Just for the halibut

Today I was finally indoctrinated into tourism side of Homer, which is known far and wide as the "Halibut Fishing Capitol of the World." (Note the addition of the word "Fishing" to that motto. If you just want to eat a halibut around here, you still have to dish out $12 a pound.) I hooked up with the Chamber of Commerce crew to tag some "little guys" for the annual halibut derby. After we tagged the requisite number of fish, they let us catch a couple of our own.

Compared to the rest of the boat, I had an awful morning. I caught three cod, had four incidents of snagging other peoples' lines, and then nothing - for hours. I just stood out there in the wind and blowing snow, wielding a fishing pole that weighs as much as my road bike and practically tap dancing to maintain an on-board (as opposed to overboard) position in the rising swells. I had taken two Dramamines to ward of seasickness but wound up feeling pitched and druggy instead. After a while it was hard not to ask myself - "and this is fun, why?"

At about noon, I was reeling up what I was certain was another cod, and I was thinking about the Popeye forearm muscles I could build if I did this kind of fishing everyday, when my first flatfish finally surfaced. No sooner had I reeled him in the boat and dropped my line back down when I felt another familiar tap-tap-tap. Second halibut, within seconds. And just like that, I was done. Four hours of nothing. Eight minutes of fishing. Done.

But there is a certain satisfaction, a feeling of warmth and independence, in pulling up your very own "little guy" - one that will net you a cool 10 pounds of moist, melt-in-your-mouth fillets. It makes the whole morning of mindlessly bouncing a four-pound sinker with frozen fingers seem entertaining - even exhilarating. In this way, fishing can be a lot like bicycling. Or mountaineering. Or hitting yourself repeatedly in the head with a hammer. It doesn't feel good until you stop.

On the Arctic Blast

Date: April 19
Mileage: 18
April mileage: 270
Temperature upon departure: 29
On the iPod: "Grey Ice Water" ~ Modest Mouse

"You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you had yourself a crazy lover
becoming frozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you took the path of least resistance
on the phone cutting out talking
short to long distance

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

you're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the water
you had yourself a crazy lover
become unfrozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast"

Picture: Chris on the Sagavanirktok River; June 5, 2003

Me vs. All

Date: April 18
Mileage: 56
April mileage: 252
Temperature upon departure: 45
On the iPod: "To the Sea" ~ Razorlight

After several days of snow, it felt warm out today. Downright balmy. I forgot about windchill. Now my throat hurts. But I wasn't the only one who emerged for spring's first, best gasp.

Ever have one of those days when you feel like you're in a constant competition for space? I wanted to put in a 50-mile day while it was nice out, but I didn't have any interest in venturing into the great beyond just yet (North Sterling Highway. Fresh snow banks. Scary.) So I did my favorite 17-mile loop - thrice - with an extra 5 miles to say hi to Geoff. The problem with this strategy was that I had to ride out and back the Homer Spit, thrice.

It seemed like everyone and their dog took to the Spit today: the walls of walkers; the precariously swerving mountain bikers; the streams of cars; and the road riders donning their shiny new lyrca, which had obviously been stuffed in a dark closet since Christmas. I had the most fun with the road riders. They were probably out for their first or second ride of the year, whereas I've been riding all winter, but they don't know that. All they see is this awkward cyclist clad in baggy fleece and riding a roadie with flat handlebars, fat touring tires and a Subway cup full of watered-down Diet Coke stuffed in the water bottle cage. I must have looked ridiculous out there, which is why it was that much more fun to blow by the roadies, humming some silly song as if the process was effortless (although, I have to admit, I was huffing a little myself. Some of those fair-weather roadies must have indoor trainers.)

The pedestrians, however, often presented an insurmountable obstacle. When the Spit is busy, it's impossible to win as a cyclist. If you take to the road, cars will honk and swerve and generally act more aggressive than usual because There Is A Bike Path Right There. But if you use the bike path, you will undoubtedly approach a group of oncoming walkers, as I did today, strolling side by side and taking up the entire trail with no intention of moving out of your way. Today I approached four women on a narrow part of the trail, after a long straightaway - which meant they had a chance to see me coming for several minutes. Within about 50 feet of them, it became apparent that my only options were to: hit the guardrail, drop off a 15-foot embankment, slam directly into one or more of them ... or stop. I practically had my foot down on the pavement before one woman reluctantly slipped a little ways to the left, giving me about a 10-inch space to wedge through. Grrrrr.

I guess I can deal with it if it means the weather stays above 45 and sunny. It's not likely, but still - I'll take the pedestrian clog over sleet any day.