Hello, everyone. (If anyone is still reading this, I know its been a while) I'm still up here, hanging in Alaska. The Silvers are in! (Silver salmon, for all of you non inducted Alaskans) Every year I head into salmon season, a sparkle in my eye, a hopeful smile on my lips, visions of all the fishing and nature shows of my youth dancing in my brain. Then I get to the fishing spot and after 2 or 3 thousand casts I remember- Oh yeah- I'm a LOUSY salmon fisherman. Seriously, they have to be the MOST confounding fish in North America, likely in the world. I know guys that have a sort of 6th sense about salmon. They could tie a frikking eye bolt onto the end of the line and huge fish would somehow have swum through the eye and gotten caught. Its most unnerving. I, however, am not one of those people. Oh, I can fish, I do well enough with Pike and Burbot, but salmon? Oh, they're my unicorn. See, the problem is, salmon don't bite because they're hungry, like any SANE fish does. Oh no. Once they hit fresh water salmon are like a teenager on prom night. All they care about is spawning. The only way to hook the little buggers is to somehow magically decide what color lure is going to be threatening to them so they will bite it to defend their spawning grounds. Apparently I haven't yet received the ability to piss a fish off at will. Oh, I'll get one or two of the really stupid, aggressive, behavior disordered fish a season, the class bully of the salmon world, but I REALLY have to work on it. So..that's what I've been doing. I heard the siren cry at the gas station the other day. The conversation (In line, with a complete stranger, by the way,) went something like this: Stranger: *Nod*  "Hows it goin?"Me: *nod of acknowledgment* "Not bad. How are you?" Stranger: *Shrug* "Eh, not bad. Fish are in, so how bad can it be?" Me:*Alarm bells begin ringing loudly in ears* cautiously doubtful (You can't trust strangers on things THIS important, it obviously requires further questioning.) "They are? You catch some?" Stranger: *Shake of the head* "Not yet, but a buddy of mine limited out on silvers down at the mouth of the Willow." Me: (Hopeful, but still not sold) "Really? Today?" Stranger: "Nah, yesterday. He said he saw more moving in as he left."  Now, after this conversation the images of the fishing shows start. The information has been freely given and received, there are places and times, so it MUST be true. Hell, he wouldn't lie about his friend catching fish, it would be dishonorable! visions of  wild, mad gleeful giggling as cast after cast results in a massive fish on the line. Scores of  recently won battles line the shore with glistening, sparkling silver monsters, the fare of a thousand fishy banquets, Sushi the Emperor would be proud to have gracing his table! (In fact, the limit on silver salmon is 2/day, but my imagination has a tendency to go overboard, probably why I'm a writer.) So, head straight home, grab Beenie and fishing gear, (Corbin is 14 and doesn't fish. He might take an interest if a fishing pole was shaped like an x-box controller, but until a major redesign happens, he's out.) and head straight to 'The Spot' Which, if anyone cares to know, is actually Caswell Creek, but 'The Spot' sounds way more cool and mysterious. Anyway- Long story short, 2 hours pass and I've gotten one pink salmon. Now, Pink salmon are what most of you non-Alaskans think salmon is. Its really not bad, it DOES taste like salmon, just in a really..pinky way. People up here are fish snobs, though. Pinks are below disdain. They are to be thrown back or fed to the dogs (Coincidently, much the same thing is felt about dog salmon- Also not bad eating for us non discerning folks who just like a good fish dinner sometimes.) So...I catch the pink which was a Humpy, or male salmon. (Yeah, I know, we have weird names for EVERY type of salmon up here, its a crazy state.)  It was actually a very nice pink, all things considered, but there was only one, so I was going to take the hook out and send him back to his hormone addled paradise so he could breed and die as God intended he do. Then Beenie spoke up. She had decided it was WAY to nice a fish to let go, it HAD to come home and go into the freezer. I sighed and whacked him on the head. There is no point arguing with a 9 year old when a fish is involved. So...we carry the pink up the hill, Beenie proudly holding the fish, me with the 2 fishing poles, tackle box, her jacket, bottle of juice, gum, my gun, and likely 10 or 12 pounds of miscellaneous rocks that ALSO had to come home courtesy of Beenie..(See reference to 9 year old and fish, just substitute rocks..same thing) As we get to the top one of the regulars is, of course, getting ready to bring his son down and fish. Now, when you're in Alaska and you run into another Alaskan getting ready to go silver fishing, and you're carrying a pink, the parade of emotions is always hilarious. First- elation as they see that you have exerted the effort to carry a fish up the hill, so it MUST be worth keeping. Second- disdain as they realize what you are actually carrying. You must be a tourist. Third- sympathy. Because you're carrying a gun you must be a resident and therefore you MUST be starving in order to bring a pink home. Fourth- Understanding as you feel the need to explain yourself and you tell them your nine year old daughter insisted on bringing it home. Fifth- Complete understanding as they look over at their OWN nine year old son running enthusiastically down the hill happy and carefree while he picks up his fishing poles, tackle box, gun, son's jacket, landing net, fish whacker etc. Ah, bonding in Alaska.