Cape Chacon Part IV

Captain Mac’s note:

Finally...the closing chapter in deckhand Jonathan Bender’s saga of his fishing trip to the fabled waters of Cape Chacon, at the southern tip of Prince of Wales Island, Alaska. My apologies for taking so long to complete the story. The season caught up with me and that was the end of any opportunities to update the blog.

There are three previous parts to the story. This is the fourth and final segment. You will have to back to the blog archives for November of 2009 to pick up the thread in Part I. By the way, Jon’s captain, Brad, mentioned in the story, happens to be my son. Brad is now the General Manager of Mount Spokane Ski & Snowboard Park in Eastern Washington state.

Hope you enjoy Jon’s story.

Honor Among Friends!

A handful of retired classmates of the Canadian Naval College and I took on a 50th year class project. Our goal was to replace a faded photo (photos above) of one of our own, who had fallen three days before Christmas, 1964, while on loan to the United States Coast Guard. We completed this task in March of this year.

A 'Press Release" put out by the Coast Guard on March 31, 2010 by LT Todd Vorenkamp, detailed the story behind the visit.

McKinleyville, CA - A group of former Canadian military officers visited Coast Guard Group Humboldt Bay to remember fallen shipmate Royal Canadian Navy pilot and U.S. Coast Guard exchange aviator, Sub lieutenant Allen Alltree, on Wednesday.

Sub Lt. Alltree was killed near Trinidad, CA., in the tragic crash of Coast Guard helicopter CG-1363 on December 22, 1964 while on a rescue mission.

In December of 1964 the "Storm of the Century" had hit northern California. The Eel River was well above the flood stage and local emergency services were overwhelmed. The Humboldt County Sheriff's Office requested assistance from Coast Guard Air Station San Francisco to evacuate 16 stranded persons in danger of being engulfed by the rising waters on Cock Robin Island. The island, at the mouth of the Eel River was 200 miles north of San Francisco. That morning, a Sikorsky HH-52A Seaguard helicopter was airborne with Lt. Donald L. Prince, USGC, pilot; Sub Lt. Alltree, copilot; and James A. Nininger, Jr., Aviation Electricians Mate second class, USGC, crewman.

The helicopter arrived on scene at about 2:50 p.m., and, in spite of rain, fog, and extremely high winds, commenced rescue operations. Late in the afternoon, after having rescued at least 20 people from the raging flood waters, the helicopter landed its last 5 survivors at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds in Ferndale, CA. Mr. Bud Hansen, a local dairy farmer, volunteered to assist the Coast Guard crew in finding more neighbors before darkness made the searching impossible. The helicopter departed in "terrific winds and heavy rainfall." Now in darkness, they made three more rescues, hoisting Mrs. Marine Bahnsen, Mrs. Betty Kemp and her baby, Melanie.

Darkness had settled and fuel was getting low. The crew flew north towards the Arcata Airport where they had fueled earlier in the afternoon. With low visibility the crew was forced to fly offshore. Due to power failures from the storm, the airport lighting was inoperative. The crew realized they had missed the airport when they picked up a radio bearing north of Trinidad. In turning back to the south, the extremely high winds pushed them inland where they impacted the terrain at 1200-feet above sea level, coming to rest in a stand of Redwood trees. Due to the terrible weather conditions, it took rescuers five days to locate and hike to the wreckage site where they found the helicopter completely demolished and all on board deceased. Medical experts reported that death for all had been instantaneous.

Sub. Lt. Alltree and the rest of the aircrew posthumously received Air Medals for meritorious achievement in aerial flight. In October 1998, Bud Hansen was posthumously awarded the Meritorious Public Service Award for his selfless act of heroism, in putting his neighbor's interest above his own.


My classmates from L to R - Ken Scotten, Ed Vishek, Wilf Lund, Finlay Sterling, Myself, and Larry Lott with Captain Chris Martino, Commanding Officer, USCG Humboldt Bay Air Station.)

"It was our honor to host these Canadian officers and their families for today's ceremony," said Lt. Todd Vorenkamp, public affairs officer for Group Humboldt Bay. "As an exchange pilot, Sub Lt. Alltree was a member of our Coast Guard family, and it is a privilege to meet his Canadian shipmates and hear stories about someone who was a member of a crew that heroically gave their lives while saving others."

Royal Canadian Navy Captain Wilfred Lund (retired) contacted the Coast Guard in January and expressed a desire to gather some Canadian classmates of Alltree and update the photo of Alltree in the Coast Guard's Humboldt Bay memorial. Lund and the other officers had discussed a visit to the USCG Air Station after a reunion last year After several days of rain, the skies cleared for Wednesday's event. "Al brought us some good weather," said Captain Lund before the ceremony.



Each member of the contingency of retired Canadian naval officers had a specific contribution to make in the ceremony. My part was to present the new photograph to the Commanding Officer, Captain Chris Martino (seen in the photo above with me). I reminded the gathering that the Coast Guard has an unwritten creed: "When people are in trouble and life is in peril, you have to go out. And you don't always come back."

After the ceremony, Captain Martino, Commanding Officer of the Humboldt Bay Air Station shook hands with each of us and in his palm he held the Coast Guard Medallion shown here, giving one to each of us. It was a moving experience, and it reminded me of how fortunate we are to have such dedicated and professional members in our Armed Forces, and of the sacrifices that our young men and women make every day.


The security and freedom we enjoy is not free.

Note: Captain Mac spent altogether approximately 9 years in the Royal Canadian Navy. He has been a naturalized American citizen for over 40 years. He says, "I am proud of my Canadian heritage, but also very proud to be an American, which took an active decision on my part. I am an immigrant in the great American tradition. I am an American by choice."

Jonathan Bender's Cape Chacon - Part III

Part I of this Series was posted back in November of 2009. Part II was posted in January 2010. You have to click on the Blog Archive for the appropriate month to bring them up. If you haven't been following the story go back now to the archives and pick up the thread. Enjoy!

Captain Mac

On the first two days of their trip, fishing out of the Lodge, we’d connected with huge schools of migrating silvers, and had been treated to the non-stop action we called “Coho Chaos” that comes standard in such cases. For hours, at no time were there less than three people hooked up; the darting silvers taking bullet-runs every which way; me shouting, “Over!” “Under!” Guiding the fishermen, trying to prevent line-tangles. All the while, I’d struggled to keep up with the action, retying rigs and baiting hooks in the spaces between netting, often two fish at a time. The intensity of these silver footballs of muscle never ceases to amaze me. My favorite incident this trip occurred on the first hookup, when Tim had announced, “I think my line broke,” upon noticing that it had gone slack. “Reel!” I shouted, trying to deliver some urgency to the situation. Just then, I noticed the chartreuse lead zipping under the boat. The fish was passing us!

So by one in the afternoon, having gotten their fill of salmon, the sextet had unanimously supported the pursuit of Tim’s trophy. Over those first two afternoons, the group brought in eight halibut, all less than 50 lbs. (excellent eating), and innumerable cod to round out each day, but we hadn’t gotten the big one that Tim wanted. I had reassured them that we still had Cape Chacon, and a good bet for the trophy.

Cape Chacon is the southernmost point of the Island, facing open water. (See the chart in Part I) There, weather permitting, lies some of the best bottom fishing in the world. Two opposing currents collide, welling up nutrients from deeper waters that result in tremendous feeding frenzies. Huge schools of feeding black rockfish commonly called “sea bass” are occasionally mauled by a giant lingcod, while bright king salmon dart past, snatching up stray herring. Occasionally, when we’re lucky, we’re treated to a rare group of frenzied halibut, up from the depths to gorge themselves on whatever strays a bit from the cover of the rocky pinnacles. In these cases, a boatload of excitement is multiplied by double, even triple hook-ups. On the previous day, I had started filling the minds of our guests with such tales, such anticipation, being sure to qualify everything with the tag lines, “on good days,” “if we’re lucky,” or, “if you’re good.” The third being a bit strategic with this group, a comment that serves to both challenge and bolster their manly pride.

The coast here is magnificent. 300-foot cliffs, jagged and gnarled, are a testament to the kinds of storms that regularly visit here. A few gnarled, twisted trees cling to the rocks near the top, a sort of masthead on the island’s bow and breakwater; the only representatives of the land that dare face the dominion of this sea. Today is bright and calm, the only conditions in which we brave these often-violent waters. I’ve tied up over 100 rigs, and they’re hanging from the rubber trim atop the cabin window, a strange, functionless curtain. We’ve started the group off with the heavier halibut rods, since the chance of hooking a 50 lb. lingcod or a large halibut is high, and we want to be prepared for that trophy if it hits. We arrive at the pinnacles where we usually have some success and set up for the first drift. As soon as everyone drops, bam! Four hookups. Before those first four make it to the deck, the other two are on. I’m running around, gaffing everything in sight (netting is too messy for rockfish), trying to keep everyone baited. Tim’s dad, Jerry, while bringing up a black rockfish, notices a dark shadow lumbering behind it. “Give’em some slack!” I instruct. He drops his rod tip and almost immediately it doubles over from the weight of the huge preying lingcod. I know the lingcod is most likely not hooked, just greedy, refusing to release the meal from it’s gaping, toothy grip, and I tell Jerry, this time calmly, “Whatever you do, don’t lift it out of the water. Only up to the surface.” I’m going to have to place the net under the big fish very carefully so as not to spook it, then net it, and hoist it over the rail and into the boat quickly. “Help us out. Clear a space!” I announce, “This thing’s going to go ballistic as soon as it feels the net!” Gingerly but as quickly as possible I position the net under the big fish and give a mighty heave, trying to fluidly move into a lift, as I bring the gruesome thing in over the side. It’s a twisting, angry, snapping 35-pounder, and I’ve got to ‘subdue’ it quickly, with the aid of my trusty aluminum club.• This kind of scene is constant for three hours, with short, five-minute breaks for us to reset the drift.

• Captain Mac’s Note: At the time of this trip there was no slot limit for lingcod. Today at Cape Chacon a lingcod must fit within a 30” to 35” “slot” – the fish must be no less than 30” long and no more that 35”. Still a pretty nice fish!

At one point, Jim, another of the sons, brings in a 35-pound king salmon after a 20-minute battle, bright chrome with that characteristic purple tint along the sides. Such a catch is enough to request everyone else to bring in their lines, giving me a short break while we fight the king. But Tim ignores the request and instead moves to the opposite end of the 37 foot boat, away from the action. He is on a mission. I steal occasional glances at him, making sure he is all right. He is concentrating intensely on the sparkling, mysterious water, almost mesmerized. "C'mon fish. C'mon fish."

To be continued

Alaska; The Last Frontier

Put up or shut up

Take a few moments to read this article in the Alaska Dispatch, written by Craig Medred.

The answer to the Alaska Christmas Gift Quiz

Did you guess the significance of the Alaska Christmas Gift?

Well...it's a Cartridge in a Bare Tree.

Hope you had a Merry Christmas!

Captain Mac

Winter Days at the Lodge

Misty Winter Morning
in Saltery Cove

This Christmas season the weather has been just the opposite of last year. We have had little or no snow, and balmy temperatures during the day (all the way up in the mid-40's some days) and clear, crisp nights down into the 20’s. The last few days of December were gorgeous and I couldn't help capturing some images to share with you.

Our floating dock, and that of our next-door neighbor’s, are ecosystem unto themselves. They shelter schools of baitfish, mussels, flowing seaweed, worms, hundreds of small shrimp, crabs, sea cucumbers, several varieties of starfish and many other forms of marine life at the lower end of the food chain.

This living banquet attracts all kinds of critters and today they all showed up, well all except our resident mink population, much to my disappointment. But those guys will probably show up soon for their daily foraging so I'll likely catch them with the camera then. For sure we will hear them at night, squealing and screeching like a bunch of alley cats.

The fish ducks, or sea ducks as they are more commonly called are everywhere, and they come in many shapes and sizes, mostly Mergansers and Goldeneyes and Scoters with a few Buffleheads and the odd Harlequin thrown in.

They paddle around with their heads underwater in search of their prey, and as if on signal, they disappear all at once in a splash and pop up a few seconds later, usually with a small fish wiggling in their mouths.

Where are they? There's fish down there somewhere.

And the seals are also drawn by the action. We have a couple of regulars that hang out around the dock, and at high tide, come within a few feet of the deck on our home.

"The Wierd One" cruising upside down under our deck

The water is so clear we can easily see them chasing the baitfish underwater, zooming and turning and twisting with incredible grace and fluidity.

We have one that we call “The Weird One” that cruises around upside down with just his tummy and his nose and chin above water. In this position he is able to breathe while he scans what is below and ahead of him in the water

One right side up (top) and "The Wierd One" upside down

And of course there is Hank. Hank Heron, that is. Yes, the play on words and reference to the famous ball player is deliberate. It just fits somehow, kinda flows together naturally.

Hank is amazing for his patience. He will stand absolutely motionless for hours on end at the water’s edge or on a log or at the end of the dock. He becomes part of the landscape so you are not even aware that he is there. And as you approach him he will let out a mighty squawk in protest and launch his huge frame into the air scaring the wits out of you!

Hank on our neighbor's dock line.
He will stand there motionless by the hour.

Today he was working the beach. Evidently the baitfish were along the shoreline. I couldn’t see them but Hank could. He would stand in a few inches of water, in his statue-like pose.

Standby......ready....

You could tell when the school of fish were coming within killing range because he would cock his head ever so slightly, and very slowly lower his head, taking aim, then – Bam! He would strike, and invariably come up with a small fish in his sharp beak. He was deadly!

Bam!

Gotcha!

The otters didn’t show up the first day I started shooting pictures. It snowed a bit on December 30th, not much but enough to entice the otter critters to come out and play on the floatplane dock the next day. We watched them coming from all the way across the Cove, in their unmistakable, porpoise-like diving swim, they made a bee-line for the floatplane dock and hauled themselves up on it.


Then the fun started. There was a family of nine altogether, Mom and Pop and seven teenagers, rolling in the snow, running and sliding, and finally all ending up in an “otter ball” piling on top of one another and rolling around in a furry heap of heads and arms and legs and tails in the snow. They were having a blast! Every so often one or two would peel off and dive under the dock, coming up with mussels and other goodies that they sometimes shared with the rest. This went on for a half hour or more. I wished I had a telephoto lens.

So what did we need to top off this perfect scene as the day ended? Why a full moon of course.

What an incredible place we live in, even in winter.

Moonrise - New year's Eve, 2009

I hope you have enjoyed this collection from the last few days of 2009.

May you have a blessed 2010!

Captain Mac

Jonathan Bender's Cape Chacon - Part II

Sunrise at the Lodge.
Deckhands start their day

If you haven't read Part I yet, go ahead and do that now, so you can pick up the thread. My apologies for being so long between posts, but Christmas and all that...

Looks like it will take at least one more posting in addition to this one to finish up Jon's story. Hope you enjoy it.

Captain Mac

++++++++++++++++++++++

For the past two months I had made my home on another obscure cove, tucked into the eastern side of Prince of Wales Island. There, I’d developed and kept a nearly uninterrupted routine for 64 consecutive days. I’d crawled from my bunk each morning at 4:30 to eat breakfast and prep the boat; spent the day tying lines, baiting hooks, checking gear, chit-chatting, netting fish, hosing off and scrubbing the boat, filleting fish, chit chatting, pulling hooks out of my hands, filleting fish, cleaning the boat, and… filleting more fish, before crawling into bed at around 7. But I enjoy that stuff; helping people have a good time. Otherwise, why would I take the extra time to whip up some wasabi for the fresh, halibut cheek sashimi when there’s a successful catch to celebrate? Why would I go through the trouble of snelling my own rigs when there are pre-tied ones available (with duller points and that tacky nickel finish)? It’s kind of like taking a friend to a movie you’ve already seen, enjoying their reactions to your most memorable scenes, maybe feeding their excitement beforehand. So, all this drudgery, it’s all the cost of being able to offer what I offer, and in such a wonderful setting. A powerful experience awaits every morning, not just for the guests, but for me too. We have access to this spectacular place where so few people ever venture. It’s just the Inside Passage, raw nature, and our little fleet of four. This is the thought that goes through my mind as we motor out of Gardner Bay this morning This is what fuels me, and I’m all too eager to share this world with anyone willing.

This is a particularly fun group. They’re after the experience, as opposed to those unfortunate ones, the people that come for a $3000 box of meat. These guys, three father/son teams, are wonderful, enthusiastic, and they’re having a great time. The group of six had grown close over the previous two days, and they’d shared personal stories and aspirations. Two teams, both from Missouri (by coincidence) were most excited about salmon fishing. The other pair, the Martins, were celebrating young Tim’s high school graduation. They’d fished together for years in northern Minnesota, catching walleye, pike, perch, and smallmouth bass in the many lakes that dot the countryside, but Tim’s dream, for some years now, had been to land a large halibut. He’d read articles in magazines about these amazing creatures, about their somewhat mysterious habits, their adaptations for ambush, their incredible strength. He talked about this dream on the way out the first day, to an apprehensive, but supportive audience. Of course, I had told him the tale of Ron “Marlboro Man” Johnson.

The lodge’s Maintenance Team Leader, a self-proclaimed grizzly cowboy, Ron is like no other. He sports a 50’s, Elvis hairstyle—a bright silver, pompadour swoop across the top of his forehead that frames the sharp, angular features of his prematurely aged and pockmarked face. He’s remarkably strong and fit, an amazing fact considering that eats only chicken, once every two days (he’s nursing an untreated ulcer). His leathery, expressionless face is punctuated by the wide, lipless mouth, slightly curved, perpetually revealing only the beginning of a smile that just can’t seem to surface. And he smokes, constantly, as he’s done for 35 years. Over the years, Ron had developed a reputation for occasionally winning the “biggest fish of the day” competition amongst the staff. He would head over to a creek mouth around the corner in his skiff, and return with a 200+ pound Halibut in tow. He never brought a gun or harpoon, but instead, he’d reel up the giant, reach over with a knife to cut its gill, and then fight it back up to the surface again as it slowly bled to death. Anyone else that tried his spot was rewarded with nothing but frustration at the endless dog sharks that trashed their line and gulped down bait. No one else had ever caught anything edible there. This year, on one of Ron’s two trips to the spot, he brought a harpoon with him. He’d been convinced by one of the skippers, much to the dismay of Captain Mac, the lodge owner, that it was superior to his method, more reliable. Ron had reportedly sat there, in his spot, for maybe an hour, shaking off the recognizable dog sharks that nibbled at his salmon head (his preferred bait), before finally hooking up, as usual. This fish, according to Ron, was the largest he’d ever seen. It didn’t move, instead acting much like a concrete bridge abutment being hoisted slowly toward the surface. When the monster had surfaced, it was nearly the size of the 11 ft. skiff, an eyeball-estimated 350 lbs. easily, making it the largest halibut ever seen at the lodge. Ron, faithfully, grabbed the harpoon, sinking it into the fish up to the hilt, and then actually pushing the fish a good foot below the surface before withdrawing the shaft. He then manned the harpoon line, a thick rope, abandoning the rod at the floor of the skiff. The harpoon head is designed to go through the other side of the fish and rotate 90 degrees, such that it is pulled flat against skin. The fish dove, jerking the fishing rod overboard, and tearing the harpoon rope through Ron’s burning hands. He sat back, pulling the rope against the side of the skiff, trying to gain leverage and resistance against the behemoth, when the line suddenly went slack. The fish, and his rod, were lost. Apparently, the harpoon had pulled out; perhaps the fish was just too thick for the 18-inch harpoon shaft. This, the most remarkable tale I’d heard, would never have been believable except for Ron’s reputation for success, his raw, burned palms, and his unnaturally pale, shaky skin as he told the story that evening. As I related the saga to our group I could see Tim visualizing the story, living the tale and imagining his moment of glory.

To be continued...