TRACKS

Carolyn and I were living aboard our troller in old Thompson harbor in Sitka, Alaska.  It was, I don’t know, around 1996. Our children were living aboard their boats as well and we all made our living fishing.  One day my son Dev and I decided to go target shooting.  We took my fishing boat, the Tianna, a salmon troller built on a double-ended sailboat hull called the True North. We found an island with a long stretch of beach, anchored, and launched our skiff.
Pulling the skiff up on the sand, we unloaded our shooting gear and rifles and carried the skiff to the high tide line.  There was a log lying nearby that would make a good shooting rest, so we put our gear and rifles on it.  I used my range finder to locate another log a hundred yards down the beach, so I got a couple of targets and we headed for it.
We chatted away as we walked through the soft sand to the log.  Using my stapler I attached the targets, then we headed back to our shooting position.  We hadn’t walked twenty-five yards when there in the sand were huge brown bear tracks on top of our tracks.  At that point, it had turned and headed into the tree line.  We backtracked for maybe fifty yards to the spot it had come down out of the woods and followed us along the beach.
That bear had watched us, followed us down the beach, I mean right behind us, then lost interest and headed back into the woods.  We had no idea he was there.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many times I had been in a bear's crosshairs only to be spared by their change of mind.
We are so ignorant of the multitude of times death was just a second away and one little change of circumstance prevented it.  I guess if I were to moralize this story it would be to say, “Where you’ve been can be just as dangerous as where you’re going.”

Marshall Kimbrough Warren     

Our Children.  Oh, how I loved those days.  Living on a lake. waterskiing, swimming, and hiking with the kids.  One day Christy and I were walking along beside the lake.  She kept leaning over looking down.  Finally, I asked her, "What are you doing?'  She answered with the question, "Daddy, what keeps my eyeballs from falling out?"  Oh, how I loved those days.  

Kelly, Christy, Devlan

FERRY LAND

Carolyn and I live in a land of islands.  Travel between towns is by air or boat.  Thankfully we have the Alaska Marine Highway System, which means we have ferries connecting the towns.  Ferries large enough to put cars and trucks on.  One day in 1993 the ferry LeConte provided us with a most unexpected and greatly appreciated service.
That year we decided to get into commercial salmon trolling.  Since we had no experience we started with hand trolling.  We bought an old wooden 34ft shallow draft gill-netter, that had been converted to a hand troller, along with a hand troll permit.  The boat had the catchy name of “Sea Wing.“  Our preparation and learning curve is a story in itself, so I’ll just begin with this one incident.
We left Hidden Falls, headed north up Chatham Strait, after moderately poor success, then turned west down Peril Strait, south at Hoonah Sound, continued along Dead Man’s Reach and anchored in Poison Cove for the night.  We left early the next morning in order to arrive at Sergis Narrows at slack water as the tides rip through it at up to eight knots, faster than our boat.  This can be a dangerous place and I was always glad to have it behind me.  When we entered Salisbury Sound it was calm so I raised the trolling poles, these are 35-40ft long outriggers we attach our fishing lines to as well as stabilizers that drag in the water. Coming back into the pilothouse I asked Carolyn to take the helm for a few minutes while I rested.
In a matter of minutes I felt the boat jolted by a heavy wind gust.  Then another accompanied by rain.  Carolyn yelled, “You better come up here.”  The rain sounded like BB’s hitting the boat and the wind started hammering us badly.  Salisbury Sound looked like a washing machine.  I cursed myself for raising the trolling poles.  The weather continued to worsen and as the wind increased the boat rigging started howling in protest.
We were in trouble!  The wind was blowing so hard that if I let the bow slip out of the winds eye it would lay us on our beams end.  I told Carolyn to get our survival suits ready as I fought the helm.  Every wave tried to knock us down.
The wind was roaring out of Neva Strait, which was where we were headed.  To our left up ahead was St. Johns Baptist Bay.  I knew it had a safe anchorage, but there was no way for me to turn out of the wind and head for it.  Suddenly the radio crackled, “Sea Wing this is the LeConte coming up on your stern.  What are your intentions?”  I told him we were in trouble and just barely able to keep from being knocked down.  He replied, “We show the wind to be a steady 55kts with much higher gusts.  Do you know the anchorage in St. Johns Baptist Bay?”  I said that I did.  He said, “I’ll pull up beside you and put you under my lee to block the wind.  You stick close to me and I will lead you into the anchorage.”  I rogered his instructions and thanked him.
As I fought the helm our starboard windows filled with blue ships hull.  I sucked up to within ten feet of him and he led me in.    Dropping behind him we scooted into the sheltered anchorage.  By the time I had dropped the hook the LeConte had turned around and was passing in front of us.  He was blowing his horn and the port rail was lined with passengers shouting and waving.
After the sudden storm system passed we continued to Sitka.  It was still unpleasant, but safe.  The next day we sold our paltry number of fish, bought bait, got fresh ice, refueled and headed out again.
This isn’t the end of our story.  It was only the beginning.

Marshall Warren (former fisherman)