Back from Katmai

On such a refulgent summer morning in the Soquel Hills, it would have been hard, even if I wanted to be that way, to wish I was still in Alaska. I'm writing in my customary little morning coffee spot here surrounded by birds and breezes and beautiful things, much like it was in the Katmai wilderness in coffee spots like this:


There, of course, I shared my little coffee kitchens with eagles and ospreys and arctic terns and bears and wolves and bobcats and squirrels, most of whom were content to keep their distance when I was around. Needless to say I too would have ceded way if any brown bears had already been sitting on that mossy rock when I clambered down with my bear can and thermarest chair.


Around the corner from my bear-free, human-free Bay of Islands camp I saw a nice little bear family fishing, and then ran into a solitary brown at my pike spot.



This latter guy had a reached an all-too common semi-habituated attitude, in which seeing or hearing a human does not cause flight, but rather curiosity. He sat on his ass and watched me hook three pike from the kayak before wandering off, and kept me looking over my shoulder during a splendid session of Dahlberg-Divering from shore:



In a kind of irony, the closest I actually got to a non-finned wild animal (other than an arctic tern whose tale I may or may not tell later) was at the window at Fure's cabin. Last year I woke up one morning and momentarily stared eye-to-eye with a huge boar who immediately turned and ran for the trees. This year I was prepared with my camera by the bunk at all times, and so was able to get a video of this somewhat more casual customer:






At my American Creek camp there was no bear sign, but plenty of wolf sign, including howling each morning and some bone-chilling snarling (sorry for the cliche, but in fact that is exactly how it feels) near my hammock. I tried to film the haunting up-and-down tones they were making, but only got the breeze and closer-by sounds.




That swampy hammock camp, which I named "Puddle Camp" for the soupiness of the area where my feet had to go when exiting and entering the hammock, was at once the most wild and the most crowded camp of the whole trip. From about six in the evening to eight in the morning, roughly ten hours of light including super-prime fishing hours, the place was all mine -- a fast and powerful (barely crossable even in the best spots) clear creek full of wild rainbows and dolly varden, a place where wolf calls wake you up and Osprey TV keeps you entertained whenever you are not fishing yourself.

Truly, it was like watching a sports matchup to see how they would dive and get a fish, and before they could fly off, here come two bald eagles planing calmly out of their hiding places in the trees. Game on! Osprey drops fish and is joined by second osprey in harrying eagles; birds whirl and swoop, cries ring out over the sound of the river; but in the end, it seemed like the ospreys only ended up with one fish for each three they got. Eagles 2, Ospreys 1.



But around eight a. m. or so, here come the float planes buzzing in. Give it minute; yep, there's the hum of jet boat, and lo! three or four Simms-clad "sports" running by with a guide, racing the other boats up to the best spots. There were at least four such parties and possibly as many as six on the river each day I was there, and I'm sorry to say that the braids just next to my camp (the furthest I could paddle up against hard current) was a favorite spot. Bring on the earplugs! I'd never travel to Brooks Camp without ear plugs; but I did not expect to reach as far as American Creek and still have to shut out from my brain the insipid utterances of the kind of people who would hire somebody to show them how to swing a string leech. At one point I watched a sport hook a char and actually give a loud dog-whistle to summon over the guide to net it -- and the guide actually responded to that! Nature offers no spectacle more contemptible, moose turds inclusive.

Listen to me rant and complain. And it's not like I haven't seen it before; it was the same on the Agulukpak in 2007, and the Nonvianuk outlet in 2008, and it looks like it will be just the same at any trouty place in Alaska where a boat can be stashed and a plane can land. I told rangers at Brooks and Ray at Grosvenor Lodge that they should reduce the permits for people to do this stuff, but other than that all I have is valium and earplugs for the day hours, and patience to hold me through until all the naked apes fly back to their bunks.

That's when I can get back to world of experiences and symbols and sensations completely different from what we have created for ourselves with our motors and heated rooms and domesticated animals and fishing guides. This is the world described by Lame Deer in his narrative "Seeker of Visions" -- a text that made deep trails into my thinking during this trip, and which deserves a blog entry of its own. As do a few other things from the trip. If you like Katmai and can stand my writing style, stay tuned for some more discussion of a Katmai waterways fishing/paddling trip that I challenge anyone to top. After a half-dozen years of going there I think I have it clocked in pretty well, but my mind is open to any good suggestions.