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Goat Hunters Invented Fishing?
As an experienced Alaskan guide and outfitter these things are not suppose
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 states, “If any thing
can go wrong it will”. Yet here I find my self perched atop a boulder
ridden glacier, 200 miles from the closest town in Southeast Alaska, with
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 the thoughts under my
breath. “I bet that tent would have worked better If I had brought
the tent poles” I have my own law now. The Varvil law. It simply
states, “Murphy was an optimist.”
 My
story starts in July after I receive 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 where 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 invites myself and a couple
other guides from the Fish Alaska crew down for a weekend of R and R and
of course, fishing. After having to reschedule because of weather twice,
Dan Hardy and I set up a trip for the first week of October. Dan cancels
at the last minute and instead opts for a Fall Talkeetna Rainbow trip.
I was looking forward to a weekend of solitude and after talking with
Sam I decide to make it a combo hunting/fishing trip. My first target
would be the Alaskan Mountain Goat. Then I would follow with the famed
Tsiu silver salmon.
 My 50-minute
commercial flight from Anchorage to Cordova goes smoothly and the first
thing I see when I get off the plane is my old friend’s smiling
face. The short flight to the lodge in a Beaver gives me a bird’s
eye view of the lay of the land. We fly along the beach next to the ocean
and I watch as thousands of migrating mallard ducks and snow geese fill
the skies all around us. He points out the window, drops the wing and
gives 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. There were thousands of salmon laying in the current just
waiting for me to introduce myself to them. But that would have to wait
a couple of days. He gently tapped the tires to the little gravel landing
strip and his staff comes out to greet me and carry my bags to my cabin.
The heated cabin has two beds and I immediately lay out all my gear to
make this place home. After a short orientation on goat hunting by Sam,
he picks through my equipment and we leave the stuff he deems too heavy
or unnecessary behind. An hour later we are in the Air with his small
two-seat cub flying at no more than 200 feet off the ground. We spend
about an hour flying locating 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 locate a few nice billie’s up a canyon that were within
walking distance. They would make good targets the next morning. Sam begins
to circle a huge glacier as he slows down the plane to a hover and it
‘s obvious he is looking for a place to land amongst 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
little cub into the clouds and out of site.
Friday night at 5 PM.
 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! That is were 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 climbed up onto a rock and used 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 Boyscouts 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 turned to hail.
8:15 PM 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 too 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 “Won't
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.
12:04 AM exactly.
 I must
have dozed off because I was awakened to my tent and I falling in the
air. The fall did not hurt much. The landing I could have done without
as I cracked open my head. But even with the warm blood running down my
face I could not feel the pain or the bump that was swelling on my forehead.
What really hurt was the heater burning a hole through my bivy sack, sleeping
bag and finally through my fleece pants and into my leg. I threw the heater
toward what I thought was the door, which immediately started the side
of the tent on fire. With another kick the little heater finally made
its self onto the glacier. My tent was filled with black smoke, which
thankfully cleared quickly thanks to the new ventilation system I had
just installed. I fumble for my headlamp, a new high dollar lithium model.
I turn the switch. It gives me a ray of hope and then goes out. I change
the batteries of which I have brought many. I try a new bulb. It still
will not work. It must have been crushed in the fall. My tent is a twisted
mess but still standing somewhat up right. I use one of those cheap pocket
flashlights and discover the glacier has shifted with all the rain. My
tent was 8 feet away from a crack that ran for at least 200 yards. Every
thing on my side of the crack dropped 4 feet. Super!!
1:45 AM
I move my tent too higher ground. Rocks, sticks the whole works with the
pocket flashlight in my teeth. I discover the new high side of the tent
is the old low side and have to cut more holes in my tent to prevent any
more water from collecting. Hey, what are another 5 holes at this point.
I go back outside in the sleet and get the now burned out heater. I try
to strike the matches and the stick goes right through the now soggy matchbox.
I used my sharpening stone and tried 32 matches before one would ignite.
Yes I counted them! I go to light the gas and it catches immediately.
However, and you knew there was going to be a however. The flame travels
down the stem and into the propane canister, which had apparently been
knocked loose in the fall. The flame begins to come out at the top of
the canister. I kick the whole works like a football with my coflax boots
and it blows up no more than 10 yards in front of me. It sends Propane
bottle shrapnel in every direction including into and through my tent
wall. My tent looks like it’s been in a Jessie James movie.
I am ashamed to say I have not been near a church in 10 years. I immediately
did what any one would have done and went right to my nearest dead relative
for help, which for me was Grandpa. I gave up the little stuff at first.
You know like driving fast and overeating. No dice, it began to hail again.
So I made a couple of deals with him that I care not to discuss, in hopes
that there would be some reprieve from this abuse I was taking. Good old
grandpa came through and it stopped about an hour later. I place the finishing
touches on the convertible tent and settle in to my very damp sleeping
bag for the rest of the night, hoping to get a couple hours of rest.
3:30 AM
 The
hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up and I have cold chills
that are not caused from the inch of water in my sleeping bag. I was awake
again. I had to hold my breath just so I could strain to hear over the
sound of my heart beating. The sound that started off faintly in a dream
has now turned into what I can only describe as a high-pitched scream.
It sounds likes a woman screaming (a sound I am very familiar with after
10 years of marriage} I have hunted and fished all my life and I have
never heard anything like this before. It circled my tent 3 times and
was screaming like a wounded rabbit the whole time. My common sense and
years of growing up in the outdoors tells me it’s a wolverine, bear
or maybe a lynx that was upset by my presence. I was at least 1% sure
of this and the other 99% and my last 10 hours of hell was banking on
every Yeti and abominable snowman story I have ever heard. From inside
my sleeping bag I began to communicate with my visitor. I had not brushed
up on my English to Yeti for a while and so I opted to try obscenities.
Small amounts at first. Then I combined a few with sounds of my make believe
dog, a Giant German shepherd as I recall. I would bark and then scream
a few choice words. Once I added two dogs just for a better effect.
I had finally cracked up. Whatever it was must have thought I had gone
bad or that I was nuts, because it left.
7 AM.
I wake up shivering and on the low side of the tent in 3 inches of water.
My sleeping bag had covered my drain holes. The zippers on the tent are
frozen. I poke my head out of the burn hole just to make sure I was alone.
I laugh at my self-thinking how ridiculous I must have looked and sounded.
Then I look around again. I get dressed in my semi-wet clothes and look
up the valley to where the goats are and the fog has the mountain socked
in tight. I dig out my GPS to set the coordinates for camp. Just  before
leaving I place 3 large rocks on the main glacier, which was solid ice
and crevasses, so if all else failed I could walk up and down the glacier
looking for my tent. Of course, we all know GPS’s are 99.9% accurate
and they always work, so I was not too concerned. Up the mountain I went
and after 2 hours of jumping giant icy boulders in the fog I have only
taken a couple of hard falls. Ok, I fell about 15 times but I am feeling
pretty good. I find a nice bench below where I had seen the goats and
wait for the fog to lift. The fog is at ground level and I assume I will
be there another night as there is no way Sam can fly in under those conditions.
But if the fog lifts it should be easy to see the goats. Of course, it
begins to snow. Perfect day to be a goat.
I pull out my GPS to find my tent which lies somewhere below me. Some
how it has gotten wet. What was a perfect picture leading me back to my
tent now resembles an ETCH-A Sketch kids' toy. This was serious. I went
right to my Lucky #7100 Boyscout trusty compass. It has never let me down
and it has been getting me out of jams since I was 12. The pointer is
spinning around in circles. I thought “you have got to be *&%^&
me”. I would later find out that due to the heavy iron and copper
deposits that they are non-reliable here. For now though I was in the
Twilight Zone. For the first time I was scared.
I had forgot my tent poles, burned my tent, my leg, sleeping bag and bivy
sack. I blew up my heater. I am camped on a moving shifting glacier that
tried to eat my tent. I forgot my lighter and my matches don’t work.
I have cracked my head open. My compass and GPS are not working. My headlamp
is a no go. I am now stuck in the fog on the glacier. My tent is a self-bailing
convertible and I am having moonlight visits by a love-sick Yeti. Not
a bad tally for one day.
5 PM.
I just headed down hill. After a few bumps and bruises I make it back
to the main glacier and I am reduced to looking for my rocks with the
pocket flashlight. I make a small dinner (Snickers Bar and water) and
pass out in my sleeping bag from exhaustion.
1:00 AM.
My screaming visitor shows up for another round of “let’s
scare the Greenhorn”. I am too tired to play and after one mediocre
shout I fall back asleep.
9 AM.
Sunday morning I am awakened by Sam on the aviation radio, which
by some miracle is working. He buzzes me at about 100 feet and says he
will be back in a couple of hours. Two hours? Anything could happen in
two hours! I really just wanted to poor white gas on my tent and burn
the whole works. I did not however knowing that with my luck the weather
would have turned bad keeping Sam back at the lodge. I just bag it up
in a garbage sack sleeping bag and all. Again with the precision of a
surgeon he lands the plane on the broken ice. He knew something was amiss,
as I remained very quiet the whole flight back. He just would lean back
and look at the garbage bag and smile. After I had taken a hot shower
and had one of his chefs’ first class meals I began to speak and
the other guests just stared. Sam was only able to get me out that Friday
night and then the front blew in. The remaining guests were now very thankful
they were “stuck” at camp. That night I went to bed at 7 pm.
I slept like a baby.
I did fish the Tsiu the next morning. I caught about 100 silvers. I could
tell you I used this fly or that but the truth is they hit what ever you
throw in front of them down here. My 8 weight Loomis was bent over all
day. The sounds in my head of midnight screaming Yeti’s have been
replaced by screaming fly line. Sam’s guides are first rate, yes
both of them, they stayed close to me and gave me advice all day. I think
Sam was afraid to leave me by myself with only one. They netted my fish.
Pointed out the big chrome rockets and did all the stuff a good guide
should do. It was heaven. This is why I like to fish. Relaxation. As I
look back at the whole trip now I can chalk it up as a learning experience.
I made it out with a few cuts and only a bruised ego. It does make for
a great story of what not to do. The only thing I truly no for sure, is
that I now firmly believe, a goat hunter actually must have invented fishing.
Airfare Era Aviation R/T To Cordova $300
50 Minute flight 7 days a week
248-4422 Reservations
Tsiu River Lodge
Sam Fejes Registered Guide since 1976
907-424-4348 In season
907-349-4040 Off season
Fishing Aug 1st – October 31st
Can accommodate 10-11 Guests at a time
Private rooms, On site chef, Sauna, showers, bathrooms, Sat TV and spacious
lodge. 230.
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