'But Whackers

We are encroaching upon the end of the summer and with each passing day, keeping the goodbyes at bay is like controlling the weather patterns here in Alaska.  So I'm going to allow procrastination to seize the best of me for the next wee bit and first share about my newest friend.  Plus, this week, we don't have any campers and I shall have plenty of time to mope about this past weekend's goodbyes, thus giving you an emotionally captivating blog post later this week.

Meet Sundy.  She lives in Homer.  She's a lively little thang and lives a rather fruitful life out on the sea.  We first met on Friday morning around 5:30 A.M.  Still as the glass water below her bow, she waited patiently for our rubber boots to meet her deck, and then quietly stole us away into the sunrise.

From Homer to Seldovia, Sundy cruised atop the white capped waves with one mission: Carry our crew to the abundant Halibut hole.  Excitement grew with each passing kilometer, and as we soared past volcanoes and peaks, the sun continued to climb higher and higher into the sky.  Like any of you who remember meeting your childhood bosom friend and going to their house for the very first time, I was about to visit the very neighborhood and home of my favorite food.  Which, essentially, could be equated with the same amount of glee.  Right? :)

Loaded with cod heads, rods were locked into eager hands, ready to release the line and plunge into the depths of the Cook Inlet.  Slamming 'buts was imminent as the fish circus began!

We caught Skates - a many of them.  Grandma included.  The first time I caught a Skate, I was actually quite excited because I had never seen one before, and they are just fascinating in their looks (as you can see).  However, by the third Skate, I was absolutely over them.  They were no longer fascinating to me, just annoying sons of guns.  The amount of time and strength it took (okay, probably because I am a girl) to reel anything up 150 feet to surface quickly becomes exhausting.  And these Skates were just becoming an absolute waste of strength.  I've never wanted to be a "switch - fisher" so bad in order to give my right arm a break.  It was like taking a six hour Body Pump class and only focusing on one half of a muscle group, the entire time.

But as the 'buts started biting, weights and lines were breaking the crest of the water and just below the surface, with only a few seconds of arm cranking left, pearl glowing halibut bellies filled the waters outside of the boat.  "Fish On!" "Fish On!" was being yelled across the deck as the deckhands darted back and forth collecting our prizes.  But no prize was officially tossed into the cooler without the question of, "Keep or toss?"  I'm sorry, what?  Absolutely going to keep this baby, thank you.  What a silly question, I thought.  Well too soon did I realize that it was the most significant question of the day.  Keeping it meant that you were halfway to your limit (as the current limit is 2 'buts per person).  Tossing it meant that you were confident of your ability to sling not only more, but you were risking this one for an even bigger one.  Now, as a newbie, there is something very special about catching your very first halibut - kind - of like that first love note from your crush in third grade, and then there was something very discouraging about the idea of tossing it back - despite its weight in pounds.  Nevertheless, it was time to go big or go home.  I was going to wait for the best.  (Insert another parallel of sacrificing the crush in third grade and waiting for prince charming here).  I said goodbye and tossed the fella back into the sea.  One tear was shed.  But my heart soon began to heal and grow with anticipation as I awaited and was hopeful to meet his big brother.  After releasing four more of his twin brothers back into the sea, I finally met his big brother.  Worth the wait (despite the newest addiction I found myself with in wanting to all of a sudden throw them all back and fish harder and longer and more strategic for the size that I just knew was out there).

'Buts were hitting the deck left and right.  Have I mentioned how much I love the word play on Halibut yet?  "For the Hal - i - But," "Halibut you just stay awhile?"  Though, we seem to find a way to do that with any and all animal names up here, "I caribou you," "I'm eagle to see you soon," etc.  Okay, back on track, Chelsey, back on track.

Anyway, when all was said and done, everyone had proudly caught their limit and we were headed home with 32 'buts in the cooler.  As I said, success was imminent, and so was a processing party.  (The last thing you really want to do post chartering all day).  I wish I could say that this picture was staged, however it was not and serves as the perfect visual for how we truly felt.  Unlike Joy and I, others actually made it to their rooms.

Unexpected realization of the day (and/or maybe my life): I found my new favorite hobby and believe that this song was written about me, cause baby, I loooooooove to fiiiiiiiish!

Musings from the 49th

I've been trying to blog for two seven ten days now.  And for those of you that have been the recipients of emails, calls, cards, letters, and/or voicemails, you know that there has never been a shortage of verbal exchange with me.  Now, I'm not saying that this slight and current dilemma is rooted in having nothing to say (I know some of you are thinking 'Duh'), it's quite precisely the opposite in fact (insert another 'Duh').  I need someone to answer this question: How do you blog when too many days - full of new people, new adventures, new lessons, new stories, (no new marriage proposals yet), skip to my lou on by faster than the speed of running your beer battered badonka donk away from a Grizzly bear?  Though, a stipulation to answering this question for me - do not ask me to simply "pick and choose" a few things to share.  It would be a waste of your time because I won't do it.  It's all worth it to me.  And though it's usually once per blog post that I apologize for the great length of black font filling your browser, let's be honest, I still do it.  I know I'm forgiven though - because I don't have 490 blog posts yet (which is 70 x 7 - the number of times the Bible says that you have to forgive me).

Thus, let's begin on the newest musings.

There are only three rules at camp: #1. When we are hungry, we eat.  #2. When we are sleepy, we sleep.  #3. When the fish are running, forget rules #1 and #2.

Breaking down on the side of the road is the best way to make new friends in Alaska.  Though, this does not make our Wrangler's feel very secure re. our driving competency.

There was something more exciting about obtaining my Alaska Hunting and Fishing License than my driver's license.  It could be that 16 years old was a Mississippi River away and I don't remember, but I just don't think that is the case.  Then again, maybe it was the fact that I was with a Captain of the U.S. Coast Guard who grew up fishing and success at sea was soon to be verified.

Dilated pupils and baggy eyelids are considered accessories - or at least I have considered them accessories in an effort to justify this new look.

Camp is unintentional and yet somehow intentional community - all at the same time.    Unintentional because no one ever says, "Hey, let's go up to camp and be intentional about living in community with one another for a week. "  (Especially at an Alaskan Fishing Camp).  Intentional because when you get to camp, the reality is that this is exactly what happens.

While at the beach: Hover, look for the hole, shovel three scoops, oceanside, and you will find a beloved, sand dwelling, neck digging, un - crushed clam.  Repeat.  Repeat times twenty.  Or more.  Return home.  Cook.

It's indeed true.  Bears can be your greatest competition when fishing.  If they see a fish on your line from the shore, they will not hesitate to plunge into the water and entangle themselves in your fishing line to order to obtain your freshly caught Nemo.

Learning how to tie a fishing line, hook, and sinker may not be the most applicable skill to have in America, however, it is one of the most fulfilling and rewarding to have in your repertoire.

You know you vacuum seal a lot when you start having dreams that you are a professional vacuum sealer.

Should I ever find myself lost in the wilderness for days on end, I am now capable of catching and gutting my own fish.

Toys are overrated.  Human size slingshots are not.  Ps. Dear God, I hope you bless me with boys one day.

Alaskan Entertainment: Finding abandoned and discarded survival suits in the dumpster and swimming down the river in them.

Midnight fun in the sun consists of massacring porcupines.  Similar to a "rabbit's foot," doing the same with porcupine feet is not out of the question either.

A true Southerner taught me the way to hearts by means of Gumbo.  Furthermore, being that he is a football coach and lives in Texas, I felt like I was in my own little episode of Friday Night Lights with Coach Taylor.

Bears do show up in your driveway.

"First time shooter's" has nothing to do with a pistol, shotgun, or semi - automatic.  It has everything to do with oysters.  And though this was not my first time, I did decide that I could be a first time shooter here in Alaska.  Plus, there's a unique satisfaction that comes from shucking oysters.

"Modest is hoooooottest." (Voice tone should reflect that of an attitude).  An excuse for all the layering you have to do here in Alaska.  With the exception of hiking a glacier.  Please note: This behavior is only for mature adults and at the digression of the individuals involved - not the company or organization they are associated thereof.

If you drop a Wrangler's handmade filet knife in the rushing river, not only will he find it, but he will forgive you.  He's just that cool.

The game Settler's and the significance of Wood, Brick, Ore, and Wheat take on new meaning when played in Alaska.  In addition, playing against the President of Eternity Bible College, well, let's just say that things just reach a whole new level.

A Halibut eyeball is equivalent to a pirate patch.

This is how you cook corn on the cob.

Hammock wars are equivalent to playing a competitive pick - up game of basketball.

Try playing chubby bunny with Jumbo Mallows.  Or sand.

Kissy face pictures are really popular here.

I feel equipped to be the newest cast member of Deadliest Catch.

We met Norman Lowell.  If you don't know who he is, you should learn immediately.  I would also like to own his original log cabin.

Watching people create legacies trumps any and all primetime and HBO segments.

Fireside makes for the best concert venue.  Log stumps, S'More roasters, sticks, and rocks make for the best instruments.

A real Polar Plunge: Jumping into the Ninilchik River in Alaska at midnight.

It's soothing to the heart (on a bad fishing day) to distinguish how many fish you actually hooked on your line - despite whether they made it into the cooler or not.

You know you are starting to act like a local when you are combat fishing and the tourist (or non - local) takes position next to you in the river and illuminates your lack of patience and anger management because you are spending more time un - tangling their line from yours than actually casting.

Ceviche' made by a Mexican man in Alaska: Skill and fresh food access makes for a dynamite combination.  It's also important to note that he bodes as the best dressed in Alaska, and unfortunately, this is just something you would have needed to be here in order to understand.

The best car trips are the ones with drooling passengers, sunflower seeds on the floor, and empty Dairy Queen cups.  Okay, and loud singable music, but that just seemed so cliche' so I thought I would save it for the end.

It's possible to obtain more family members in a matter of hours.

Had I known what a seaplane fly-in fishing trip to Wolverine Creek was, it would have been the number one item on my Highway to Heaven list.  I'm going to add it, just so that I can cross it off.

This is real, this happens, and I've been blessed to have this as my dinner entertainment on multiple occasions: It's called the Courtship Flight.  Each year a bald eagle renews their life - long commitment in a courtship flight.  It's a crescendo of airborne acrobatics - locking talons and free falling from the sky.  For hundreds of feet.  Right before they reach the surface of the water, they open their wings and break free.

We often think that we know what or how we want something to look, or even be like.  But then along comes God with a different agenda - one that bodes of something greater, an exchange of, "I'm not going to give you what you want, but I'm going to give you something even better - something you didn't know to even ask for.  Something you didn't even know that you wanted."


This will never make sense to me as long as I am in Alaska: 

"This land and this place called heaven far exceeds the glories of this earth."