Day 1
After a long day of getting to camp, it was tough to roll out of the sleeping bag with the temps somewhere in the teens. Just felt better to tuck my head back into the bag and hope for more winks. But, given what kind of hunt awaited us, I decided to get up and watch the sun rise over the willows, still amazingly green for these temps and time of year.
My water bladder tube was froze hard. No water for brushing my teeth this morning. Time to grab some beaver water and fire up the Primus Eta Solo and boil the giardia germs out of it. And, I needed it for oatmeal.
I purposefully made a lot of noise, making sure the rest of the crew would get up and running. In short order, I realized that it was flat out cold, not just cool. I walked down to the boat, seeing a heavy crust of frost on everything. The dampness of the river made it feel even colder. My mind quickly thought about the teeth chattering drive of going up river in the boat with these temps. Not the end of the world, but definitely not something a guy wants to do with just a light layer of clothes.
As the sun came up, I found myself searching for the beaver that kept me up all night. They had started building a winter feed bed right at the mouth of the Pitka River, which happened to be our camp location. The beaver were up all night, making cannonball type sounds with their slapping tails whenever they smelled our boat. I was going to shoot everyone of those (&^$^@^ beaver. But, I figured I better find out if that was legal before seeking some level of vengeance that may not give me back the lost sleep, but would make for good fun and a plew to serve as a souvenir.
Good thing I looked at the regs. Beaver shooting was closed to non-residents, but open to residents. Like a beaver really cares who shoots him. Oh well, time for breakfast.
Jerry was up and stirring, chuckling about his grand fortune of being in the remotes of Alaska, fulfilling his lifelong dream. Shortly thereafter, Mason and Brad were up and stirring. Brad and Jerry being huge coffee junkies, nothing would happen until Starbucks was served in Brad's homemade coffee press.
Hot oatmeal felt good. We could hear for miles and listened intently for any boats that might be out at this early hour. Nothing. That was good. We had passed two boats between the Honhosa (the start of our unit) and our camp on the Pitka. Seemed coffee held equally priority at their camp.
I told the guys of the game plan - Spend the first four or five days scouring every slough, oxbow, and beaver pond we could walk into, so when things got going later in the hunt, we would know the lay of the ground very well. This morning, we would scale the ridges on the east edge of our unit and glass the river corridor, hoping to find some spots that could provide decent calling and glassing.
The biologist had told me that the pattern of this area went something like this, though the timing was hard to predict. The safest bet would be to plan for the last ten days, as that is usually when the best hunting started. Unfortunately, once I learned of that in late July, the production schedules had been set and there was no way to change from our middle of season dates.
The other patter was that bulls would come down to the river from the hills. They would be searching for cows, then using the river corridor to get over to the Koyukuk Controlled Use Area, which was the unit just east of our unit. He said in normal years, you wake up and it is almost like "it rained bulls overnight." You go from seeing almost nothing to seeing plenty of them when they arrive at the river. His experience said that date would be +/- 3 days from September 18th. I was hoping more for September 15th and not September 21st, given we would be pulling out on the 20th.
Once the frost melted off the metal boat seats, we decided it was warm enough to motor down to the east edge of our unit and scale the ridge on the north side of the river, giving us a commanding view of the east side of the unit. Sounded good in theory. Like most things in Alaska, easier said than done.
We beached the boat in the flooded shore willows. The river was way, way high. Charlie, our transporter, stated this was as high as he had ever seen the river. We tied off, then double tied, not being afforded a luxury of our boat floating off without us. As was established protocol, we had a dry bag of emergency gear, including the sat phone that would be hauled up the bank and stashed away from the boat, in case the worst happened.
Walking across a quarter mile of tussocks is not that easy, but was much easier than the steep slope of alder and aspen/birch regrowth that grew in from a decade-old fire. Not that bad for me and Jerry, given we had nothing but packs and rifles. For the camera guys, toting big cameras with multiple cables hanging from them, mounted on five foot tripods, I was worried they may use their bear repellents (a .44 Mag and a 10mm) on their host. It was bad going for them, but no complaints. Not a good start to a ten day hunt.
It took over an hour to gain the 200' of elevation and the half mile of horizontal distance. Hoped we would not see one of the grizz that had taken liberty to crap all over this nice hillside. If so, he would have me in a headlock before I even saw him.
We did find some openings in the canopy that allowed us to glass the oxbows that spread out below us. The spruce were more dense than it looked in the aerial photos. I wondered to myself how well sound would travel in that thick stuff.
An hour of glassing and comparing to aerial photos showed that Google Earth had again given me the feeling like I had been there before. I had printed Google Earth screen shots, then laminated them for waterproofing. Was useful to have them and know what it looked like on the other side of those high banks that often kept one from seeing much from the river.
It was decided to drop down the west side and call a few of these oxbows. It would give us some idea of any sign and let me practice my calling tactics. Always fun to get a few kinks worked out and these three calling set ups served just that. Lots of moose tracks, but no results from my calling.
We short-cutted across the swamp to the boat tie off. Was a fun first morning. Time to do more exploring and learning.
We buzzed past camp on our way up river, seeing meat bags hanging from one camp near us. A good sign that moose were being shot. Hopefully our camp would soon bear the same fruits of victory.
The day was spent walking int the many slough and oxbows on our maps, calling when we did so, then inspecting all the sandbars for tracks. Not sure how many calling set ups we did, but none resulted in a moose sighting. Oh well, a lot was learned.
While on our way back to camp, we came around a bend to see three guys with their boat up on a log and the lower unit disassembled on the gravel bar. We killed the motor and floated up to them. They asked if we had any wire. Nope. Seems the gravel and leaves had plugged the exit hole for the water that is used to water cool outboards. As some call it, the "piss hole."
These guys were seriously skilled mechanics. I have owned four Yamaha outboards and have never seen one taken down to basic pieces as these guys had, on an Alaska river sandbar, no less. I was impressed.
It became apparent that a tow would be in order. I took our three guys the half mile down to our camp, returning to find them reassembling everything. They thought they might have it fixed. They buttoned up the cowling, then pushed off. The motor started, but no water coming out. They thought it would get them to camp, another mile below us. I questioned that, given all my Yamahas have automatic shut offs if the water cooling system is not working.
I followed slowly behind, then turning into our camp. I killed the motor and wondered what happened to those guys. I looked down river and they were flagging me. The motor had shut down. I jumped in, drove down, grabbed their bowline and towed them to camp. They were good guys and offered me drinks, etc. They had two moose. One very nice 57" and one "meat bull." They had been driving way up river, then floating down, finding moose on the sandbars. Looked to be an effective tactic.
I returned to camp where the guys had already boiled water for the first of our ten Mountain House dinners. Beef stew tonight.
Jerry and the camera guys celebrated our first day of hunting with Jerry's ritual of toasting all with a shot of Crown Royal. Big stories were told, expectations expressed, and finally the sun dropped enough to allow a good nights sleep by ten O'clock.
Charlie, our transporter, stopped by to check on us and our boat, then showed us the beaver they had shot that night. He would skin them, then freeze the carcasses for trapping bait come winter.
I have skinned hundreds of beaver, but I have never seen one without a full tail, especially one of this size.
After a long day of getting to camp, it was tough to roll out of the sleeping bag with the temps somewhere in the teens. Just felt better to tuck my head back into the bag and hope for more winks. But, given what kind of hunt awaited us, I decided to get up and watch the sun rise over the willows, still amazingly green for these temps and time of year.
My water bladder tube was froze hard. No water for brushing my teeth this morning. Time to grab some beaver water and fire up the Primus Eta Solo and boil the giardia germs out of it. And, I needed it for oatmeal.
I purposefully made a lot of noise, making sure the rest of the crew would get up and running. In short order, I realized that it was flat out cold, not just cool. I walked down to the boat, seeing a heavy crust of frost on everything. The dampness of the river made it feel even colder. My mind quickly thought about the teeth chattering drive of going up river in the boat with these temps. Not the end of the world, but definitely not something a guy wants to do with just a light layer of clothes.
As the sun came up, I found myself searching for the beaver that kept me up all night. They had started building a winter feed bed right at the mouth of the Pitka River, which happened to be our camp location. The beaver were up all night, making cannonball type sounds with their slapping tails whenever they smelled our boat. I was going to shoot everyone of those (&^$^@^ beaver. But, I figured I better find out if that was legal before seeking some level of vengeance that may not give me back the lost sleep, but would make for good fun and a plew to serve as a souvenir.
Good thing I looked at the regs. Beaver shooting was closed to non-residents, but open to residents. Like a beaver really cares who shoots him. Oh well, time for breakfast.
Jerry was up and stirring, chuckling about his grand fortune of being in the remotes of Alaska, fulfilling his lifelong dream. Shortly thereafter, Mason and Brad were up and stirring. Brad and Jerry being huge coffee junkies, nothing would happen until Starbucks was served in Brad's homemade coffee press.
Hot oatmeal felt good. We could hear for miles and listened intently for any boats that might be out at this early hour. Nothing. That was good. We had passed two boats between the Honhosa (the start of our unit) and our camp on the Pitka. Seemed coffee held equally priority at their camp.
I told the guys of the game plan - Spend the first four or five days scouring every slough, oxbow, and beaver pond we could walk into, so when things got going later in the hunt, we would know the lay of the ground very well. This morning, we would scale the ridges on the east edge of our unit and glass the river corridor, hoping to find some spots that could provide decent calling and glassing.
The biologist had told me that the pattern of this area went something like this, though the timing was hard to predict. The safest bet would be to plan for the last ten days, as that is usually when the best hunting started. Unfortunately, once I learned of that in late July, the production schedules had been set and there was no way to change from our middle of season dates.
The other patter was that bulls would come down to the river from the hills. They would be searching for cows, then using the river corridor to get over to the Koyukuk Controlled Use Area, which was the unit just east of our unit. He said in normal years, you wake up and it is almost like "it rained bulls overnight." You go from seeing almost nothing to seeing plenty of them when they arrive at the river. His experience said that date would be +/- 3 days from September 18th. I was hoping more for September 15th and not September 21st, given we would be pulling out on the 20th.
Once the frost melted off the metal boat seats, we decided it was warm enough to motor down to the east edge of our unit and scale the ridge on the north side of the river, giving us a commanding view of the east side of the unit. Sounded good in theory. Like most things in Alaska, easier said than done.
We beached the boat in the flooded shore willows. The river was way, way high. Charlie, our transporter, stated this was as high as he had ever seen the river. We tied off, then double tied, not being afforded a luxury of our boat floating off without us. As was established protocol, we had a dry bag of emergency gear, including the sat phone that would be hauled up the bank and stashed away from the boat, in case the worst happened.
Walking across a quarter mile of tussocks is not that easy, but was much easier than the steep slope of alder and aspen/birch regrowth that grew in from a decade-old fire. Not that bad for me and Jerry, given we had nothing but packs and rifles. For the camera guys, toting big cameras with multiple cables hanging from them, mounted on five foot tripods, I was worried they may use their bear repellents (a .44 Mag and a 10mm) on their host. It was bad going for them, but no complaints. Not a good start to a ten day hunt.
It took over an hour to gain the 200' of elevation and the half mile of horizontal distance. Hoped we would not see one of the grizz that had taken liberty to crap all over this nice hillside. If so, he would have me in a headlock before I even saw him.
We did find some openings in the canopy that allowed us to glass the oxbows that spread out below us. The spruce were more dense than it looked in the aerial photos. I wondered to myself how well sound would travel in that thick stuff.
An hour of glassing and comparing to aerial photos showed that Google Earth had again given me the feeling like I had been there before. I had printed Google Earth screen shots, then laminated them for waterproofing. Was useful to have them and know what it looked like on the other side of those high banks that often kept one from seeing much from the river.
It was decided to drop down the west side and call a few of these oxbows. It would give us some idea of any sign and let me practice my calling tactics. Always fun to get a few kinks worked out and these three calling set ups served just that. Lots of moose tracks, but no results from my calling.
We short-cutted across the swamp to the boat tie off. Was a fun first morning. Time to do more exploring and learning.
We buzzed past camp on our way up river, seeing meat bags hanging from one camp near us. A good sign that moose were being shot. Hopefully our camp would soon bear the same fruits of victory.
The day was spent walking int the many slough and oxbows on our maps, calling when we did so, then inspecting all the sandbars for tracks. Not sure how many calling set ups we did, but none resulted in a moose sighting. Oh well, a lot was learned.
While on our way back to camp, we came around a bend to see three guys with their boat up on a log and the lower unit disassembled on the gravel bar. We killed the motor and floated up to them. They asked if we had any wire. Nope. Seems the gravel and leaves had plugged the exit hole for the water that is used to water cool outboards. As some call it, the "piss hole."
These guys were seriously skilled mechanics. I have owned four Yamaha outboards and have never seen one taken down to basic pieces as these guys had, on an Alaska river sandbar, no less. I was impressed.
It became apparent that a tow would be in order. I took our three guys the half mile down to our camp, returning to find them reassembling everything. They thought they might have it fixed. They buttoned up the cowling, then pushed off. The motor started, but no water coming out. They thought it would get them to camp, another mile below us. I questioned that, given all my Yamahas have automatic shut offs if the water cooling system is not working.
I followed slowly behind, then turning into our camp. I killed the motor and wondered what happened to those guys. I looked down river and they were flagging me. The motor had shut down. I jumped in, drove down, grabbed their bowline and towed them to camp. They were good guys and offered me drinks, etc. They had two moose. One very nice 57" and one "meat bull." They had been driving way up river, then floating down, finding moose on the sandbars. Looked to be an effective tactic.
I returned to camp where the guys had already boiled water for the first of our ten Mountain House dinners. Beef stew tonight.
Jerry and the camera guys celebrated our first day of hunting with Jerry's ritual of toasting all with a shot of Crown Royal. Big stories were told, expectations expressed, and finally the sun dropped enough to allow a good nights sleep by ten O'clock.
Charlie, our transporter, stopped by to check on us and our boat, then showed us the beaver they had shot that night. He would skin them, then freeze the carcasses for trapping bait come winter.
I have skinned hundreds of beaver, but I have never seen one without a full tail, especially one of this size.
