Para’s front porch is the actualization that time truly defies the constraints and shackles of man. Neither parent nor my younger sister walk this rock and ultimately, I navigated the ranks of a very gratifying career; returning to the contented embrace of a grateful civilian. I now live a more mundane life with my bride; anchored safely beyond the siren song of Poseidon’s grasp.

Initially I logged into SigForum to troubleshoot an issue with a slide lock and new magazines— after being courteously, but directly encouraged to utilize the search function in any future endeavors, our gracious host politely confirmed the answer to my mundane inquiry.

Inevitable and persistent as an ocean wave, a sanguine maturity tempered by the hubris of man; experiences — both exhilarating and tragic; and the unique opportunities to experience life, living overseas multiple times on multiple continents followed.

You and Gustofer are far too generous in your reference to Professor Maclean; a true giant amongst mere mortals who blessed us with his talents — fortunately his legacy abide both in his chosen art and as captured by cinematic splendor. Ironically, “my Jessie” also handles the family's finances and writes all the checks — including an allowance, I believe now 30 years in arrears…I might need to look into that! I often remarked her job was the “business of us” while I was single mindedly traveling the world and like many here, enforcing or imposing democracy as ordered.

As my epitaph will eventually reflect, I am simply a wide eyed wanderer from the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas who spent a career at sea and ashore. My greatest achievement, outside my marriage, was an opportunity to support the development, fielding, and ultimately reluctant acquiescence of Naval Ballistic Missile Defense (BMD) capabilities. By my count I was the plank-owner for ten, seminal BMD milestones that span missile firings, tactics development, and even launching the call sign for the SM3 missile. Ultimately, I had the privilege to command our Republic’s (and Alliance) sons and daughters at multiple levels during both times of relative peace and great violence.

Although now three years in the wake, I believe my last message as a Commodore to my ships’ Captains still resonates: “This is my final signal from our Flagship and after 31 years of naval service, my final signal from sea. I return to port with the confidence and knowledge that you are ready for war if called. It has been an honor and a privilege to serve with you and our NATO Sailors, Soldiers, Airmen, and Marines in realizing Deterrence and Defense of the Euro-Atlantic Area from the fjords of the Arctic Circle to the chasms of the North Atlantic. I thank you for the irreplaceable opportunity and trust to Sail in company with you and your Sailors one final time -- Godspeed and Good Hunting Captains!”

In retirement, now, combatting a lesser denizen of the aerial domain, accursed mosquitoes, and preparing for the inevitable onset of winter, I try to live a life not unlike one immortalized in a favored poem by Sam Walter Foss:

“There are hermit souls that live withdrawn 
In the place of their self-content; 
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, 
In a fellowless firmament; 
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran - 


But let me live by the side of the road 
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, 
Where the race of men go by- 
The men who are good and the men who are bad, 
As good and as bad as I. 
I would not sit in the scorner's seat, 
Or hurl the cynic's ban - 


Let me live in a house by the side of the road 
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, 
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope, 
The men who are faint with the strife. 
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears, 
Both parts of an infinite plan - 


Let me live in a house by the side of the road 
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead 
And mountains of wearisome height; 
That the road passes on through the long afternoon 
And stretches away to the night. 
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice. 
And weep with the strangers that moan, 
Nor live in my house by the side of the road 
Like a man who dwells alone -

Let me live in my house by the side of the road.


It's here the race of men go by. 
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, 
Wise, foolish - so am I; 
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, 
Or hurl the cynic's ban? 


Let me live in my house by the side of the road 
And be a friend to man.”

It has been a helluva ride and one I intend to continue to cherish and honor as long as the good Lord allows!

Godspeed and Good Hunting, Always

This message has been edited. Last edited by: KP93,

Thank you, Commodore!

quote:

Originally posted by 6guns:
Thank you, Commodore!

6guns, it is I who thank all of you as it truly was the greatest honor and privilege of my life. Today “on the beach” it is simply Jon!

Now, instead, I reflect and thank not only my Sailors but also those who entrusted me with their most precious treasure…their sons and daughters, husbands and wives. I like to think I was effective, but I also know there were many who were better.

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters deserve only the very best! So, now I truly enjoy the opportunity to age — ideally gracefully, but most assuredly graciously — in the wild.

Godspeed and Good Hunting, Always

This message has been edited. Last edited by: KP93,

Did a late king take your lure and make a run for it?

Saw the same thing happen at the convergence of two creeks somewhere on the east side of the Susitna River somewhere in/around the Talkeetna area (back in the early '80s). Pinks were the fish of choice that day, and one of those couldn't do what I saw.

quote:

Originally posted by 229DAK:
Did a late king take your lure and make a run for it?

It was the height of the Sockeye run on the Kenai river…So, I suspect a good size Red vice a King…I might have been prone to bit of exaggeration in the recanting of the tale…

Godspeed and Good Hunting, Always