My next oldest brother just passed away. I had plans for him to help me with this blog. It was his sending me an old Johnson Century reel used during our childhood that rekindled my interest in vintage reels--just a few years ago. Ernie was a retired USN Viet Nam veteran who served with both the HC-7 Helicopter attack Squadron there, and later became attached to one of the West Coast SEAL Teams. I don't even know which SEAL Team it was. Unlike some of the glory-seekers who flaunt their service or use it for financial gain by writing books etc., although Ernie was a gifted writer, my brother did not find it proper to either boast of his service or betray oaths of silence regarding such service. But Ernie was also a gentle soul. He served people right up until the end. He loved animals. It took some doing to get to know Ernie. He spent multiple tours of duty in the PI, choosing to live with the people in the jungle, more or less rather than to live in GI housing. He did not care to impress, and was content to live out his years quietly, bu tI can tell you that Ernie was a wealth of knowledge about many subjects. He was funny and had a dry sense of humor that few ever saw. He had a silent dialog goin gon that few would suspect. He was my friend and confidant longer than any human alive, and I will miss him dearly.
Four years my senior, Ernie, or Ern to me as a kid, has been my longest confidant and friend. Four siblings. I was the youngest. Ernie was the next oldest. Dad worked for the Federal Aviation Agency (later to be retitled FA Administration) and being an adventurer at heart he often took far-flung assignments to such places as Kotzebue, Alaska, which is referred to as the Gateway to the Arctic. For young boys, there could have been no better life. We loved the outdoors. Hunting and fish was a way of life. I can honestly say that we experienced adventures that few others are likely to have experienced and thought little of this oddity at the time.
Of course we had friends wherever we lived--although the population in some of those places was sparse. We were best friends and confidants who could count on one another under any circumstances. We still are. Up until a few weeks ago, I was in almost daily contact with my brother by way of email mostly. Neither of us have been fit to travel for a while now. Ernie retired from the US Navy. He was a so-called lifer as an enlisted man. Ernie volunteered right after high-school during the thick of the Viet Nam conflict. He was just seventeen years old.
Ernie was naturally a quiet person. I have heard of a shyness gene. It must pervade our family. But there is a difference in being quiet and being shy. The Wright's, although some of my good friends who beg to differ, are intrinsically quiet people. Our father and most of my uncles and cousins are quiet people. Quiet people usually don't say anything unless something needs to be said. It has little to do with shyness. It is just a trait which I guess to be genetic too, and certainly reinforced by example. It is often good to be quiet, although it sometimes causes people to wonder or speculate.
We were best friends and confidants who could count on one another under any circumstances. We still are. Up until a few weeks ago, I was in almost daily contact with my brother by way of email mostly. Neither of us have been fit to travel for a while now. Ernie retired from the US Navy. He was a so-called lifer as an enlisted man. Ernie volunteered right after high-school during the thick of the Viet Nam conflict. He was just seventeen years old.
Ernie has told it that when we were kids that I would go stir up trouble and then run to him to get it straightened out, which usually meant keeping me from getting my tail kicked. Ernie was compact. I hesitate to use the term small, because he didn't seem small to most of those who knew him well. Those who know Ernie usually describe him in the first few sentences using a term at least interchangeable with tough. If this means capable, unafraid, and capable of enduring virtually any circumstances that comes his way, Ernie IS tough. He is not a complainer and has often used his dry humor to blunt painful or hard things. Dad always acknowledged Ernie as being tough, which if you knew our dad, meant something. Dad wanted his sons to be tough, owing I suppose tom his having been raised during the Great Depression--which apparently wasn't that great to experience.
Our dad told us how to make our own lures. But he didn't make them for us. Mom allowed us to use her ice-pick, which we would heat to red-hot and burn holes through pieces of broomstick or other dowel, in lieu of a drill. We knew to reheat it and plunge it into water to restore the temper after we used it.
I recall moving from Fairbanks to Kotzebue. You probably have never heard of Kotzebue unless you are an outdoors-man, polar bear hunter, extreme angler, or have an affinity for American Jade (there is an entire mountain of nephrite ade near Kotzebue). We lived near the main village at a self-contained FAA base of about a dozen families. We moved during the summer, which caught the days about as long as they get in North America. My first night, I kept getting up and peaking through the blinds at the kids playing kick the can outside our government housing. It was near mid-night--but the sun was still shining. We were exhausted from the move, but anxious to get out and explore our new surroundings.
The surroundings did not disappoint. We lived near the shore of Kotzebue Sound which is a part of the Bering Sea--which is fed by three large arctic rivers. Our front door was about fifty yards more or less, from the water water depending upon the tide and the weather. Never have I seen water as calm as it could be in Kotzebue--smooth as glass and without a ripple as far as you could see. You could, through some sort of optical illusion or optical phenomenon that doesn't quite make sense tom me now, see the rise and fall of the curvature of the earth when viewed at water level--or so it seemed. The sunsets could be spectacular during such calm times.
But the sea could also be as angry as one can imagine when the wind whipped up around fifty or sixty naughts and dark clouds would boil overhead and the white-caps bashed against the steep bank--spraying the water right up to our front door. The days of our introduction to this exotic place alternated that summer. On fair days we ventured out to explore the tundra and gravel peninsulas nearby. Waterfowl nest in the area having migrated North for the summer. We'd walk among every kind of squawking fussing ducks and guess known to man--amazed that they took no notice or alarm at our presence.
But it was the fishing that caught our immediate wonder. Sheefish are unique to Kotzebue and similarArctic areas. They may travel a thousand miles or more to spawn. They run through the sound on their way to spawn. They range from about a foot and a half to two feet long. They can get as long as three feet. Sheefish are a delicacy. The flesh approximates the texture and mild flavor of Halibut. When they ran--each cast of a red-and white spoon, which is about all that we used in Alaska at the time for everything--yields a fish. They did not put up a spectacular fight as far as pound for pound fish are concerned--but to a kid just going into the fifth-grade--the fight wa plenty by virtue of size alone.
The sheefish run was rumored to be beginning although our efforts right outside our door were fruitless. Ernie, me, and my Dad. Dad had had a hard day at work. After about an hour, Dad decided to go inside and rest. Mom says he had just eased himself down into his easy chair, saying, "I just can't stand another minute on my feet today."
I ran inside in near hysterics. "Dad! Come Quick! We are catching lots of big fish!" I had a struggling Sheefish on a stringer, which was all I could do to hoist at waist-level.
Mom, recounted later with full mirth as she quoted Dad. "I guess I can stand it just a little longer."
We caught fish by the oodles that evening and many others thereafter. And that was just one species. Salmon, Greyling, Arctic Char, Northern Pike, Dolly Varden just to name a few species common to the area rivers, lagoons, sounds, and lakes were standard fare during our time there--to say nothing of the flounder we'd skewer with homemade spears. What wonderful times we had there. Many of these experiences were shared only with one other person--my brother Ernie.
The first fishing reels that we used as kids were Johnson Century 100's and Citation 115's. They were followed by the very similar, though somewhat beefier reels designed by Abu Garcia. The red-belled 170's were great reels. These models were among the finest reels that I have ever used to experience some of the finest fishing ever experienced.
Back in the day, kids being how they are with limited attention spans, it was customary for Ernie and I to cut a couple of forked sticks to prop our fishing poles on while we hunted for crickets or crawdads or what-have-you. I still find this technique handy at times, especially when teaching young kids about fishing. Some things never change. Being the older brother, Ernie always seemed to know about these things. We have other siblings, and they, along with a host of cousins as well as Dad, influenced us both--but Ernie was my direct benefactor of such lore. As I have thought about it recently, Ernie taught me much of what I know about the outdoors.
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