It had been 14 years since he had hunted with me, my oldest son Mason; he was coming to visit this last summer and was able to spend three weeks with us here in Ketchikan. My wife, Diane, and I had extra room and were looking forward to the visit; he brought along his best friend, Wilson, from Chicago, who had never been here as well…
I picked them up at the airport, and the next three days were spent primarily fishing saltwater from a boat loaned to us by my brother at Baranof sportfishing. It went well! Both Mason and Wilson caught enough fish to take about 50 pounds of filets each back home with them, and Wilson departed after the first week while Mason stayed to have some more adventures as time allowed… Our plan was to take my hand-me-down, 18-foot Lund skiff to an inlet not far from town and make a camp to hunt and fish from for a few days. With a day or two of preparation, we found ourselves ready and leaving the narrows and Ketchikan behind…
Gravina island has been a consistent destination for me over the years, with many adventures having their origin in its drainages and timbered slopes, Sitka blacktail deer, black bear and sometimes wolves all share it’s bounty and beauty along with a vibrant and healthy creek system that drains the two main valleys… the tributaries of Bostwick creek are bordered by old growth timber, which shelters the estuary and it’s trout and salmon that proliferate the waters each season… I had high hopes for our stay!
We arrived at the inlet and fashioned an A-framed shelter from salvaged timber and a large tarp draped over it. It was spacious and dry enough to shelter us from any weather that might occur, and it did; light rain with a steady amount of wind behind it, we turned in for the night serenaded by ravens, gulls and the southeast wind around us…
The daylight crept in early as Mason and I had coffee with breakfast then began to formulate a plan to look for a deer… the slopes behind our camp were timbered, broken by the occasional clearing and creek drainage; the weather had gentled, and it was partly cloudy with no rain; we started through the timber towards the first clearing and immediately spotted a doe as we broke into the opening. Mason followed quietly and with purpose, excited to see the deer yet hoping to see a buck… Another ¼ mile, and we were in a clearing at the base of the ridge; a deer visible on the opposite side had no antlers, then I saw him to the right and headed for the timber. “There’s your buck!” I said, and he tried to follow him with the scope he fired, cycled, then fired again; I saw the buck react and knew he was hit!
It was tough shooting and moving shots as well, and I knew I saw the second one connect, yet it kept going, so we made our way to the other side and found blood! Hoping for a lung shot, we cautiously searched for him while trailing what sign there was… the blood stopped after following it for about 100 yards, and we cast about in possible routes of travel the buck may have taken. One hour led into two, and there was only one direction left… Empathy for the animal, to my view, is a necessary function of taking life when hunting, and I was sympathetic to the empathy evident in Mason’s speech and demeanor. “Where is this thing, Dad?” he had asked me, repeatedly, as we searched and trailed. I told him that it sometimes happened this way, that it was up to us to finish the encounter we had started, and that we would find it.
With our packs again on our backs, we followed the blood until it stopped and continued beyond, towards the edge of the creek and up the slope alongside of it; we had traveled for less than ten minutes when I saw it. “Mason, don’t move!” There, 25 feet from us, was the buck! I finished him with my rifle, and the search was over… It was a beautiful, heavy old deer, and we definitely would have to butcher it to get it back to camp, and so began the lessons of gutting, skinning and butchering…
Once loaded into the pack, I showed him how to roll up and into a heavy load, as so many times before, the weight made each step a conscious effort, the difference being this time I was not alone, and my son was absorbing the process. I made comments as we traveled on why and where I stepped to give him an idea of what to not do when carrying a heavy pack, I made it about a ¼ of a mile before Mason stopped me and said, “Let me help you…” There it was, the passing of the torch so to speak; his first kill with me and first time packing an animal out (he commented later, I was wheezing a lot!), and he got into the pack and stood up with it…
He handled it well; there were only game trails to follow and creeks to cross, along with wind-felled trees and scrub cedar and hemlock… for it being his first time, I was proud of him and grateful for all his help… Camp was a welcome sight, and we stowed the meat in the skiff wrapped up in a tarp; then, it was time to celebrate and contemplate what an amazing day it had been… and we did with a celebration of deer heart cooked over a fire on sticks, and the contemplation, staring into the coals after dinner, reminiscing on the day, with the evening symphony of gulls crying, geese calling and the creek winding by…
One day remained of our stay and we planned to spend it on the creek, filming and fishing… Mason had not fished there since the age of 12 years old; here, now, at 26, he was anxious to give it another try. Our first stop was the bend above the flats and a few pink salmon were willing… but upon inspection were released to complete their journey. The next good pool by the logjam provided a feisty cutthroat trout on the first cast and more pinks… and so the day went. I filmed as he fished, we took the time to tour some of the huge old growth spruce trees that sheltered the bank, fishing, filming, hiking and talking, a day like we had never shared… It wasn’t the “old man and the boy” anymore, but the “old man and the younger man” … A man that I couldn’t be prouder of, and I soaked up every second of his company… Morning evolved into afternoon eventually, and our efforts brought us back to the camp. The day went well, and evenings activities involved baked potatoes, roasted trout and tenderloins cooked over the fire; Mason had caught another cutthroat and a silver salmon, along with the persistent pinks that bit on most every cast. A better day on that drainage, I would not have dared to imagine…
The tide was low the next morning and would require us to drift the skiff through a mile of riffles and pools before reaching the open water to go home; part of the reason I chose the location was its inaccessibility and effort to most people; the process of getting out of there would be an educational experience for my son in how things used to be done… And we did it, with few missteps and a little water in our boots, we had the skiff in the inlet and headed home!
As we neared the harbor and civilization, I raised my phone and snapped a picture of Mason riding in the bow, three-day old beard, bandanna on his brow, contemplating the scene around him, he looked and smiled at me in the next picture and went back to his thoughts… Welcome home. son… this place will always be here for you…
