It was as if I’d discovered a gold vein.
“Ah, now, isn’t that lovely. No more hauling water up from the creek.”
“We’ll need some pipe, of course,” I told him. “I paced it off. It’s just over a hundred yards. Three rolls of one inch black plastic should do the trick. How about adding that to your list for your next visit?”
He was clearly excited. “I’ve half a mind to jump back in the plane right now and head for the hardware store,” he said. I believe he was serious.
“Too late.” I reminded him he’d already been into the beer. “It will wait until next time; there’s plenty to keep us busy. How long can you stay?”
He gave me a big grin. “Four days! Bastille Day, don’t forget! Took a long weekend in honor of all things French – fine wine, shapely legs, stinky cheese, and work stoppages. Don’t have to be back until Wednesday evening, or Thursday if worse comes to worst!”
I was delighted. With that much time, we would be able to move all the logs downstream. When we returned to camp from the spring, I showed him the furniture I had built, which all fit inside the tent with room to spare for his collapsible camp bed. He laughed and slapped me on the back.
“Hell, Gus,” he said. “All you lack is a good woman and…” He stopped in mid-sentence and grimaced. “Ah, shit Gus, I’m sorry. Just take me out and shoot me.”
“It’s alright, Haywood,” I told him truthfully. “I’m over it.”
We accomplished a good deal during his visit. We rafted all the logs down from the burn, and cut a few more to boot. Considering the salmon run was well under way, Haywood was astonished to find there were still no bears along that section of the creek, except those near camp. I, of course, attributed their conspicuous absence to the bad juju up there, reasoning that the bears sensed it too, and avoided the place. I considered mentioning it to Haywood, but he seemed oblivious, so I didn’t trouble him with my foolish superstitions. I did, however, suggest we scout further upstream to see how much of the creek was bear-free, but Haywood said we should just count our blessings, and get on with the logs before they decided to move back in. We’d been a little concerned how we’d get the logs downstream if we had to run a gauntlet of grizzlies on the way, so the bad vibes, or whatever it was, made our work a lot easier. I agreed to leave well enough alone.
With all our comings and goings, and dragging logs from the water up the bank, the bears near camp finally got disgusted and moved further downstream where they could pursue their fishing undisturbed. I’m sure they were reluctant to give up such a guaranteed source of entertainment, but our dashing and splashing about, and shouting and swearing was, no doubt, a distraction they decided they could live without. This was fine with us. Fortune was smiling on us. When they moved down, a wide stretch of fishing grounds opened up for us right there at camp. We set aside two hours each evening and dedicated them to the catching of salmon. Haywood, as an Alaska resident, could catch as many as he could use for his own personal consumption. He’s a big eater. We averaged fifteen per man per evening so, when it came time for him to return home, his little Piper Clipper was bulging with fresh fish.
On the second evening of fishing the mosquitoes were particularly thick over the creek. I had some DEET in my fly vest so I broke it out and rubbed some into my forehead, neck and arms. I offered it to Haywood.
He shook his head. “Got something better,” he said, and trotted off up the bank and disappeared inside the tent. I shrugged my shoulders and continued fishing. A few minutes later he came back down to the creek smelling – dare I say it? – lovely.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Chanel Number Five?”
He grinned
“Ah, now, isn’t that lovely. No more hauling water up from the creek.”
“We’ll need some pipe, of course,” I told him. “I paced it off. It’s just over a hundred yards. Three rolls of one inch black plastic should do the trick. How about adding that to your list for your next visit?”
He was clearly excited. “I’ve half a mind to jump back in the plane right now and head for the hardware store,” he said. I believe he was serious.
“Too late.” I reminded him he’d already been into the beer. “It will wait until next time; there’s plenty to keep us busy. How long can you stay?”
He gave me a big grin. “Four days! Bastille Day, don’t forget! Took a long weekend in honor of all things French – fine wine, shapely legs, stinky cheese, and work stoppages. Don’t have to be back until Wednesday evening, or Thursday if worse comes to worst!”
I was delighted. With that much time, we would be able to move all the logs downstream. When we returned to camp from the spring, I showed him the furniture I had built, which all fit inside the tent with room to spare for his collapsible camp bed. He laughed and slapped me on the back.
“Hell, Gus,” he said. “All you lack is a good woman and…” He stopped in mid-sentence and grimaced. “Ah, shit Gus, I’m sorry. Just take me out and shoot me.”
“It’s alright, Haywood,” I told him truthfully. “I’m over it.”
We accomplished a good deal during his visit. We rafted all the logs down from the burn, and cut a few more to boot. Considering the salmon run was well under way, Haywood was astonished to find there were still no bears along that section of the creek, except those near camp. I, of course, attributed their conspicuous absence to the bad juju up there, reasoning that the bears sensed it too, and avoided the place. I considered mentioning it to Haywood, but he seemed oblivious, so I didn’t trouble him with my foolish superstitions. I did, however, suggest we scout further upstream to see how much of the creek was bear-free, but Haywood said we should just count our blessings, and get on with the logs before they decided to move back in. We’d been a little concerned how we’d get the logs downstream if we had to run a gauntlet of grizzlies on the way, so the bad vibes, or whatever it was, made our work a lot easier. I agreed to leave well enough alone.
With all our comings and goings, and dragging logs from the water up the bank, the bears near camp finally got disgusted and moved further downstream where they could pursue their fishing undisturbed. I’m sure they were reluctant to give up such a guaranteed source of entertainment, but our dashing and splashing about, and shouting and swearing was, no doubt, a distraction they decided they could live without. This was fine with us. Fortune was smiling on us. When they moved down, a wide stretch of fishing grounds opened up for us right there at camp. We set aside two hours each evening and dedicated them to the catching of salmon. Haywood, as an Alaska resident, could catch as many as he could use for his own personal consumption. He’s a big eater. We averaged fifteen per man per evening so, when it came time for him to return home, his little Piper Clipper was bulging with fresh fish.
On the second evening of fishing the mosquitoes were particularly thick over the creek. I had some DEET in my fly vest so I broke it out and rubbed some into my forehead, neck and arms. I offered it to Haywood.
He shook his head. “Got something better,” he said, and trotted off up the bank and disappeared inside the tent. I shrugged my shoulders and continued fishing. A few minutes later he came back down to the creek smelling – dare I say it? – lovely.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Chanel Number Five?”
He grinned
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