Alaskan Wild Life : Humorous Perspectives on Life in the Bush - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ted is a Newspaper Columnist, author, poet and C.P.A. who has lived in the Alaskan Bush for 31 years.

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A PUN MY WORD On a remote gravel bar, I recently waited to rendezvous with a friend who is a bush pilot. Alerted by the growing drone of the engine, I watched for the plane to show up. It burst into view, reduced power, and settled to the far end of the bar.

Straight and true, it rolled toward me. Until, suddenly, it hit a soft spot and executed a snappy 90 degree turn, right into a thicket of young willows. The horrifying racket had not quit when I broke into a run toward the wreck.

My friend, who shall remain nameless here, jumped out of the cockpit, stumbled through the brush to the front of the plane, and discovered with great relief that nothing had been damaged. About that time, I arrived on the scene, breathing hard. My friend, red-faced, shook his head and said, "Now there is a real bush pilot landing... right in the bushes! "

Fishing is a major component of the Wild Life, perhaps the major component. Dedicated fly fishermen have always seemed to me a frantic, fanatic sort... driven "Type A" fellows. Oh, I will confess to fly fishing myself, on occasion, but only on those dreamlike days when conditions are perfect: hot sun, gold in a clear blue sky, not a breath of wind and the water low and crystal clear.

Then, fly fishing is a joy - the Royal Coachman drifts through the air to lightly kiss the river's surface. As the bright colored artificial fly drifts gently on the current, a flash of silver in the depths gives way to a vision of the perfect grayling, rising open jawed to take the lure.

I get a real satisfaction from exercising the skill to counter his vaulting leaps... his mad dashes... and to bring him to net. At other times, fly fishing gets to be rather like work; casting into the wind, repeatedly presenting the Coachman on a turbid, silt laden surface. Not being type A, work is something I am averse to and avoid whenever possible.

Then is when, if hungry for fish, I turn to the good old "scrap iron", a number two Mepps spinner, usually silver. Most often, though, the fishing pole is a mere accessory, necessary only for appearances sake. You see, if folks (particularly those of the female persuasion) see me sitting motionless in the sun, empty handed, my back against a tree, while I stare at the water chuckling by, they say, "Look at that lazy bum, loafing there in the sun. Wasting the day!" That's certainly what Plum says, at any rate!

If, on the other hand, I'm holding a pole, they say, "Oh, he's fishing." Then, I'm blessed with an aura of purpose and energy. Little do they know that I have only a rock tied to the other end of the line. The water has a mystic charm as it swirls by. I highly recommend river watching as a pleasant (and not too strenuous) way to pass an afternoon. Later, I try to look hangdog as I say, "Ah, I got skunked again." Do me a favor though, and don't tell Plum my secret.

Trappers can find quite a few aids. Bottled fox pee, for instance, to make a set trap more attractive. A bottle of salmon scraps, left to ferment in the sun for a month or so, can add an interesting aroma, too. These concoctions have to be used with care, though. I'll never forget the time I didn't get the top back on the fox pee, not tight enough.

My eyes were watering something fierce by the time I got home. I got cold, too, where my shirt pocket was all wet from the spill. Plum scowled when I edged in through the door and hastily pulled her sweatshirt up over her nose. "What did you do?" she demanded. I explained.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You have no sense at all."

"Odd you should say that," I replied, "'cause I spilled a whole bottle of scents in my pocket."