An intensely felt fear of fish guts
After leaving Anchorage, we headed south toward the Kenai Peninsula and camped at Skilak Lake. We were the only people in the campground, and our site was right on the large lake that was lapping the shore almost violently in wind. That night, the fish were jumping. They were so big that their contortions sounded like bears splashing around in the water, and more than once I made John sit up so we could yell at the beasts to move along. I felt a bit foolish in the morning when we realized it was just monsterous fish (which, to be fair, are a little scary in their own right). I've been having more night fears lately, since we started reading Into the Wild by John Krakhauer about starving to death in Alaska (in Denali, actually).
The next day we went down to Homer, a quaint drinking town with a fishing problem (or so advertises the bumber sticker at the bar we parked at). It's the most ... cosmopolitan (I think that's the word I want) place we've been so far -- bookstores, art galleries (mostly full of chunks of wood with native-inspired titles and dreamy paintings of Wind, and Sky, and Fire--know what I mean?). We camped on the Homer Spit -- a four mile stretch of land that sticks out into Ketchemak Bay, full of charter fishing outfits, campgrounds situated to overlook outrageous sunsets, some toursist spots, and local industry--and a dude who lived out of a giant, aged boat that looked like Captain Hook's ship, with strange unmatched elements glommed on--tires on the deck, shabby curtains, pieces of other boats. We drank at the Salty Dawg saloon, where the walls are festooned with thousands of dollar bills (inscribed by visitors with sayings like "In Homer the odds are good, but the goods are odd"). There we met Matt, a guy about our age from Kodiak Island (native), who works on the "slope" (the oil fields). He was teaching himself to fly fish on his two weeks off, and offered to give us a salmon filet from a salmon he'd caught on the Anchor River. He drew a map on a napkin to his house and said he would leave it in a cooler for us the next morning when he went out fishing. Then he went off to deal with a "complicated" situation involving two blondes.
The fish was huge -- a two pount filet at least. For dinner, we breaded it and fried it (no way to bake it). We ate an early supper after driving back toward Skilak Lake and the Kenai River, a turquoise ribbon that bursting with the deep pinks and reds of some of the biggest salmon I've ever seen. We could see scores of them resting in calm spots on the river, feeding in the eddies. When they crested, they were like prehistoric monsters. Not being much of a fisherman, I found the sight actually unsettling more than thrilling. After supper, we loaded on our packs and hiked three miles in the evening out to a spot on the Kenai to camp for the night.
The trail had some great views of the river early on but turned into bushwhacking as it passed through an old forest fire site. Once we approached the river again, we came upon a pretty ripe stink. John stopped short in front of me and uttered, "Holy shit." I immediately thought it was a bear or a moose, and seeing the shadow of fear, he quickly moved to reassure me that it was only mutilated, rotting fish that had been dragged up to the trail by a bear. I felt much better, of course. Now in a total panic and unable to look at the fish, John guided me down the trail with my eyes closed, where we promptly came upon some more of the offending creatures. I was already a bit afraid of them when they were in the water, alive and well. When they were dead and rotting, I was unnerved in the utmost.
We found a spot to camp nonetheless, which smelled clean and woodsy. John had to read to me for about two hours to get me calm enough to stop seeing the fish dance around in my head (it helped also to picture pygmy goats jumping over a fence). By morning, I was calm and realized how gorgeous the river was, and how incredible the fish. We hiked out, had a cup of coffee, and headed back to Anchorage.
Watching the news last night was the first we heard about Hurricane Katrina. We met a firefighter up here who is being sent down to help with disaster relief -- I was amazed that they're pulling people all the way from Alaska, but I guess it's necessary. Also, McGill has announced that it will take Tulane students in for as long as they need--good for Canada. We shudder to think about gas prices, but it's a small thing to swallow until the city's back on its feet.
The next day we went down to Homer, a quaint drinking town with a fishing problem (or so advertises the bumber sticker at the bar we parked at). It's the most ... cosmopolitan (I think that's the word I want) place we've been so far -- bookstores, art galleries (mostly full of chunks of wood with native-inspired titles and dreamy paintings of Wind, and Sky, and Fire--know what I mean?). We camped on the Homer Spit -- a four mile stretch of land that sticks out into Ketchemak Bay, full of charter fishing outfits, campgrounds situated to overlook outrageous sunsets, some toursist spots, and local industry--and a dude who lived out of a giant, aged boat that looked like Captain Hook's ship, with strange unmatched elements glommed on--tires on the deck, shabby curtains, pieces of other boats. We drank at the Salty Dawg saloon, where the walls are festooned with thousands of dollar bills (inscribed by visitors with sayings like "In Homer the odds are good, but the goods are odd"). There we met Matt, a guy about our age from Kodiak Island (native), who works on the "slope" (the oil fields). He was teaching himself to fly fish on his two weeks off, and offered to give us a salmon filet from a salmon he'd caught on the Anchor River. He drew a map on a napkin to his house and said he would leave it in a cooler for us the next morning when he went out fishing. Then he went off to deal with a "complicated" situation involving two blondes.
The fish was huge -- a two pount filet at least. For dinner, we breaded it and fried it (no way to bake it). We ate an early supper after driving back toward Skilak Lake and the Kenai River, a turquoise ribbon that bursting with the deep pinks and reds of some of the biggest salmon I've ever seen. We could see scores of them resting in calm spots on the river, feeding in the eddies. When they crested, they were like prehistoric monsters. Not being much of a fisherman, I found the sight actually unsettling more than thrilling. After supper, we loaded on our packs and hiked three miles in the evening out to a spot on the Kenai to camp for the night.
The trail had some great views of the river early on but turned into bushwhacking as it passed through an old forest fire site. Once we approached the river again, we came upon a pretty ripe stink. John stopped short in front of me and uttered, "Holy shit." I immediately thought it was a bear or a moose, and seeing the shadow of fear, he quickly moved to reassure me that it was only mutilated, rotting fish that had been dragged up to the trail by a bear. I felt much better, of course. Now in a total panic and unable to look at the fish, John guided me down the trail with my eyes closed, where we promptly came upon some more of the offending creatures. I was already a bit afraid of them when they were in the water, alive and well. When they were dead and rotting, I was unnerved in the utmost.
We found a spot to camp nonetheless, which smelled clean and woodsy. John had to read to me for about two hours to get me calm enough to stop seeing the fish dance around in my head (it helped also to picture pygmy goats jumping over a fence). By morning, I was calm and realized how gorgeous the river was, and how incredible the fish. We hiked out, had a cup of coffee, and headed back to Anchorage.
Watching the news last night was the first we heard about Hurricane Katrina. We met a firefighter up here who is being sent down to help with disaster relief -- I was amazed that they're pulling people all the way from Alaska, but I guess it's necessary. Also, McGill has announced that it will take Tulane students in for as long as they need--good for Canada. We shudder to think about gas prices, but it's a small thing to swallow until the city's back on its feet.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home