Monday, August 19, 2013

Chasing Whales...


While halibut fishing with Lauren and Paul Dorweiler, we noticed some whales spouting out in the bay near us, so we pulled up the anchor and charged over there for a closer look.  We enjoyed a half dozen whales that were in a loose pod - maybe a half dozen all within a mile or so. Maria says they are Humpback whales - the species that is most commonly seen in Kachemak Bay.  They were swimming along the surface as whales do, spouting, and all at once, the body would make a huge arch and the fluke would come out and down they would go.  It was amazing to me that amidst the tidal current and the waves, the whale tail would make a huge slick on the water - a calm spot that looked like a toilet bowl flush, but the thing is, it would just stay there for five or ten minutes.  Just think - if a boat goes by, there's a wake, and it passes by and the water resumes its normal look relatively quickly - but when the whale flukes and goes down, it completely disturbs that place for such a long period of time. What power they must have!  In the boat, on the slick, directly above the diving whale - one had the feeling that you could be sucked down in the toilet flush.  We were laughing about that.

Paul, Lauren and I enjoyed these whales for a couple of hours.  They were the first whales I had ever seen, and it was special because I'd been watching them for over two months.  It was nice to be able to share this with two good friends.  Funny, the draw the whales had.  Our purpose for the day was to go out and catch a limit of halibut, then salmon, then rockfish or ling cod or whatever we could get. But, when the whales showed up, all of that was postponed.  We kept saying, "let chase just one more whale and then we can go fishing", but the lure of continuing to observe them was just too strong.  We observed a cow and a calf together.  We followed them as they swam along the surface, just in front of the bow, and then had them fluke maybe thirty yards off the bow.  A highlight came when I happened to be looking at Lauren's face, and suddenly it just lit up. I looked where he was looking just in time to see a mammoth splash.  Apparently a whale had come up from the depths full force and completely breeched - it's entire body flying through the air. Lauren saw the whole thing!


Sunday, August 11, 2013

Something deeper. If you choose to read it, settle in for a long one...


The wilderness has been calling me again – the same way it has beckoned to me my entire life - and I am going to answer the call, the same way I answered it when I acknowledged that it was time to spend a summer in Alaska. 

There are many kinds of wilderness, I think.  Meeting Maria and spending so much time with her has been a wilderness in itself – something that I have not done much of for the past twenty years.  I realize now how wonderful it is to have a female companion in life to share in everything that can go on in a day.  What has happened these past two months has been nothing like I had expected or imagined.  I thought I would be spending the vast majority of my time out in the real wilderness of outdoors Alaska – sleeping in my boat in a quiet cove, in my tent on a quiet beach, up on a mountain meadow, or simply in my camper.  I also expected that I would be making trips to town, buying supplies, moving around, cooking meals, and spending a lot more time alone.  I’ll never regret how this went, for I’ve enjoyed Maria and her life immensely – her home, her friends and family, the guests, the dogs, going to church, running errands together, fishing and hunting out of her “basecamp”, the wildlife and scenery, numerous excursions out into the wild,  and especially the wonderful feeling of loving touch – which has been much more absent than present since my divorce over 20 years ago.

But as I said earlier, I feel the need for some time alone – just a little more of what I was expecting.  My heart is drawn to Humpy Creek, where I can experience the sights and smells alone, and get back to my sense of awareness and just being – instead of always trying and doing.  After all, isn’t that what I always tell my guys at teen challenge?

I ride my “skiff” (that’s what they call my boat around here) across the bay.  It’s another beautiful, warm, sunny day; it has been like this for about three weeks straight.  Homerinians are amazed at the heat and sunshine this summer, but they are complaining like we Minnesotans do when we’ve been without the sun for too long. They want some clouds, rain, and cooler temps.  They want their lawn to quit scorching.  But as for myself, I’m loving this.  I make a quick phone call to mom and dad – just to check in before I get out of range. I haven’t talked to them in a week, which is longer than usual.  Mom and dad’s good friend Marion Aulie has died at the age of 91, and I ponder about what that must feel like to them – to be flirting with old age themselves, and witness someone go before them that has been a big part of their lives for so long.  Just think: my mother fellowshipped with Marion every Wednesday for over 40 years! Now that’s amazing.

I’ve got a good tail wind, and it only takes me about 25 minutes to get where I am going – the glacial spit out in front of humpy creek.  This is a massive tidal flat, and I must moor my boat far out in the bay so that it doesn’t beach.  I push Maria’s canoe out of my boat and into the water, and tie it to the side of my skiff while I drop two anchors and prepare my backpack.  A few minutes later, I am ready; I turn, and swear under my breath.  The canoe has come untied and has drifted out of my reach. Now how does that happen? So it’s back up with the anchor, motor over to get the canoe, re-anchor, throw everything into the canoe including myself – who by now am all sweaty and irritated, and begin paddling the 3/8 mile to shore – during which time I make a conscious decision to leave my newly arrived foul mood with the boat and the bay.

Tim, just let it go….

This is a state park consisting of tens of thousands of acres of ocean beach, tidal flats, mountains, glaciers, and trails.  There are numerous people camped along the beach – but I’ve found that they tend to hang out there, and don’t stray too far from “home.”  It’s not long and I am moving up the path to the humpy creek cabin.  It’s 7:30 pm, and I am a little anxious to get up to the cabin, get my gear off, test the wind, and find an appropriate place to settle down to take up the watch for a bear.  But again, I have to remind myself: “not so much trying and doing Tim… just enjoy what’s happening this moment.  If you get a bear, great.  If not, that will be just fine too.”  So I slow my pace.  I watch carefully in the cottonwood grove where Joey (Maria’s youngest son) and I saw the sow and cub black bears three days ago.  Here, I notice the long, fluffy strands of cotton fluff.  Dirt, pine cones, seeds, needles, and other litter from the forest floor clings to the cotton.  I come upon the head of a big chum salmon that wasn’t here last night when Maria and I left – sign that a bear was here.  Farther ahead on the trail, I find a decent sized bear track in the mud, and the entrails of another fish – covered with flies.  “Better that than me” I think to myself.   The flies are crazy aound here, and it’s nice to have them focused on something else…

 It’s not long before I’ve wound my way through the forest, over some deadfalls, and up the narrow path to the cabin.  There’s a new bear pile or two along the way – more evidence of the presence of bears – signs that weren’t here yesterday.

At the cabin, I drop my pack and fill my cargo pants with what I need for the evening: some grapes and cherries, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of smoked salmon, and a chocolate granola bar.  I also add my binoculars, some bug spray, a windicator (nothing more than a small squeeze bottle full of baby powder), and a knife.  With my gun slung over my shoulder, I walk carefully down the rock face, and begin sneaking my way up the creek.  I check the wind: there isn’t much, but what there is is drifting up and away.  I continue.  The bears have a nicely worn trail on each side of the creek, but they tend to use the side that has the least obstacles – so I do the same, crossing the creek from time to time in my knee-high boots to take the path of least resistance.  There is evidence of bears all around: piles of scat, fish parts here and there, matted down grass, mud on sides of the banks, and tracks in the mud and gravel at the creeks edge.  I come to a small clearing across the creek on the opposite bank – where the bear trail comes close to the creek, and I know that if one follows it, I will be able to see it clearly from the other side.

The bank is about mid-thigh high, and I throw a leg up and crawl back into the brush just a few yards back.  There, I find the perfect tree to lean against, a nice spot just wide enough for my butt, and a root on each side so I can lean left and right when I need to change position.  I lay my gun down beside me, along with some insect repellant, the windicator, and my dinner.  Now that I’m here, there’s not much left to do but watch and wait.

I think about how I have become involved in Maria’s life and business.  An awareness comes to me that my mind has been too busy with what needs to be done, and I reflect that people are like that, aren’t they?  The only time some of our minds get a rest is when we sleep, and for some of us, that doesn’t even happen.  I recall a life that has been sometimes filled with fear and anxiety, worry and dread, pain and stress, work and responsibilities, and complicated relationships.  It could be said that we spend 95 percent of our waking hours contemplating all of this; I’ve heard that said before, but when is our mind ever really blank?  When does it cease to function -  and try and just be aware, just rest, just be?  Not very much, I think, but it does happen.  A couple of times, Maria has turned to me and asked, “what are you thinking?”  And I have been able to turn to her and honestly say that my mind was blank.  She doesn’t understand that, and I think it’s harder for a woman; I’ve heard that before too.  But I’ve got nothing to hide from Maria.  She’s the kind of friend that I can say anything to, and I have.

My mind feels pretty blank right now as I sit on this bank, tucked back into the alders on humpy creek.  I’m not thinking about mowing the lawn, painting the door, trimming around the house, doing the dishes or laundry, planning to smoke fish tomorrow, running the dogs, blogging and checking emails, or the like.  What I notice is what’s going on at this very moment.  I’m aware of two sounds: the ringing that is always present in my ears, and the water flowing down from the glaciers high up in the mountains to my south.  I break it down.  There is the overall noise of the creek flowing, but there are individual sounds within that: a sound that comes from where the water flows over the biggest rock that protrudes a bit more than the others; the sound where the water comes up against a rotten old log that acts as a barrier and impedes the water’s path – so it changes it’s direction because it must go down to the ocean.  Somewhere downstream, I hear a loud series of splashes.  Salmon? Or a bear chasing salmon?  It matters not, because I am staying here. 

The creek is loud, and I realize that this is a good thing.  It will cover any movement and noise that I make – so that a bear will not be as likely to detect me.  But I also know that what goes around comes around.  I’ll have to be diligent, because a bear can appear and disappear just as easily if I can’t hear it.  So I keep my eyes roving, left and right – checking where I know the trails are, familiarizing myself with what is there, so that when something different happens, I will know it.  I imagine the deep black  color of a bears hide, and tuck that away in the search image that is there in every predators mind.  When my eyes cross that color again, I will know it.

This is really nice. Peaceful.  I don’t know what time it is, because I turned off my phone to conserve the battery.  All I know is that I am feeling sleepy and relaxed.  The sun is setting, and it’s rays come sideways through the taller spruce, alder, cottonwood, and aspen trees that line the creek edges.  The creek is in shadow now.  Three logs have fallen across the creek, and extend from one bank to the other.  A red squirrel crosses one of the logs – the only mammal I have seen in quite awhile.  Then, a gull circles overhead, and from time to time, I hear an eagle – with its trademark chirping.  Those are the only two birds I can hear.  I shift to my right side – my favorite place to sleep.  I’ve packed light, and only have on a thin pair of camouflage cargo pants, with a light shirt and a hooded sweatshirt.  Now the evening chill is coming, and I’m wishing I had another layer on.  But it’s not too bad yet, and I begin to doze. Consciousness is gone for who knows how long; seconds, maybe minutes.  I open my eyes, still nothing.  This is just way too comfortable.  I nestle in a little bit more. 

The next time I open my eyes, I see the color black coming down the creek from left to right, and it’s only 15 yards away.  I recognize it for what it is, a bear coming my way, and my heart is immediately racing.  Quickly, I sit up and my gun is produced in my hands, as if it were an extension of me.  How many times have I done this?  It has become such a natural thing.  In a second or two, the bear is on the log that is just upstream from me, and he is crossing the creek to my side, where he will be right in my lap.  There is no time to judge this bear, or even think.  My gun comes up, the crosshairs settle high on his shoulder, and the gun bucks.  There’s a huge splash, some floundering in the water, and then I hear the moan of a dying bear, only eight yards to my left and just below the bank and out of my line of sight.  I’ve heard this sound a number of times, and I’ll admit that it’s not a sound that I enjoy.  Out here, alone in the woods like this – it’s downright creepy, and as a shiver crosses my spine, goosebumps pop, and the thought occurs to me to jump up and get the heck out of there.  Just run – the way I did when I was 19 years- old and shot the big bear by Bock’s Gun Shop back near Brainerd, Minnesota.  But the mournful bellowing only lasts a few seconds, and then it’s all over.  Thank God…

I slide down the muddy bank and wade over to see my bear.  This isn’t the size of bear that I was hoping for, but it was a great experience just the same.  It’s always fun and satisfying when a plan comes together, and this young boar will probably make for some good eating too.  He’s 150 pounds, give or take – about like the one I faced off with at my truck two nights ago.  Now, after the adrenaline surge, my body is starting to calm, and I begin to feel cold and damp - as usually happens late in the evening around here. The mosquitos are getting bad too – so I slide the bear into the cool water.  This will cool the bear meat nicely while I go back to the cabin to rest for a few hours and wait for daylight that will come again soon – as it always does during summer in Alaska.  Back at the cabin, by candlelight, I read more of the book I’ve been enjoying by Gerald May – before turning in.  There is the always present sound of the running water, and a few comforting creaks of the old cabin roof – and this is what I eventually fall asleep listening to.

I’m up early to skin the bear, take it’s skull, and the choice cuts of meat.  I’m done hunting, but I carry my gun anyway, just for insurance.  There are numerous salmon in the upper reaches of the creek this morning, much more than there was last night.  Night must bring good conditions for them to move up from the pool down by the cabin? It’s a theory anyway.  As I work on the bear with the knife Paul Dorweiler made for me, I can hear groups of salmon splashing their way up the creek right behind me.  The water is only a few inches deep in some places, and it takes some effort for them to continue making their way up.  Other salmon are coming down the river – gliding effortlessly over the rocks, and over, under, or around the logs that lay strewn across the creek.  Must be on their way back down to the pool”, I think to myself.  Spooked by a bear? Or just finished with what they were doing?”  I’m finished, and I double-bag the bear parts in large trash bags – then lift them into my backpack.  I hoist it up, and begin the trek back to the cabin; it’s not too heavy, but I can definitely feel it!

Back at the cabin, I’m not feeling done yet.  I just don’t want to leave this place.  Really, there are no responsibilities for today, is there?  My mind is enjoying the break.  My spirit is being renewed.  Everything in me says, “STAY”.  Without any more hesitation, I put the meat in the shade, down by the creek, and tell myself that it will be fine.  I climb the hill and look off the cliff, and there are hundreds of salmon below me in the quiet pool.  Several are in shallow water, with their backs sticking out, and I wonder if I can catch one with my bare hands – so I do, and it takes little effort.  A few of these salmon are getting close to death; their eyes are rotted out, their senses are dulled, and there is little fight left in them.  I enjoy this fish I caught bare-handed - by photographing it in the early morning sunlight, and then I release it back into the creek – where it swims in circles, confused at first, and then joins the big pack of fish in the deepest part of the pool.  Back up top, I take up the long piece of twine and snagging hook that I left draped in the tree yesterday when I was here with Maria.  I can’t resist. Just a few more fish.  I cast out the line, let it sink, pull it gently along the bottom of the creek- until the line is resting over the top of an unsuspecting salmon’s back, and then I jerk hard – and I have a big salmon on the line.  With some effort, the salmon is pulled through mid-air up the 20-foot vertical cliff, it’s body flopping against the mossy rock cliff until it comes to rest on the precipice, at my feet– where I can unhook it and toss it back into the pool.  I have convinced myself that it is ok to do this; all of these salmon are about to die, but before they do, they will eat their own smolt and the smolt of other salmon species.  They are better off dead.  Besides, rotting salmon flesh can’t be that good to eat, can it?

I can feel a nap coming on, so it’s back up to the cabin, which is cool in the shade.  I cozy up under an old sleeping bag, and drift off quickly.  I must have been really tired, because I don’t remember much about this time.  Only that I “checked out” for about five hours, and awoke to a terrible smell.  Craptastrophe!  Sheesh, this hasn’t happened to me in a long time, so why now?”  My appliance has come un-stuck from my stomach area, and my own feces are all over me.  Now I know I was sleeping hard, because this rarely happens; I always seem to have an awareness of what is going on down there – even when I’m asleep. 

Most of you take for granted the best things about having a colon – so here’s a short biology lesson for you to consider.  Don’t pity me; just understand.  First, YOUR colon absorbs all of the remaining nutrients, moisture, and acid (from your food) that the small intestine doesn’t get.  Unlike me, YOU get to form a turd, and YOU get to fart from time to time (yes, I miss farting and YOU would too).  When a craptastrophe happens, the victim gets a bath in a very acidic mixture of human waste that, if it isn’t cleaned up immediately, will burn the skin, cause rashes, infections, and foliculitis. For me, it was way beyond that point now.  Welcome to my life.  Someday I will write a humorous book about all of the crazy things that have happened to me during my life (I even have a publisher interested already), but that’s not going to be right now.  It just isn’t that funny yet…

I was quickly up, rummaging through my backpack, and so, so grateful to find that on a previous trip, I had packed the supplies that I needed to remedy the situation.  What a relief, because I was thinking that I would have to hike back to the boat, which would have meant more and more burning and discomfort.   With supplies in hand, I dashed down the hill to the creek with a roll of paper toweling from the cabin shelf - and began to bathe in the cool water, cleaning myself from the waist up. I needed a bath, and the water felt good over most of my body, but it stung like hell on my wound site.  And, it was then that I realized that I had no bug dope on, and the flies and mosquitoes were eating me alive!  Believe it or not, the bugs were worse than the other, so, as quickly as I could, I re-applied the new appliance to wet, raw, and bleeding skin, and sensed fully the stinging and burning on the site, along with the biting insects (those rotten, merciless little bastards!), I quickly washed out the only clothing that I had along – which I needed to put back on by the way.  Yuck. Then I sprinted back up the hill to the safety of the cabin, where bugs were left to terrorize something else (probably my remains) while I collected myself once again.

God – what did you have in mind when you created mosquitos, black flies, and horse flies? Seriously, I really want to know…

It’s 2:00 pm now, and I’m still not ready to leave.  Things have settled down – so I take some more fruit, a piece of salmon, a bottle of water, my gun, and my good book – down to the lower flat where I can enjoy the shade, the spawning salmon, and some words of wisdom from Mr. May.  The author of the book I’m reading is writing from the perspective of having cancer and being in his late stage of life.  He’s recounting his most memorable times of being out in the wilderness, and teaching me how to be more aware, feel, and just be – which is exactly what I need to hear right now.

I use my windicator to check the wind.  It’s coming up the creek from the ocean, and I’ll have a better chance of seeing wildlife if I cross the river and let the wind take my scent away and up the bluff behind me.  That way I can watch the grassy flat across me, and maybe I’ll see a bear, a moose, or who knows what?  The rock I sit on is wet, but it’s the only thing around me where I can have any sort of visibility – otherwise, my view would be too obstructed by the dense alder trees that protrude off the bank and hang out over the creek.  The creek is wider here – maybe 30 yards across, and it’s flat and shallow, with a mix of gravel and mud; it’s a perfect spot for a bear to go fishing.

The salmon are everywhere, glistening in the sun, splashing, and carrying on with their ritual.  Gulls and eagles soar overhead, waiting for the next death to occur, or for a few scraps to be left by a bear.  There’s a gentle breeze coming up from the sea, using the creek bed as a wind-tunnel that keeps me cool as I sit here in the shade.  The creek is much quieter here, because it is much wider, I think.  My book is good.  My butt is a little wet, but other than that, I’m really happy.  As I read, I am always aware of the now almost constant sound of salmon splashing - but there is another sound that I am filtering out.  It’s like something rubbing, or something hitting something else – only underwater.  I watch and I listen, but I just can’t place it. 

I’m sitting here on a rock in the river, and big salmon are swimming all around my feet.  I marvel at this, and my mind wanders from what I am reading.  I have this deep sense of gratitude happening right now.  I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this time.  Thank you God, for this.  For this feeling.  For this place.  For this wonderful playground you have made.  I feel You now, watching me, smiling down upon me - glad that I am enjoying your awesome creation.

I’m startled back to reality.  A big salmon has gone too shallow, and has beached himself.  I’m tempted first to stone him, then, to help him back to deeper water.  I’m kind of weird that way.  But I linger, and watch, just to see what he will do.  He’s right beside me, and as he struggles to free himself from the place he is certain to perish, he splashes water all over me for several minutes – and I allow it.  Eventually, he makes it back to deeper water, the splashing stops, and I can finish my chapter.

The wind is coming up now, and for the first time in quite awhile, I have a concern.  My boat is moored far out in the bay, and I have stayed longer than I expected.  The tide is going out, and the thought occurs that I could walk out and check on things.  Not that I could do much if it were gone, but at least I would know, and then I could start making some phone calls.  So I start up the path.  The wind is in my face, which is always good.  Not only does it feel and smell good, but it lets me know that any critter that is ahead of me will not be able to smell me.  I pass a pile of bear crap that I have seen now for five days, and I make a mental note of how it had changed from day one to day’s three, four and five – from a pinkish red, to brown, and eventually black (which is yet to come based on other old bear shit that I have seen around here).  Farther down the creek, there are pink salmon, also called “humpies”, for which the creek is named.  Most salmon, as they spawn, change color, and before dying, get very distinct humps on their backs.  This is especially true for the pink salmon.  But these fish are still pretty fresh.  They are silvery green with spots, and some are getting a slight hint of pink or red.  I’m sure their flesh is still fine, and I make a mental note to catch a half dozen to take home before I leave.  My old buddy Gary will enjoy smoking them when I bring them back to Minnesota.

Suddenly, I hear voices, and realize that I am getting back to the camping area.  So loud.  So foreign.  I realize that I haven’t heard or said a word since I cursed under my breath yesterday after losing control of the canoe.  When is the last time THAT happened???

There is a bridge to my right, and a four-way trail directly in front of me.  Two women and two men are coming across the bridge.  The women are talking furiously, and they are in the lead.  The men are quiet, following.  I chuckle to myself.  Why do women do that?  Desperate for emotional connection and intimacy?  Desperate, or simply desiring of?  

And the men, following quietly.  Are they tuning out their wives, or are they simply basking quietly in the beauty of this place?  And then I think, “Quit analyzing, Tim. The women don’t want to see a bear. The men do. It’s just that simple…

Haha…

It’s no matter; I love people, but I don’t want my solitude interrupted… not yet, so I hang back in the shadows, not wanting to talk.  The noisy strangers come to the four-way, and continue on up the trail toward the glacier.  So different than me, I think.  When I come to a four-way intersection, I will take the one that parallels the creek or river over the glacier trail every time.  The foursome is past now, jibber-jabbering about what happened yesterday, and what they are going to do tomorrow.  It makes me glad that I have been living more in the moment on this day…

I’m at the beach now, and after rounding the bend and clearing the grassy hump, I lift my binoculars and can see my boat securely in place exactly where left it.  I’m not idle here for long though.  There are three other boats, and I hear more voices, so I immediately turn and take the trail back up toward the cabin.  Along the way, I spy three big male chum (dog) salmon in a hole right beside the bank.  I pause to watch them, and I finally realize what that sound was that I was hearing earlier.  It’s the sound two male chum salmon make when they fight .  I watch as a female comes into the nest, turns on her side, and deposits a few eggs.  Two or three small dolly varden trout swoop in and eat some of the eggs, but then the three big male chums are there to chase them off.  They stay in the hole, moving upstream, and circling back around.  I’m videoing this with my phone, and then the sound happens.  One chum gets annoyed with the other, and he head butts his adversary – biting and chomping as he goes.  The sound is a combination of fish flesh against fish flesh, with a little belly rubbing on gravel along with it.  It’s not a sound I’ve ever heard before, which is why I didn’t recognize it earlier, but I won’t forget about this sound now.  When I hear it again, no doubt, I will be in Alaska…

Back at the cabin, I pull out my computer to settle in and write what you have just read.  I start first outside in the sun, but it is too hot, and direct, so I move onto the bench in the shade.  There, the flies are just too much, so I strip off my damp clothes to dry on the porch rail, and I head into the cool cabin to finish my journaling.  My computer battery is nearly dead now, so it’s time to close.  It’s just been great – lying here tapping away for a couple of hours, conveying what I have been sensing and what I have been feeling this past 24 hours.  In the background, there has been a sound of wind in the leaves, water over rocks, and a few creaks in the cabin roof. That’s all. I feel a deeper sense of awareness, of being a part of what’s going on out here.  There’s been little contemplation about the past or future. Instead, mostly, I’ve just experienced the now. What a nice break, and I make a mental note that I must do this more often – wherever I happen to be…

What? Another nap? Wow…

 I awake to find that it’s 6:00 pm now.  I’ll likely hang out for a few more hours, doing whatever I want.  It might be fishing. It might be hiking. It might be animal watching, or it might be another nap.  I seem to be really good at that lately.  Whatever it is, I will continue to feel calm and content – of this, I am sure.

How does one say goodbye to a place like this?  The thought occurs to me that I may never see this place again, and then I’m surprised by tears – the kind that just gush without any warning, and without a sound.

I’m still not ready…

This place represents so much; a lifelong dream come true;  meeting someone who I’ve come to love –someone that I must now leave; perhaps the best summer of my life.  I could go on and on, but somehow, this place has captured and summed up for me the essence of this adventure – and now, I must leave it.

Suddenly, I realize I’ve been letting my emotions build. You’ve been procrastinating having to deal with this, haven’t you, Tim?  Why else would the emotions be so strong right now? But then, hasn’t it always been this way with me?  

When I feel, I feel strongly, and I feel deeply.  And then I am emotional.

But if I felt more often, I mean, really felt, daily – then would I be less emotional? Would that be better?

 I don’t know if this is something that I can change – even if I wanted to, but perhaps it’s something to think about.

And a prayer forms that springs from the depths…

This thing that I’m feeling… let it not be fear-based. Let it be rooted in gratitude for what I have been so blessed with. Let me just follow You, and trust in the path before me – that it will be revealed as I go.  Whatever happens, I will be ok. Hasn’t it always been so? Thank you…

The cabin is as I found it. It’s even better.  I lift the pack off the spare bed, and slip the straps over my shoulders.  On the porch, I take one last look at the pools full of chum salmon, and the two forks of humpy creek coming together as one - just uphill from the cabin.  I breathe deeply of the evening air as I latch the door, pause to admire this old cabin one last time, and then with resignation, turn my face toward the path that leaves.

I’ll take my time though. I’ll linger on the flat where the salmon spawn and splash me – another of my favorite spots.  I’ll sit on the wet rock in the deep evening shadows, just in case a bear or a moose comes out in the pre-darkness for a drink or a bite.  There, the salmon will splash around my feet again. I’ll be amongst fish, and bears – where I belong.  I’ll enjoy it.  I’ll just watch, and take it all in.  I’ll feel all of this again – to the fullest extent.  And then quite abruptly, just like the tears appeared, I will know that it’s time, and I will stand up and quietly leave. I’ll be ready…


Sorry to drop off the face of the earth like that...

For those of you who enjoyed the blog and kept up regularly, I enjoyed all of your comments and your interest in my adventure.

It's not over yet - I just got super busy there at the end.  I knew I was going to be leaving soon, so I was trying to make every minute count in every way that I could.  Running the two businesses with Maria got super busy and crazy there at the end - especially with all the trouble with employees.  It was worse for Maria than me, but I tried to help in any way that I could.

Lauren Dorweiler and his dad Paul flew in on August 2, so I had company until we left on the 7th, and there was little time for hanging out plunking on the computer.  We were fishing, exploring the ocean, taking mini-trips up to the Kenai River, whale-watching, enjoying Homer, and more.

Lauren and I dropped Paul off at the airport in Anchorage on august 7, sold my camper, bought a used freezer from craigslist, loaded all the fish, and headed for home. Lauren and I made a marathon trip of it - driving 72 hours straight and made it home in 3 days, with only stops for fuel and snacks.

I've still got so much to tell you and show you - lots of stories and photos from the last week to ten days.  I've also got Ben helping me to figure out how to load all of the video that I took, so that you can enjoy it too.  I might need to load them to youtube, and link to that.  Anyway, stay posted and watch for more!

In the meantime, I will post a "novel" that I wrote one day when I went exploring and bear hunting up humpy creek - one of my favorite places that I found up there.  The post will be much more reflective, creative, and deep than anything you have read thus far, that's for sure...