15 Rounds

What do we think of when we think about Alaska? What descriptions best fit our perceptions? Things like snow, ice, mountains, bears, and wilderness probably jump to mind (and for Republicans - Sarah Palin). Images of power, of danger, of freedom - they define what it means to be untamed and be without limitations. Even Alaska's official state nickname, The Last Frontier, feeds into this idea. Coming from North Carolina - the state which as sure as the sun shines has a firm grasp on my heart, the very state in which I hope to live and die in - this label was going to be a tall order for Alaska to live up to. Well folks; yesterday, it did.

I woke up Saturday morning to the sight of snow pouring down outside. I do not wish to minimize the amount of snow coming down; it was, in fact, more snow falling from the sky than I have ever seen before. Most people, when there is a blizzard outside, stay indoors. They put on a warm, fuzzy sweater, brew a hot cup of tea, and immerse themselves in a good book. Sitting around the dining room table, snarfin’ down chocolate chip pancake after chocolate chip pancake and Patrick’s famous “George W. Bush” special (a mix of chili, cheese, and grits; delicious), us boys were in no mind to let an adventure slip by because of few a snowflakes. We discussed for a good long while where we should head off to, with suggestion after suggestion shot down because of this reason or that. We stayed stumped until David (3rd roommate; 26, about my height, scruffy beard, intern with Young Life) spouted out that today was the last day of deer season and he had yet to tag his winter deer. Each of our faces lit up as we thought over the prospect of fresh venison in the freezer and trekking out into the cold wilderness to bring home dinner. Of course we over romanticized the whole adventure in our minds; after all, not one of us bears the name Daniel Boone or Jeremiah Johnson, and there is a grocery store 1/2 mile down the road. But, every man has an adventure to face and a beauty to rescue, right? And, with the slim-pickin’s regarding females in the "great north" (Alaska’s nickname really should be: The Men with Beards State), an adventure offering a fairly good chance of frostbite, hypothermia, or death was just what the doctor ordered. So, after finishing off another batch of pancakes, we set off for the "wild".

Allow me to preface something. Deer hunting to the folk of Southeast Alaska does not mean the same thing as deer hunting means to the good ol' boys of the mountains of North Carolina. No; in Sitka, rarely do you hear of someone going out early in the morning and settin' in a tree stand for hours upon end. Nope, people just aren't patient up here I guess. In these woods, deer hunting entails getting in your boat (something everyone has, mind you), and setting off to remote islands and inlets. Where, upon arrival, the actual "hunting" is defined as riding up and down the miles and miles of shoreline, until a deer is spotted feeding by the water. Then (if you are in the business of abiding by the law, which, I must add, because Patrick is Mr. Fish & Game, I certainly am), you shore your boat and creep up to where you’ve got a clear shot, and proceed to fell the rascal (if you are not in the business of abiding by the law, you just stand up in your boat and pull the trigger). This type of hunting offers a fresh, new challenge and demands stealth, so, I must admit, yesterday I was extremely excited.

We left the house and swung by our friend Brian's house to pick up the Cattywampus - our boat for the day (sweet name huh?). After shoveling out the snow from inside the boat, hooking up the gas tank, and throwing a few snowballs, we set off for the dock. Once we got the craft in the water, put on our "mustang” survival suits (extremely warm flotation suits), and loaded up all our gear, we realized that there wasn't a plug for the drain hole - which was making our boat begin to fill up with water. So, naturally, being the Alaskan men that we are (or more like Patrick, Kyle, and David are; I’m still learning), we improvised by using an extra glove and a handy stick to stop the incoming flow, and proceeded to set off into the arctic waters. And, of course, it began to snow harder.

The plan was to head to a group of islands across the bay from town, where, supposedly, there are deer aplenty. To do this though, we had to cross open water, Pacific water specifically. The waves began to surge larger and larger, the wind began to blow harder and harder, and snow began to fall thicker and thicker. The Cattywampus is not exactly a yacht; it’s more like a row boat - a 30 horsepower, 16 foot, aluminum row boat to be precise. So, rough water isn't really what the boat was designed to handle. But, what did a bunch of young-guns care about that? We plowed ahead through the open water like soldiers in a battleship, crashing though the waves at 20 knots - splashing water all into our skiff and on ourselves. Salt water sprayed our hair and wind lashed out at our faces. 5 minutes into the excursion I couldn't feel my fingers and toes, 10 minutes in I couldn't feel my face, and 15 minutes in I couldn't feel my body at all. Patrick said it was around 20 degrees air-temp, but riding in that open water with the wind made it closer to -20°. Half way across the bay the waves began to tower above our boat; for the Cattywampus, it was the perfect storm. Patrick yelled at Kyle to turn the boat east and head into Silver Bay (a narrow inlet that has mountains towering on either side of it), where we would find calmer water. After another half-hour of crashing waves, ocean spray, and death's doorstep, we made it into the bay. If you would have been an eagle flying overhead at that moment, you would have seen four men (or three men and a boy; remember, I’m still learning), soaked to the bone in salt water, and covered in at least an inch of snow; their hair coated in ice, and their eyes glazed - deep and fierce. Not one of us was expecting a battle with the sea itself, but, now that we had escaped it’s grasp, it was as though nothing, and I mean nothing, could stop us on our adventure.

We road into Silver Bay; where we were met with eerie calmness and quiet. There weren't any crashing waves. There wasn’t any ocean spray. There wasn’t any driving wind. The water was still and placid; like a mirror. Remaining was only the falling snow; which, by the way (no exaggeration), was falling as heavy and thick as a blanket made of ram's fur. We traveled mile after mile through the inlet, deep into the mountains. With every stroke of the motor the air temperature dropped and the snow fell larger and thicker. It fell so densely that we could hardly see what was in front of us; our boat cut through the snow like a knife. We were all covered in snow and our hair was frosted white (Patrick’s beard was unbelievable by this point). My eyelashes kept freezing together, and I had to break them apart over and over again to even see; I have never been as cold as I was at that moment. Before Saturday, I had experienced Alaska, but not in the way it was made legendary. This was the early gold miners' Alaska, this was Jack London's Alaska, this was legendary Alaska.

We crept along the edge of the shore in the Cattywampus, keeping a careful gaze on the bank for any sign of life. Every now and then we would pass a sea-lion or seal in the water, or see a bald eagle or raven stationed on top of a spruce. But; no deer. We continued through the inlet, until we arrived at a small estuary. We floated into the estuary, at which time Patrick began to tell several stories about close encounters with grizzly while hiking in the area. The water in the bay had become a slushy, icy mix, but in the estuary it was already frozen along the edges and soon would be solid throughout. After a thorough, but fruitless check of the surroundings for deer, we decided to head back towards town - a good 15 miles away. My cheeks were burning from the driving snow and wind, and were about the same color as a freshly washed fire-engine on a hot summer day (at the Haw Creek Volunteer Fire Department of course). We headed the Cattywampus north through Silver Bay (which had begun to freeze at a surprisingly rapid pace), still watching the shore line, but pretty much conceding that, this day, there wouldn't be any fresh meat in the freezer. But, oh, what a day it was. I looked around at the boys - snow covered and soaking wet - and each of us had a huge grin wrapped around our face. Ever since we left the dock each of us knew this adventure wasn't about deer meat; no, this adventure had become about proving that we could take what the “wild” had to offer, and survive. We plowed out of the bay, once again entering the mighty Pacific. The waves still loomed large next to our boat, but we held firm; battling the surge and blowing snow as we crossed open water into town. We made it to the dock, battered and cold, but, without a scratch. We were survivors.

The road had a good 6 inches of un-plowed snow on it as we drove back to our house. The town was completely covered; every building, automobile, and tree. It was picturesque. We arrived back home just before dark and put some water on the stove (in our cast iron skillet I might add) for hot chocolate and instant soup. After a few hours (no joke) I began to feel my extremities again, but, even as late as this evening, I still hadn’t lost the taste of salt water on my tongue. I closed my eyes last night and felt a slight (definitely an understatement) satisfaction with the events of the day. I felt as though Alaska had given me its best - 15 fightin’ rounds - and I had taken the punches, and was still standing.

My housemates will surely poke fun at me when they read this, and go on and on about I haven’t seen anything yet. So, for some strange reason, I still think Alaska has some muscle to flex. And I can’t wait…