River Rhythms

There is something magical, soothing, unknown and comfortable about water, especially the water from the world’s rivers.  Rivers that have spent thousands of years carving their way through the landscape, a zig here, a zag there.  I was fortunate enough to make a connection with water early in my years as both a swimmer and traveler, so I am saddened by all those that are weighed down by their aquaphobia.  I have just returned to the lower 48 from the last frontier – Alaska.  Three of our days were spent drifting down the Kasilof and Russian Rivers fishing for king salmon in our Willie Boat.  

With our guide on the oars and anchor, we played a strategic game of location and movement down the river each morning.

Each morning began with a 3:20 a.m. wake up call, a quiet car ride for 40 minutes, to the boat launch by 4:30 a.m., in the water by 4:40 a.m. drifting down the river, anticipation of the unknown before us.

  

The sun has breached the horizon but the dense tundra owning the sides of the rivers will not expose the sun’s rays for another couple of hours.  Man, it is cold in this boat.  But it is quiet, except for a bird or when the river’s most powerful places churn up a symphony of sound as water passes over rock.  But the sound is quickly gone and you are back to the solitude of your row boat.  And you wait, wait for something to happen, wait for the sun to warm your body, wait to spring up and battle these legendary creatures.  But you are also surprised, surprised by the knowledge and kindness of your river guide who knows exactly when to speak to motivate and occupy by the boat, knows when to let silence reign, and most importantly he knows how to maneuver his boat into the prime spots with what I will later determine is the best possible gear for catching these fish and teaches the technique for setting the hook and getting them in the boat.  Which also explains why our best salmon fishing was on our first day as we had a different guide the other two days, if you need a guide for the Kenai Peninsula, Laine is your man. 

And he is a great storyteller, a storyteller-hunter, fishing in the summer, all-manner of hunting in the winter.  This is his profession; he is a hunting guide, outfitter that goes deep into frozen Alaska, at times for 2-3 weeks at a stretch for hunts.  And never talking about the conquest with a puffed up chest, but speaking plainly, reverence for the environment and the animal.  This is not the only hunting story I was told during my time in Alaska, at least 5 other people randomly shared their hunting stories.  And it is the stories that explain a significant factor that determines the societal, cultural practices of this part of the world: a ceaseless winter is always at the forefront of your mind and planning.  All these hunting stories ended exactly the same, "I was able to freeze 150 pounds of bear meat, 90 pounds of elk meat, and 110 pounds of halibut for the winter."  Winter is always coming up here, frigid cold, tons of snow, and while I loved the 19 hours of sunlight I just experienced, I know there is the reverse six months away, 19 hours of darkness.

But back to the river, all manner of bird dotting its shore or lording over us high above in an eagle’s nest.  And we float.  And the movement of the water carries away your stress, your judgment and lets you just be in the moment for a moment.  It also gave me patience.  While I have been on and in water for most of my life, I entered this anew.  Often in the past, when fishing got slow or I was just ready to get off the boat, I would be sullen and moody and bored.  Over these three days this only happened once and I forgive myself because it came in the last 20 minutes of fishing after two straight days of catching one fish total each day.  No, I spent a great deal of my time enjoying a moment, an ever-changing moment of drifting down a majestic river painted aqua green by the glacial silt.  Floating through trees and mud banks and jumping fish and people fly-fishing from the shore.  The rhythms of the river calmed my mind and invigorated my body and imagination.  Expensive therapy, but worth every penny.

Trying to Train a Trainer

I should be pleased when I learn that the folk around me whom I see every day—the trainers at the gym, neighbors walking kids and dogs, people at the café—have incorporated writing of one sort or another into their lives. In truth, however, I am not always pleased with this development. Taking exception to a shared love of literacy and writing is really only limited to a few cases: conservative pundits/jackasses, insipid celebrities, inarticulate/pandering sports figures, and haughty service providers. I realize that I could easily fall into the last category, but still I will press on with my rant. You see, I just learned that a trainer at my local gym has a blog and I just wasted a few minutes reading it. Allow me to tell you what is wrong with the author and his advice.

On the face of it, Steve’s Body Shop (http://stevesbodyshop.wordpress.com/) might seem like a useful site where one can learn about fitness and the thoughts of a fellow Colorado citizen. However, I have spent too much time around Steve to recommend him or his blog. Let me be more frank: Steve’ purportedly insightful and helpful advice belies a rather vain and condescending attitude toward others. I have taken too many abdominal classes with Steve to believe he cares. In these classes I found his preparation for the evening’s exercise was nonexistent and his central focus was on the attractive women around me. Worse yet, Steve has a tendency (if several of my female gym members are to be believed) to ask out his clients and class members. I could stand a bit of his hypocrisy about learning to love the body one has, pushing his readers to do more cardio, and appreciating the vivacity of the elderly who refuse to give in to age and infirmity were Steve not such a posturing player.


I am no gym rat, nor do I have Steve’s enviable physique, but I do have some respect for the people who share my gym and I do not think that treating females as meat and offering platitudes is to be praised. Were Steve to take something away from my chastisement of him then I would offer him the following suggestions. First, attempt sincerity when possible; many people know that you look at them as inferior specimens, and some of these specimens look back at you with equal amounts of contempt when they sense you are pandering to them with your comments. Second, only ask out people when you are sure that they are interested in you as a sexual partner, not as a trainer or an instructor. Simply put, try not to mix your professional and romantic personas. And third, carefully consider how hubris may play an important role in your future. If Steve can make some of these changes then I might consider returning to his blog. For the time being, I will avoid his classes and his comments.

I Pimp My Pen

Long time no write--apologies all. I just wanted to advise all of our readers that I have lately decided to "pimp my pen," or what might be better understood as writing all manner of things for the benefit of others, and maybe even my own gain. The effort is still at an early stage of implementation, but to date I have written a letter to the editor (LTE) of a local community newspaper that attacked a local group for opposing a proposed bike rental station near our local park. I mean come on: who could oppose more bikes and less traffic around here? My second effort was a contest (again locally based) to explain why I support a neighborhood business. On this occasion I gave reasons why my preferred coffee shop receives so much of my business. To close this brief post, write on I say, write on.