Usually I don't like to do this, but...

It's been a while since I have created any outgoing information from Alaska.  I'm going to fall back on my standard excuse - I've been busy.  Which is true, mind you, but if I were you, I wouldn't let me get away with such a petty excuse.  So here it is, a condensed version of the past couple months.

Starting with the present day - it's Tuesday, November 23rd.  The fifteenth week of school(!).  Oh yeah, and it's been raining nonstop since last Friday.  My travel plans over the weekend were canceled as a result of the weather and the snow (what little there was) has melted.

Which brings me to the next event: the weather.  Had I written a week ago it would have been a very different story, for winter had come.  Temperatures were well below freezing.  Snow was beginning to pile up (we were receiving about a quarter inch a day - not much, but I'm not going to complain about that now), the river had frozen bringing with it the earliest ice fisherpeople, and I had been skating on the ponds around town.  Even the bay was beginning to fill with ice.  Of course, that's all gone now.

Before the snow had fallen, I did all the fishing I needed to do to get that bug out of my system.  In a previous post I told the triumphant story of my first real successful fishing trip.  The trip that followed was even greater.  I caught three, THREE!, beautiful salmon.  I finally got a taste (literally) of what fishing can be like, and I have to admit, it is fun.  It's nothing I will be devoting great amounts of time to, but it was enjoyable and fulfilling to be able to bring back food that will last well into the winter.  Robby partook in man's (not being sexist - it was literally us guys')  triumph over salmon and we spent the afternoon vacuum sealing our beautiful fillets.  Some of you may be lucky enough to try some if I can find a reasonable method to transport frozen salmon home.  Ideas in this area would be well received (and I can see to it that if your method proves successful there will be a salmon steak in it for you).

Ready for the freezer

Of course, I've also been busy with school.  Teaching is hard work.  It has it's rewards, but there are days where all I want is a, umm, nap, or something like that.  But I feel much better about this year than last.  Hopefully subsequent years continue to get easier.

I have (rather wisely) opted out of coaching basketball this year.  Okay, "opted" isn't the best word.  It implies I was asked (or assumed) to coach.  I was not.  0-14 is not a record that is sought after, even when the coaching competition is as slim as it is here in rural Alaska.  Instead I will be enjoying my afternoons off.  I might spend a day or two shooting hoops with the junior high, but the my teaching responsibilities  will stay in domains I am proficient (and interested) in.

I am, however, coaching robotics again this year (read: math + computers = my interests).  Our school's junior high participates in First Lego League - a pretty awesome set-up that combines Legos and robotic programming into a competitive team activity.  Teams build and program robots to complete a series of tasks and also create a project centered around a theme (this year: medicine).  We will be flying in to Bethel the week after Thanksgiving to compete against the other teams in out district.  Winning teams move on to Anchorage where winning teams move on to the national level.  It would be nice to get a chance at Anchorage.

Tomatoes that just might ripen

Last update - foods.  My hydroponic experiments have had mixed results.  Hydroponics is a bizarre world.  My plants live a most artificial life - sixteen hours of light created by a 400W bulb, nutrients mixed in water delivered three times daily, pH tested every few days, temperatures adjusted, humidity monitored, the electrical conductivity of the water checked...  And after all that I have tomatoes developing blossom end rot and pepper flowers that refuse to set fruit.  Leaves tend to yellow, wrinkle, and fall while others are deep green, grow voraciously, never slowing to blossom, then snap in half because plants that are only half an inch in diameter cannot reasonably grow to heights exceeding six feet.

Basil, thyme, lettuce, and cilantro

That's all very frustrating.  But on the other hand there have been the successes.  I have eaten dozens of salads from my living room.  I created the most delicious pizza with fresh basil.  Out of control (in a good way) extra basil was turned into a jelly jar full of pesto.  I've dried about a cup of cilantro.  I guess it's a worthy experiment.  I'm going to try another batch of peppers and tomatoes after Christmas.  Ask me again what I think of hydroponics in April.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. 

I fish for fish, no other reason. Oh, maybe because of the competition.

The Tununak River

I like to complain about fishing.  It's fun for me - to complain.  I'm sure I complain for the same reason anybody complains about anything - as a means to divert blame for one's ineptness.  But this is not a blog of complaint.  Rather, it is a blog of celebration.  A celebration of fishing and how awesome it is.  A celebration of salmon and their wonderful ability to find my hook, bite down, and end up as dinner on my plate.  Ahhh, sweet, sweet salmon.  To think back to those two days of fishing makes me forget what I dislike about fishing.  Almost.

Robby and his giant fish

My success story started one evening.  I had been invited to go up river by one of my students.  Duh...I'm going.  At the time, I'm thinking that even if I don't catch any fish, the river is fantastic to be on in the evening.  Oh yeah - the mosquitoes had retired for the year (the last trip they were worse that anything I could have ever imagined.  Northern Minnesota has NOTHING on Alaska mosquitoes.  I'm not kidding).  Anyways, I grab my rod, tackle box, and throw on my rubber boots.  We pick up Robby (my neighbor) and head out to the boat.  A twenty minute journey and we are at our little spot.  And then the most amazing thing happened.  Seriously, in the history of time, this is probably the single greatest thing.  I cast my line out...and caught a fish.  I had a fish on the end of my line before my fishing guide or Robby had even gotten to their spots let alone had the chance to cast.  Oh glorious day.  In the boat I had a beautiful silver salmon.  The score, for those of you keeping track at home is now 1-0-0, with me in the lead.  Of course, minutes later my guide gets a bite.  I try to be a good sport.  But his fish is so much bigger than mine - and it's bright red.  Apparently the longer the silvers have been in the river, the less silver they become and they take on a beautiful red color.  They are striking to look at.  Raw score... 1-1-0.  No big deal.

Perspective is everything

Fishing goes on for a while with bites and fights and fish interrupting the evening often enough to keep things interesting.  Final score for the evening 2-3-2.  I lost.  It's okay though because I caught not one, but two beautiful fish: one smaller silver salmon and one trout (called a dolly vardon(sp?) for whatever reason I have no idea).  Robby ended up with two nice sized reds (which are technically silver salmon).  My host: four large reds.  Figures.

It's amazing what this night did to my faith in fishing.  Up until this moment I was convinced that there were no more fish in the river.  I would be out fishing, share my opinion with my fishing partners only to have them catch a fish in the next five minutes.  "Okay then," I would say, "now there are no more fish in the river.  That was the last one, and you caught it.  Time to go home."  But this most recent event changed everything.  Not only were there fish in this river, they were huge, and beautiful, and delicious, and best of all, they were willing to bite my hook.  I needed to get out fishing at least one more time.  That chance came that weekend, and is the topic of the next blog.  Stay tuned...

The definition of satisfied

Nazi ghostbuster?

I was creeping on my blog stats and one thing stuck out.

Someone found accessed my blog through a keyword search with the phrase "nazi ghostbuster".  How frickin' awesome is that - that my name comes up as a possible match.

Man that's great.

Random story from a few years ago

“Hey! Eric!” Someone was whispering urgently at me.

What time is it? The sun’s not even up yet. And then I remembered. Today was the day. The reason we were even in Spain. Adrenaline surged – my stomach doing a quick little somersault. I quickly dressed – bleach white pants, a white tee, my blood red sash and neck-scarf. It was too early to find any places open for breakfast, but that was okay – I probably wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyway.

We weaved through the cobblestone streets, were glad we’d decided to get such an early start. People were coming from all over. A white mass converging on a rapidly filling plaza. Being early ensured us a place in that plaza. Now we had about an hour to wait. Wait and contemplate our decision. Was this really such a good idea? Is that guy drunk? Yeah, he is definitely drunk. That doesn’t seem like a good idea. He better not trip. What if I trip? What if I get hurt? What if I get gored? That was the big worry. The I spent the most time trying to ignore. Gored?! We’d seen the bulls the day before. They were not small. Not even close. In fact they were huge. And those horns. The horns that tapered to point so fine one couldn’t be sure where the horn ended and the pain began. And then of course there were the horror stories of previous years. There were pictures of gorings, videos of tramplings. In less than an hour that poor, pain riddled face could be mine.

SCREEEECH!!

The sound of the first rocket being fired. All thoughts about what could be vanished. All thoughts about what had been vanished as well. The only thing yelling in my mind was the fact that the door had been opened. The bulls were coming.

SCREEEECH!!

The second rocket signified that all six bulls were out and running...toward us. Oh dear God.The crowd starting moving, filing along the narrow barricaded streets. Barricaded to keep the bulls confined, but I now realized how confined I was as well. Panic? Um, yeah. But this was nothing compared to what was coming.

The speed of the mass slowly started to increase. Those around me were feeling the fear grow as well. It wouldn’t be long now. All I wanted to do was turn around look for the bulls. But if I stopped to turn around I would be run over by those behind me. Quick peeks would have to do. Each peek was terrifying because we were so closely packed. People around me had already stumbled and fallen - either on the uneven cobbles of the road or on the legs of the people in front of them. Those behind the fallen had to act quickly to prevent a serious pileup. Three or four peeks showed nothing different. People were jogging along, faces focused on not tripping. And then suddenly everything changed. Looking back over my shoulder I instantly saw that the look on peoples’ faces. The slight smiles of the joggers had been replaced with looks of sheer terror. This was the moment it all sunk in.

There were six, two thousand pound bulls chasing me, each capable of ending my life. In all likelihood, however, I wouldn't die. I'd merely be gored. A foot long horn stabbed through my stomach. Or I might trip and be trampled, my legs broken and chest collapsed as twenty-four hooves crash down around me. I’m sure my face changed at this moment to mirror those behind me. The panic raced forward as those in front of me, making their quick peeks, noticed this our faces. Hysteria erupted. People starting sprinting. Others merely stopped, frozen in fear. Collisions were commonplace. People were lying on the ground, scrambling to get out of the middle of the street. Bodies were tangling with bodies. Legs and arms were everywhere. Some of the runners were trying to climb over the barricades. This is when I caught my first glimpse of the bulls. They were massive. So much larger than I had remembered. The first to pass held its head high, horns at the level of my head, and it was moving so much faster than the crowd. The runners began to part, fleeing to the sides to allow the bulls to pass through the middle. Before I could even think the bulls were upon me. I watched in horror as the unlucky, still lying in the street, were overtaken by the stampede. One, two, three passed me. I was certain the people on the street were dead. Then the other three came rushing past. All six had passed allowing my mind to slow down enough to begin rational thought again. I was alive, but where were the other two I ran with? A quick scan of crowd and I saw Chris, his red hair standing out against the mass. It took a while longer to locate my brother. Chris and I scanned the injured, fearing the worst. Miraculously the injuries were all minor. Those who I had seen trampled were not dead. In fact most were up and walking around. My brother, however was not in that mix. His absence there was a relief, and our search continued. We finally found him outside the stadium alive and well. All three of us had survived unscathed. It was now only about 9:00 in the morning. The hardest part of our day was done.

Feria San Fermin is a nine day festival taking place annually in Pamplona, Spain starting on July 6^th and ending on July 13^th.  The encierro, better known as the running of the bulls, takes place each morning of the festival. I ran in the summer of 2006 with my younger brother, Bryce, and friend, Chris.

A follow up from before

I wrote a while back about the baby seal that was rescued (?) from its dead mother.  Anyway, here is a little blurb from Alaska magazine.

To be a hunter takes a lot

As many of you know, I have become a hunter. Well, at least up until the very last aspect of a hunter. I have all the required things a hunter needs: a gun, a camouflage jacket, a hunting accent. I even have a great hunting pose and a pretty good hunting creep. Yeah, totally a hunter. I’ve got everything – except a kill. This is the story of my attempt at a first kill and thus my induction into the world of hunting. 

The rain eased up enough today to allow Robbie and myself to get outside in search of some ducks or swans or geese or anything else that my license covers (read: snowy owls – no joke, also no limit). Robbie is the husband of one of our new teachers, hailing from Idaho, and has slightly more hunting experience that me. We were ready to get some dinner. Wandering through the tundra brought back memories of last year walking to Toksook. Ben in that deceivingly deep puddle…good times. Karma to follow, however when I, while watching an airplane, took a step backwards into a knee-deep hole.

I was excited to try out my new image. Robbie was trying out a new image of his own. Being in the Wild West, Robbie was packing some serious heat – a .44 mag pistol strapped to his hip. John Wayne – yep, that’s Robbie. Umm…a 6-5 red haired version. Turns out, neither of us lived up to our attempted images.

Sometimes I wonder why I am such an unsuccessful sportsman. Reflecting on these thoughts always bring me to the same answer. I have yet to go fishing, and now hunting, without any irony. Always it follows along, scaring away any potential prey, obviously. Perhaps it’s a safety net for my inevitable failure, or perhaps it’s my response to the cognitive dissonance I feel with a gun of my own cradled in my arms. Who knows.

I’m learning a lot of things about the great outdoors. Each trip teaches me important lessons. For example, safety glasses are awesome. But a more recurring lesson that I’m slowly coming to understand is that I am the worst sportsman in the world. I’ve been fishing about six times since getting back here in early August. I have caught nothing – except my leg. And that while trying to prod George with the end of my rod. The latest reminder came today, while hunting. I took one shot with the shotgun. I hit nothing - except my face. Seriously. Some freak ricochet sent a shotgun pellet back at me and struck me directly in the right lens of my glasses.

And so now I sit, waiting for my hamburger buns to rise – or I should put more accurately, my black bean burger buns to rise because that is what I am having for dinner. My induction has been put on hold – in all liklehood indefinitely. It’s okay. I’ve come to a realization. I’m not a hunter. I never will be. I may kill some animals. But I’m not a hunter. I also am not a fisherman. I may catch some fish, but that won’t make me a fisherman. Guns, rods, reels, cammo, accents. These are just things sportsmen have. And me I guess, I also have those things. The big difference between those people and me, however, goes beyond an image. I don’t want to be a hunter of a fisherman. My constant irony and sarcasm are proof enough. The real reason those are there is because I’d rather be doing other things. To a true hunter or fisherman this, of course, is never true.

I have friends who give me a hard time for my less typical Alaskan subsistence activities. Things like breadmaking and a hydroponics garden in my living room, not to mention my vermicompost and semi-vegetarian diet. Weird maybe. Unusual sure. But if I had to survive on my sportsmen’s skills alone I’d be dead or at the very least very hungry. And so I’m okay with my way of life.

Tununak Round Two

Am I excited to going back to Tununak?

While I wasn’t looking forward to leaving Minneapolis on Sunday, the oppressively awful temperatures made things a little easier. I don’t believe it is possible for humans to survive in weather like Minnesota has been having. Mid-nineties, dew points over seventy…miserable. Sixty in Bethel will be a welcome relief.

I am in the process of traveling, process being the key word. Yesterday was the day for bulk mailing, listening to the postal clerk telling me eleven days all the while knowing that twenty is a much better estimate. And my bike. My bike is in the mail. Right now, somewhere, my bike is being handled by the United States Post Office. This should offer me three to four weeks of stress. And now I am in between two of the three flights necessary to arrive in Bethel where I stay for a few days for district-wide inservice then one final flight to the village. Days are needed to get to my final destination.

Going back for the second year will be nice though. Teaching many of the same classes as last year, I am anticipating less time spent planning. Of course that will probably prove to me wishful thinking, I have made a number of interesting investments over the summer to fill the empty (here’s to hoping) time in my upcoming year.

As I noted before, my bike is coming along this year. Jokingly I had told people I plan on just wanting to look at it. This probably has more truth to it than I want to admit. And coupled with the fact that there aren’t any paved roads it is a little hard to deny. But if all things work out I will be getting a stationary stand for it for endless hours of going nowhere in the gym.

My other two investments deal with food. My forages into eating more vegetables and less meat has initiated a number of impulse hydroponics system buys. The first was a system I purchase from our outgoing principal at the very end of last year. The second system I purchased just earlier this week. Fresh salad in December, tomatoes in February. Maybe.

The second food investment is a shotgun. Ignoring the above goal of reducing my meat consumption, I have borrowed a twelve gauge shotgun (don’t call it a rifle) from my grandpa. After an interesting conversation with the salesman at Gander Mountain about shells (don’t call them “bullets” or “things to shoot out of my gun”) I believe I have everything I need to take down some ducks. I acquired both the hydroponics system and the shotgun last week. It is impossible to describe how different they feel in my hands, yet both will be used for the same purpose: to provide me with fresh food.

Those things should keep me somewhat busy. And of course there is teaching. Second years aren't known for being unbelievably easier than first years. So that's it - year two is all planned out. We'll see how that goes.