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The Last Frontier
Dr. Harold H. Wingo
Klawock, Alaska
It has rained most of the day. A moderate rain, with occasional heavy pelting, swept the Island but finally the rain has stopped. On the water, mirror-like-reflections of gold and pink mimic distant mountains towering against an evening sky. Reflections of trees plays on the water . . . glistening and shimmering as invisible fingers of an ever-so-slight breeze disturbs the surface. In the evening stillness, embellished by a setting sun, crepuscular rays of light course downwardly as a sparse fog lifts from the surface of almost glass-smooth-water. Hovering no more than a foot above the calm bay, individual wisps of streaming fog rise ever so torpidly. Almost without perceivable motion, against a backdrop of snow covered mountains, the fog rises to meet bodies of low hanging clouds. Union of the two appear seamless becoming one in the serene valley of Klawock, Alaska . . . . my home. Hemlocks, Spruce and Cedars are partially obscured by the fog. Faint outlines offer hints of tall, distant ghosts along the banks, their branches barely trembling where the river empties into a protected salt-water bay.
It's a minus tide. Adult Bald Eagles, stoically perch on cedar stumps which otherwise are hidden by normal water levels. They train their sharp eyes on movement hidden just below the water’s surface while others play on the wind searching for currents. Their immense wings power them through the air, their wide white tail turning first one way then another as would a rudder, correcting their path of flight, and they perform their ballet soaring close to the water’s surface. Elongated shadows occasionally break the surface answering Nature’s Call while charting their course up river. Immature eagles, as many as ten to twelve, their splotched plumage not close to bearing the splendor and magnificence of that seen in adults, awkwardly hop along the water’s edge pecking at frequent splashes. Others attempt to sink their talons into the struggling figures that have gotten too close to the shore’s edge. Insouciant Black Bear with cubs, ordinarily atrabilious, smack the water with their great paws while their not-so-innocent cubs mischievously play demonstrating no respect and certainly a lack of regard for “school” which is in session for their benefit.
It’s a “Time-of-Plenty” . . . a Cornucopia for all that live along the lakes and streams, the inland passages, waterways and outer banks. It’s a time when bear, hungry from a long winter’s sleep, make their way to the water’s edge. It’s a time when wolves and their young follow the multitude feeding on the young, weak and helpless. It’s a time when Eagles dance in the morning sun and sound their call in the evening mist. It’s a time when Crab migrate along the ocean’s floor to the mouths of rivers to bottom feed on the bounty escaping consumption in the frenzy up stream. It’s a time when human inhabitants in various villages bubble with excitement and come alive in festive occasion; when harbors bulge with large fishing vessels some arriving from far away. It’s a time when streets brim with the expecting and hopeful; when local fishermen hall large nets in small boats as they set out into protected bays and inlets. It’s a time when women ready their kitchens and smoke-houses in anticipation of that which the men will harvest. Elders teach the young the ways of mending nets and tell stories of fishing adventures they experienced as young men. And the young listen intently, their eyes fixed, their face with expression of wonderment, their vivid minds working in “high gear” as they dream of ‘their time’ and ‘their adventure’ later to come. It’s a time when fish in the streams ignore falling insects swarming just above the water’s surface and exercise their option to fill their bellies with thousands of eggs. It’s the Salmon Run!
A primitive urging of paramount importance drives Salmon, each year, to make a final journey. It’s a lesson in Life for those attentive. At all cost Salmon return to where they began life thus insuring survival of their species and to no lesser a degree survival of genetic superiority. Without regard, totally focused on their most important mission, they begin a perilous journey from far out at sea; one that surely ends in death regardless of the success of their mission. Compelled by unimaginable forces, the likes of which we shall never know, they struggle relentlessly . . . hour after hour, day after day, night and day without rest or sleep. They fight their way up water falls some higher than 20 feet, in waters fraught with peril, throwing themselves into strong currents, against rocks and logs to reach the placid water from where life for them began. There they spawn in a protected environment. They are, in the broadest scheme, insuring that a new generation will preserve and protect “their” genetic code for after all, it was they . . . the strongest . . “The Victorious” . . . that summoned the courage, strength, endurance, and a magnificent display of genetic superiority to bring life, once again, to these hallowed waters. There they give their life to complete a cycle and this is, without a doubt, the Master’s Design.
Cleverly tucked away, Mother Nature hid only one of many waterfalls just past a sharp bend in the river. Walking a soggy, Sphagnum moss trail through a virgin rain forest, the din of normal forest noise was hushed. The surrounding sound was sucked up by a sponge of thick, green moss covering the forest floor and trunks of giant Conifers. Unlike the jungles of South East Asia or South America where the forest soil is rich with nutrients, large ferns taking residence in this rain forest, nurse sparse nutrients from infertile, acidic peat bogs, sometimes referred to as Muskeg, their broad leaves glistening . . . dripping with moisture. Wet, shinny Skunk Cabbage, the leaves of which being wider than Burley Tobacco and some plants as tall as five feet, compete for space and questionable nutrients among the fern. Large snails glide along the moist forest floor leaving behind a glistening trail of slime. Pleomorphic pale green moss, likened to Spanish Moss of the South, inhabit the trees portraying visions of a primeval forest.
I reached the water’s edge. It was quite and peaceful; serene. A solitude that cannot be expressed nor defined . . . only experienced. The water moved slowly with only a whisper but a Raven, perched high in the branches of a Hemlock, announced my presence. A mature Bald Eagle flying straight up the narrow river came to perch atop a Cedar adjacent to the Raven. The branch bent from its enormous mass and the Raven was chased from its perch. White flower pedals, having fallen in the water next to shore from bushes that would soon bear berries, gently floated away from their origin. A few are caught in the faster current, twirled about, and carried towards the center of the stream where they are pushed ahead of the others. No-seem's, White Socks, and mosquitoes buzzed my head like mad Hornets. Searching for blood-filled-capillaries close to the skin’s surface, they feasted with each opportunity and I fought in vane to thwart their relentless attack. Still, my attention to these insects was primarily subconscious for my attention was fixed on movement off to my right and across the stream. Sounds were inaudible but I didn’t need to hear what I was seeing. In no time at all a small black ball of fur, partially obscured by berry bushes, presented next to the water. Slowly . . . carefully it emerged into full view. It was this year’s bear cub. The mom was not too far behind. I began to whistle so as to announce my presence to the bear. However, she and the cub were already aware of my presence due to their keen since of smell. Still, I took no chances. The sow came into full view. There was no mistake; she wanted to let me know that this was her fishing hole and I would simply have to wait my turn . . . which I was more than willing to do. No argument from me. The advancing light played on the cub’s fur. From one moment to the next the fur sparkled and glistened with hues of orange and pink. Occasionally streaks of silver were dominant as direct sunlight struck the wet coat. The mom’s coat was not as shiny. Perhaps having to care for a restless cub "dulled" her brilliance . . . much like that which happens to us; a dulled luster and a diminished sparkle from toxic, chronic wear of dealing with our own offspring. I was in sympathy with her and perhaps she discerned this “common bond” for having acknowledged my presence, and with a pointed look, she dismissed me paying more attention to her young cub. The sow would frequently scent with her powerful nose and she seemed to become restless. She walked back and forth, pacing impatiently, up and down the river’s edge. Preoccupied perhaps with more important issues she left for “better waters” with “Winnie” in tow.
With fly rod in hand, slipping into the current with a vigil along the shore for feeding bear, I waded out into the stream several hundred yards below the falls. Intoxicated by Nature’s beauty I cast my fly upon the water; totally immersed in thought, I lost all track of self and time. It was meant to be this way. This too is the Master’s Design. There’s no other place that compares.
It’s Alaska!
Dr. Harold H. Wingo
Klawock, Alaska
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