This story had me laughing. I guess we've all had trips like this at one time. Hope you enjoy it.
http://www.outdoorsdirectory.com/magazine/goat_hunt_from_hell.htm
Part 1
As an experienced Alaska guide and outfitter these things are not supposed to happen to me. After 11 years of carefully planning thousands of rafting, fishing and hunting trips for my clients I started to believe I was above Murphy’s Law. You know the one that says, “if anything can go wrong it will”.
Yet here I find myself perched atop a boulder-ridden glacier, 200 miles from the closest town in Southeast Alaska, a quirky smile of disbelief on my face. I am soaking wet and cold. The temperature is a balmy 33 degrees. As I watch the driving rain pound my tent into the stones a small chuckle escapes from under my breath. “I bet that tent would have worked better if I had brought the tent poles.”
This is what I had in mind. It didn't turn out this
way. Photo courtesy Muskeg Excursions.
I have my own law now: the Varvil Law. It simply states “Murphy was an optimist.”
My story started in July when I received a call from Sam Fejes, a long-time friend and fellow guide. For 25 years Sam has owned and operated a first-class lodge about 100 miles east of Cordova called the Tsiu River Lodge.
The Tsiu River is famous for its late fall silver salmon run. It is not uncommon for 200 thousand fish to return each year. With its hard packed sandy beach, it’s a gem for the fly fisherman who enjoys a wide-open long casting opportunity. Sam invited a couple of other guides and I from the Fish Alaska crew down for a weekend of R & R and of course, fishing.
After having to reschedule twice because of weather, Dan Hardy and I set up a trip for the first week of October. Dan canceled at the last minute and instead opted for a fall Talkeetna rainbow trip. I was looking forward to a weekend of solitude, and after talking with Sam, I decided to make it a combo hunting and fishing trip. My first target would be the Alaska mountain goat. That I would follow with the famed Tsiu silver salmon.
My 50-minute commercial flight from Anchorage to Cordova went smoothly and the first thing I saw when I get off the plane is my old friend’s smiling face. The short flight to the lodge in a Beaver gave me a bird’s eye view of the lay of the land. We flew along the beach next to the ocean and I watched as thousands of migrating mallard ducks and snow geese filled the skies all around us.
He pointed out the window, drops the wing and gave me my first look at the Tsiu. The river winds through the sandy beach like a lost snake. The water was crystal clear except for what appeared to be an oil slick that ran along the deep channels. Of course, it was no oil slick, but thousands of salmon laying in the current just waiting for me to introduce myself. But that would have to wait a couple of days.
He gently tapped the tires to the little gravel landing strip and his staff came out to greet me and carry my bags to my cabin. The heated cabin has two beds and I immediately laid out all my gear to make this place home. After a short orientation on goat hunting by Sam, he picked through my equipment and we left behind the stuff he deemed too heavy or unnecessary. An hour later we were in the air with his small two-seat SuperCub flying at no more than 200 feet off the ground. We spent about an hour flying looking for goats. There were hundreds of them.
Most of them were secure on 2000-foot cliffs, however, and the fact that I did not bring a parachute would insure that they could live out their lives in peace. We located a few nice billies up a canyon that were with in walking distance from the drop off point. They would make good targets the next morning.
Sam began to circle a huge glacier as he slowed down the plane to a hover and it’s obvious he is looking for a place to land among the glacier crevasses. When he does decide to drop the plane he simply tells me to hold on as I feel the brakes lock up and the tires skid the little Cub to a stop along the ice. It was like an amusement park ride. He tells me he will be back late Saturday night or Sunday morning and pulls the Cub back into the clouds and out of sight.
Friday night at 5 PM
I must tell you that the first 5 minutes were blissful as I just took in my surroundings. The sound of rocks falling off the 3000-foot cliffs echoed all around me. Then there was the silence. No ringing phones and no screaming kids, just silence. This is what it was all about. Just me and my Mother Nature.
Apparently she had enough of me in that 5 minutes and she decided to send me home. It started to rain. When it rains in Southeast Alaska you could not get any wetter if you were to just jump into a lake. I quickly flung open the tent that I had carefully packed the night before and Shazaam! No tent poles! Which brings me to where we started this story.
I just sat there staring for a couple of minutes. Dad was right all those years ago, Hmm, I am a moron. The terrain I’m on resembles pictures I have seen of the moon or Mars. Huge rocks the size of cars in every direction. Millions of them. I climb up onto a rock and use my binoculars to try to find a tree to use as tent poles. There, only 3 miles away, uphill both ways because of the gigantic ice covered rocks, was a small group of what appeared to be TREES. Upon closer inspection they turn out to be tag alder brush. Those 6 branches were four feet long and curved like boomerangs. I used my knife to cut the branches down and strap them to my pack frame.
7:40 PM
I must tell you the only reason I was in the Boy scouts when I was a kid was Minnie Johnson. Minnie was a cute blonde neighborhood crush. Her dad was the troop leader and I found out they had the meetings at her house. I was the only kid to never get a single patch and I didn’t care one bit! Regardless, Minnie and I built a shelter out of sticks once. Well, she built it and I watched her build it. It all came back to me. I take the parachute cord out from my pack and fasten all 4 branches together in an X pattern. Then I bring the tent up from underneath and use more cord to tie the existing clips to the alders. It works! God bless Minnie! I get out my tent stakes and try to sink them into the small rocks and dirt only to discover I am camping on a solid blue ice rink. The tent stakes are a no go. “Houston we have a problem!”
I place large rocks on the corners of the tent and around my new poles to give them some stability. Over the top with the rain fly, more rocks and it somewhat resembled a tent again. Sure it was lopsided and droopy in the middle, but technically, it resembled a tent. The rain now turns to hail.
8:15 and it’s dark
I peek inside my new home and find water coming in from all sides, as my creation is no match for the heavy wind, rain and hail. I quickly learned that my new house has a high side and a low side as I watch the water collect in a pool on the low side. Not a bad tent if you’re a duck. The hail now turns back to rain and to sleet and then finally to snow as the temperature plummets. I lay my very thin foam-sleeping pad on the high side and pull out my Bivy sack.
If you don’t have one of these get one. It’s the best $7 you will ever spend. It’s a large tinfoil bag to be used for heat in emergencies. Close enough for me. I place my sleeping bag in the bivy sack to keep it dry. The whole time I am leaning over using a towel to soak up water in the low side of the tent. A lost battle I am not willing to wage any longer, I finally throw in the proverbial towel.
I make the tent a self-bailing tent by cutting 4 slots in the low side, along the floor where the water is beginning to now freeze. The tent roof is now about 6 inches from my nose as the heavy snow begins to accumulate on the roof.
My Coleman heater to the rescue. I screw the heating element onto the propane canister and dig in my pack for my lighter. Whoops. Left that back at the lodge when I was smoking that pre-victory goat cigar. No problem, I have Strike Anywhere matches. By the way, they should be called “wont strike anywhere matches.” At least the ones I had. After fumbling around with the heater outside until my hands were numb, I finally get it to light. I place the whole heater on a good flat rock base in the tent and I now have heat.
11:30 PM
All my gear is steaming as it is spread all around the tent trying to dry off. I won’t bore you with the clothes, but they are the best waterproof cold weather gear Wal-Mart sells. No just kidding, it’s all browning fleece and polypro suits, first class stuff. I had it cooking in there and my mini thermometer was reading at 78 degrees. I climbed into the sleeping bag and I was gloating and quite comfortable for the first time in hours. After all I had taken on adversity and come out on top. Quite an accomplishment, I thought for a first timing greenhorn.
SEE part 2 next post
http://www.outdoorsdirectory.com/magazine/goat_hunt_from_hell.htm
Part 1
As an experienced Alaska guide and outfitter these things are not supposed to happen to me. After 11 years of carefully planning thousands of rafting, fishing and hunting trips for my clients I started to believe I was above Murphy’s Law. You know the one that says, “if anything can go wrong it will”.
Yet here I find myself perched atop a boulder-ridden glacier, 200 miles from the closest town in Southeast Alaska, a quirky smile of disbelief on my face. I am soaking wet and cold. The temperature is a balmy 33 degrees. As I watch the driving rain pound my tent into the stones a small chuckle escapes from under my breath. “I bet that tent would have worked better if I had brought the tent poles.”
This is what I had in mind. It didn't turn out this
way. Photo courtesy Muskeg Excursions.
I have my own law now: the Varvil Law. It simply states “Murphy was an optimist.”
My story started in July when I received a call from Sam Fejes, a long-time friend and fellow guide. For 25 years Sam has owned and operated a first-class lodge about 100 miles east of Cordova called the Tsiu River Lodge.
The Tsiu River is famous for its late fall silver salmon run. It is not uncommon for 200 thousand fish to return each year. With its hard packed sandy beach, it’s a gem for the fly fisherman who enjoys a wide-open long casting opportunity. Sam invited a couple of other guides and I from the Fish Alaska crew down for a weekend of R & R and of course, fishing.
After having to reschedule twice because of weather, Dan Hardy and I set up a trip for the first week of October. Dan canceled at the last minute and instead opted for a fall Talkeetna rainbow trip. I was looking forward to a weekend of solitude, and after talking with Sam, I decided to make it a combo hunting and fishing trip. My first target would be the Alaska mountain goat. That I would follow with the famed Tsiu silver salmon.
My 50-minute commercial flight from Anchorage to Cordova went smoothly and the first thing I saw when I get off the plane is my old friend’s smiling face. The short flight to the lodge in a Beaver gave me a bird’s eye view of the lay of the land. We flew along the beach next to the ocean and I watched as thousands of migrating mallard ducks and snow geese filled the skies all around us.
He pointed out the window, drops the wing and gave me my first look at the Tsiu. The river winds through the sandy beach like a lost snake. The water was crystal clear except for what appeared to be an oil slick that ran along the deep channels. Of course, it was no oil slick, but thousands of salmon laying in the current just waiting for me to introduce myself. But that would have to wait a couple of days.
He gently tapped the tires to the little gravel landing strip and his staff came out to greet me and carry my bags to my cabin. The heated cabin has two beds and I immediately laid out all my gear to make this place home. After a short orientation on goat hunting by Sam, he picked through my equipment and we left behind the stuff he deemed too heavy or unnecessary. An hour later we were in the air with his small two-seat SuperCub flying at no more than 200 feet off the ground. We spent about an hour flying looking for goats. There were hundreds of them.
Most of them were secure on 2000-foot cliffs, however, and the fact that I did not bring a parachute would insure that they could live out their lives in peace. We located a few nice billies up a canyon that were with in walking distance from the drop off point. They would make good targets the next morning.
Sam began to circle a huge glacier as he slowed down the plane to a hover and it’s obvious he is looking for a place to land among the glacier crevasses. When he does decide to drop the plane he simply tells me to hold on as I feel the brakes lock up and the tires skid the little Cub to a stop along the ice. It was like an amusement park ride. He tells me he will be back late Saturday night or Sunday morning and pulls the Cub back into the clouds and out of sight.
Friday night at 5 PM
I must tell you that the first 5 minutes were blissful as I just took in my surroundings. The sound of rocks falling off the 3000-foot cliffs echoed all around me. Then there was the silence. No ringing phones and no screaming kids, just silence. This is what it was all about. Just me and my Mother Nature.
Apparently she had enough of me in that 5 minutes and she decided to send me home. It started to rain. When it rains in Southeast Alaska you could not get any wetter if you were to just jump into a lake. I quickly flung open the tent that I had carefully packed the night before and Shazaam! No tent poles! Which brings me to where we started this story.
I just sat there staring for a couple of minutes. Dad was right all those years ago, Hmm, I am a moron. The terrain I’m on resembles pictures I have seen of the moon or Mars. Huge rocks the size of cars in every direction. Millions of them. I climb up onto a rock and use my binoculars to try to find a tree to use as tent poles. There, only 3 miles away, uphill both ways because of the gigantic ice covered rocks, was a small group of what appeared to be TREES. Upon closer inspection they turn out to be tag alder brush. Those 6 branches were four feet long and curved like boomerangs. I used my knife to cut the branches down and strap them to my pack frame.
7:40 PM
I must tell you the only reason I was in the Boy scouts when I was a kid was Minnie Johnson. Minnie was a cute blonde neighborhood crush. Her dad was the troop leader and I found out they had the meetings at her house. I was the only kid to never get a single patch and I didn’t care one bit! Regardless, Minnie and I built a shelter out of sticks once. Well, she built it and I watched her build it. It all came back to me. I take the parachute cord out from my pack and fasten all 4 branches together in an X pattern. Then I bring the tent up from underneath and use more cord to tie the existing clips to the alders. It works! God bless Minnie! I get out my tent stakes and try to sink them into the small rocks and dirt only to discover I am camping on a solid blue ice rink. The tent stakes are a no go. “Houston we have a problem!”
I place large rocks on the corners of the tent and around my new poles to give them some stability. Over the top with the rain fly, more rocks and it somewhat resembled a tent again. Sure it was lopsided and droopy in the middle, but technically, it resembled a tent. The rain now turns to hail.
8:15 and it’s dark
I peek inside my new home and find water coming in from all sides, as my creation is no match for the heavy wind, rain and hail. I quickly learned that my new house has a high side and a low side as I watch the water collect in a pool on the low side. Not a bad tent if you’re a duck. The hail now turns back to rain and to sleet and then finally to snow as the temperature plummets. I lay my very thin foam-sleeping pad on the high side and pull out my Bivy sack.
If you don’t have one of these get one. It’s the best $7 you will ever spend. It’s a large tinfoil bag to be used for heat in emergencies. Close enough for me. I place my sleeping bag in the bivy sack to keep it dry. The whole time I am leaning over using a towel to soak up water in the low side of the tent. A lost battle I am not willing to wage any longer, I finally throw in the proverbial towel.
I make the tent a self-bailing tent by cutting 4 slots in the low side, along the floor where the water is beginning to now freeze. The tent roof is now about 6 inches from my nose as the heavy snow begins to accumulate on the roof.
My Coleman heater to the rescue. I screw the heating element onto the propane canister and dig in my pack for my lighter. Whoops. Left that back at the lodge when I was smoking that pre-victory goat cigar. No problem, I have Strike Anywhere matches. By the way, they should be called “wont strike anywhere matches.” At least the ones I had. After fumbling around with the heater outside until my hands were numb, I finally get it to light. I place the whole heater on a good flat rock base in the tent and I now have heat.
11:30 PM
All my gear is steaming as it is spread all around the tent trying to dry off. I won’t bore you with the clothes, but they are the best waterproof cold weather gear Wal-Mart sells. No just kidding, it’s all browning fleece and polypro suits, first class stuff. I had it cooking in there and my mini thermometer was reading at 78 degrees. I climbed into the sleeping bag and I was gloating and quite comfortable for the first time in hours. After all I had taken on adversity and come out on top. Quite an accomplishment, I thought for a first timing greenhorn.
SEE part 2 next post
