Oran Finn Crook
Sunday, December 30, 2012
The Holidays
Although I feared that this Christmas season might be too painful to be enjoyable, I managed to enjoy myself, to live with the pain and go forward with the holidays.
The Sunday evening before Christmas we went to an evening prayer service - vespers - at the local Orthodox church; an hour of candles, incense, and prayers sang by the choir, all very beautiful and spiritual.
Monday morning December 24th Nonnie went to church while I went shopping and wrapped presents. That evening, Christmas eve, we ate dinner at Season’s, a local restaurant. The food was good, but the room was too ‘industrial’, not decorated enough.
On Christmas we spent the day with Colin, Sarah, Oran, and their big puppy Ono at their house. We ate breakfast, opened presents, walked, slept, and ate dinner - herring salad, caviar, eggplant ikra, then duck with spaetzle, wild rice, lingonberries, red cabbage, spinach casserole, then a bush de noel with coffee. All this washed down with two bottles of Pinot Noir from Oregon that we had saved for this occasion.
On Boxing Day we went back to Colin and Sarah’s house for left overs, and to encourage Oran to open more presents. Since he is the only grandchild on both sides he got many gifts, but at twenty months he just doesn’t have the concept of presents, or of ownership, entitlement, or deferred gratification.
It’s too bad that in the US Christmas ends at midnight on December 25th. In Europe the 26th, Boxing Day, is also a holiday, and Christmas stretches out to the New Year. I like observing the Russian Orthodox old calendar dates - Christmas on January 8th and New Years Day on January 15th. It is so much more enjoyable, the slow progression of holidays, less intense, more enduring.
Now we are starting to think about our next trip, to Hong Kong for two weeks leaving tomorrow, December 31st. Nonnie grew up there so for her it is a bit like going home -for me it remains very exotic. I am flying on to Bangkok on January 14th but Nonnie will fly back to Albuquerque. Colin has accepted a job in Seattle starting in February so Nonnie will help them with the move when they find a new home there - and with renting out their home here. We will be moving too, probably, in May when our lease is up, to be near our only grandchild.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Life Goes On
The hardest thing for me to accept at the graveside service marking forty days after Derek’s death was that until the end of all time this was the last service for Derek; no more eulogies, no more gathering of all his family and friends, no more condolences; now there will be only memories, pictures, conversations. Everything that helped us to get through the dreadful days after Derek’s death is now over and complete; now we must try to get back to a normal life.
Nonnie has been cleaning out Derek’s apartment. He didn’t have much really; clothes, books, a computer. There were pots and pans, dishes, silverware, and some furniture - a couch, two chairs, a table. He didn’t have a journal or a photo album, and we can’t open his computer without his password. It was a strange experience, somehow the apartment, his things, seemed empty, cold, lifeless.
Now I am back at work at Shiprock, seeing patients, helping people. Maybe now I see their grief a little more clearly, feel their pain a little more sharply. Maybe I am a better doctor. Maybe. Last week I went to a TB-HIV meeting in Durango, and then to a meeting of the American College of Physicians in Albuquerque, where they gave me an award for community service. I was honored, but too sad to be enthused.
We took Derek’s couch and a new bunk bed to our cabin in Chama, which is now looking much better. The solar panel provides enough power to light our lamps using low wattage bulbs, so now we can read at night. The weather has been wonderful and driving from Chama to Shiprock I saw several magnificent looking male elk. The week before I saw a porcupine and a black bear. Sitting on the cabin porch in the early morning, drinking hot coffee, eating donuts - standing on the porch at night staring at the stars and the moon - these are a few of my favorite things.
Life goes on, and I must join in.
Nonnie has been cleaning out Derek’s apartment. He didn’t have much really; clothes, books, a computer. There were pots and pans, dishes, silverware, and some furniture - a couch, two chairs, a table. He didn’t have a journal or a photo album, and we can’t open his computer without his password. It was a strange experience, somehow the apartment, his things, seemed empty, cold, lifeless.
Now I am back at work at Shiprock, seeing patients, helping people. Maybe now I see their grief a little more clearly, feel their pain a little more sharply. Maybe I am a better doctor. Maybe. Last week I went to a TB-HIV meeting in Durango, and then to a meeting of the American College of Physicians in Albuquerque, where they gave me an award for community service. I was honored, but too sad to be enthused.
We took Derek’s couch and a new bunk bed to our cabin in Chama, which is now looking much better. The solar panel provides enough power to light our lamps using low wattage bulbs, so now we can read at night. The weather has been wonderful and driving from Chama to Shiprock I saw several magnificent looking male elk. The week before I saw a porcupine and a black bear. Sitting on the cabin porch in the early morning, drinking hot coffee, eating donuts - standing on the porch at night staring at the stars and the moon - these are a few of my favorite things.
Life goes on, and I must join in.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Derek
On August first there came the knock on the door that no parent ever wants to hear, a plain clothes detective telling us that our son had been taken to the trauma intensive care unit and was in a coma.
After seven days in the ICU Derek still was in a coma, and we had a meeting with the doctors requesting that he be transferred to a hospice unit for end of life comfort care, so that he could have a peaceful death.
Now I am at his bedside, writing these incredibly painful words, waiting for my first born son to die.
After seven days in the ICU Derek still was in a coma, and we had a meeting with the doctors requesting that he be transferred to a hospice unit for end of life comfort care, so that he could have a peaceful death.
Now I am at his bedside, writing these incredibly painful words, waiting for my first born son to die.
Derek (with his father) taken in mid July
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Halibut Fishing
Boats in Homer Harbor (the day before)
There was one dark day in Alaska, one day I would preferred to have slept through - the day we went Halibut fishing.
It started innocently enough. Nonna, Colin, and myself paid for an all day trip on the Dutch Treat, and we were at the boat at 6:30AM in the Homer harbor - “Halibut Capital of the World” - where we met the captain, Tony, a disabled vet, and the deckhand Bob, a middle aged guy who certainly knew his way around a fishing boat. There were three other passengers - Tom, a retired spark plug dealer from Ohio and his wife Betty, and her cousin Daria.
We sailed out for over an hour, and the further out we went the rougher the sea became. When we reached our destination Tony said it was “too nautical,” referring to the five foot waves and the fact that only Bob, the deck hand, could stand up for more than ten seconds. So we motored off for another half an hour and found a place where the sea was calmer. We started to fish, and it started to rain. We didn’t get a bite, but we all got soaking wet and very cold. Only Daria stayed dry - she was not fishing - she was moaning and lying down, seasick...
Tony knew a better spot so we pulled up our lines and motored through rough seas. By this time my hands were so cold I couldn’t feel them, my pants and feet were all wet, and my polar fleece and gore-tex were no match for the Alaska weather. But now the fish were biting, really biting, so that as soon as my baited hook made it down to the bottom a halibut took the bait. You can tell you have one on because they shake the line, and as you pull up you feel the head shake. Otherwise they just lay there and it is like pulling a small refrigerator up from 200 feet - lift up, reel down, lift up, reel down, over and over. What felt like 500 pounds turned out to be too small to keep, maybe 15 pounds, and Bob, with merciless efficiency, pulled the hook out of the fish’s mouth, threw it back in the ocean, and put a new herring on my hook. “You’re good to go,” he said, as if I didn’t need a rest. Numb hands, aching arms, freezing feet - back down went my bait, and within ten seconds after hitting bottom I had another one on. And so it went - thankfully some were big enough to keep.
The halibut is a big fish, as big as 900 pounds in the early days of fishing, but nowadays ones over 50 pounds are unusual. They’re a weird looking fish; flat, gray on one side and white on the other, and both their eyes are on the same side. They have big mouths and eat anything that comes their way, including puffins that are unfortunate enough to dive in the wrong place. It is a very mild tasting fish - “fish for people who don’t like the taste of fish,” someone said.
When we finally got back to Homer Bob had filleted our fish, two for each of us, and they took them up to a processing plant to be cut, packed, and frozen. We picked up the fish the day we flew home - thirty two pounds of fresh frozen halibut fillets. Those fillets had better be good for all the misery I (we) endured to get them.
It started innocently enough. Nonna, Colin, and myself paid for an all day trip on the Dutch Treat, and we were at the boat at 6:30AM in the Homer harbor - “Halibut Capital of the World” - where we met the captain, Tony, a disabled vet, and the deckhand Bob, a middle aged guy who certainly knew his way around a fishing boat. There were three other passengers - Tom, a retired spark plug dealer from Ohio and his wife Betty, and her cousin Daria.
We sailed out for over an hour, and the further out we went the rougher the sea became. When we reached our destination Tony said it was “too nautical,” referring to the five foot waves and the fact that only Bob, the deck hand, could stand up for more than ten seconds. So we motored off for another half an hour and found a place where the sea was calmer. We started to fish, and it started to rain. We didn’t get a bite, but we all got soaking wet and very cold. Only Daria stayed dry - she was not fishing - she was moaning and lying down, seasick...
Tony knew a better spot so we pulled up our lines and motored through rough seas. By this time my hands were so cold I couldn’t feel them, my pants and feet were all wet, and my polar fleece and gore-tex were no match for the Alaska weather. But now the fish were biting, really biting, so that as soon as my baited hook made it down to the bottom a halibut took the bait. You can tell you have one on because they shake the line, and as you pull up you feel the head shake. Otherwise they just lay there and it is like pulling a small refrigerator up from 200 feet - lift up, reel down, lift up, reel down, over and over. What felt like 500 pounds turned out to be too small to keep, maybe 15 pounds, and Bob, with merciless efficiency, pulled the hook out of the fish’s mouth, threw it back in the ocean, and put a new herring on my hook. “You’re good to go,” he said, as if I didn’t need a rest. Numb hands, aching arms, freezing feet - back down went my bait, and within ten seconds after hitting bottom I had another one on. And so it went - thankfully some were big enough to keep.
The halibut is a big fish, as big as 900 pounds in the early days of fishing, but nowadays ones over 50 pounds are unusual. They’re a weird looking fish; flat, gray on one side and white on the other, and both their eyes are on the same side. They have big mouths and eat anything that comes their way, including puffins that are unfortunate enough to dive in the wrong place. It is a very mild tasting fish - “fish for people who don’t like the taste of fish,” someone said.
When we finally got back to Homer Bob had filleted our fish, two for each of us, and they took them up to a processing plant to be cut, packed, and frozen. We picked up the fish the day we flew home - thirty two pounds of fresh frozen halibut fillets. Those fillets had better be good for all the misery I (we) endured to get them.
A sea otter on a different, sunny day
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Bears of Katmai
The plane flew southwest for an hour or more, passing close by Mt Douglas and the adjacent glaciers, then on along the coast to Hallo Bay, where, we landed on the sandy beach. Our group consisted of my son Colin, his wife Sarah, and two guys from New York City, along with myself and our pilot-guide Tom. Tom was in his thirties, an Alaskan version of Steve Irwin. Tom told us not to go more than ten feet from the plane while he gave us our bear safety briefing. He that we should always stick together in a tight group, do exactly what he said to do, and that in no circumstances should we ever run from a bear - “he’ll take you down like you was a gazelle if you do.” Tom’s only weapon was a marine flair, but he assured us that in seven years none of the guides had ever had to use their flairs. It’s all psychology - bear psychology - making the bear think you are tougher than he (or she) is.
We had spotted a couple of bears from the air, and after walking a couple of hundred yards we found one of them, eating grass in meadow, looking more like a buffalo than a predator. Since the salmon had not yet arrived the bears were eating grass, lots of grass. The bear looked warm and cuddly, so cute, but when he moved they did so with the easy fluid grace of a lion. Mostly he ate grass, then another bear joined the first one, and they started to play. “Foreplay,” Tom said. Sure enough, soon one bear mounted the other one right there in front of us.
We wandered on in search of other, more refined bears, and saw a young two year old cub whose mother had kicked him out of her care a week before, according to
Tom, who had seen it happen. Tom said a big male bear nicknamed ‘Righty’ had killed a five year old cub a couple of weeks before. “The big males kill and eat the little ones” Tom said. So much for the warm cuddly appearance.
These bears were used to having humans around and generally ignored us. But one young male bear sat down in front of another group of five people, scratched his belly, and exposed himself to the whole group. “Oh he’s a such a sweetie,” said Tom. Right. After all, a bear had killed and eaten the “Grizzly Man” and his girlfriend only fifteen miles from where we were.
We ate lunch sitting on some driftwood logs, and I tried to imagine the storm that put them a mile inland from the beach. After lunch we walked through the deep grass looking for more bears when we spotted Righty and kneeled down to take his picture, unfortunately kneeling on the path exactly where he wanted to walk. We slowly moved over to make space for his 1500 pound body, and he ambled by, ignoring us while Tom kept a tight grip on his flare. “He got his name because he lost part of his ear in a fight with another bear,” Tom said.
After Righty had passed Tom said “It’s time to go.” It seemed that we had only been on the ground for ten minutes, but when I looked at my watch it had been more than two hours. Reluctantly we walked back to the Cesna, and after an exciting taxi down the beach we were airborne. It was like being in flying dune buggy, and we had a smooth flight back to Homer over some of the most beautiful scenery on earth.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Salmon Fishing
Our first view of the fish camp was from the float plane - a few small temporary looking buildings on the banks of the Nushagak river - and as we landed I thought of all the times my high school friend Dave Heller and I had talked about an Alaska fishing trip, and how it was finally really happening. The plane taxied to the bank and as we got out three aluminum boats with outboard motors came up to take us down the river to the camp - run by River King Outfitters.
The camp itself, about 50 river miles from Dillingham, was run by the owner Jon, his helper, Chris, and a young woman who did the cooking. Dave and I had our own cabin, which was a plywood building with two platform beds, each with a thick sponge rubber pad on which we put our sleeping bags. There was a two-seat outhouse, and a bath house with hot showers. The dining room was a large tent on a wooden platform with a single long table with twelve chairs for the twelve guests. The whole thing felt like boy scout camp without the boy scouts.
Dave and I put our stuff in our cabin and walked out to a point of land and picked up two fishing poles left there, put in our lines, and in a minute I had a fish on. I landed a nice small chum salmon, about eight pounds, and was congratulating myself when a boat roared up, coming out of nowhere it seemed, and a young state trooper, a bit full of himself, demanded to see our fishing licenses, which we had left in our cabin in our enthusiasm. He puffed himself up and said if we had landed a chinook he would have written us a ticket. It’s good they enforce the laws, but someone so far from town should be a bit more friendly.
We had our own boat to use whenever we wanted, which was pretty much all day everyday for five days. We got up and went fishing, came back for breakfast at 9:00am, then fished until lunch time - 1:00pm. We then rested, took a shower, and went back out fishing until dinnertime at 7:00pm. After dinner we fished some more, and since it stayed light until well after midnight we had lots of time to fish.
The river was very wide and smooth, and we would drift down the river with spinners and fish eggs bouncing off the bottom, watching the world go by until a big salmon hit the hook, and then the fight was on. The fish would strip out line, jump out of the water, dive deep, and generally fight as if its life depended on it. They were beautiful salmon, bright chrome color, fresh from the ocean. We must of caught fifty fish each, about ten per day, but we only kept four chinook each, the legal limit. The others we released.
My biggest fish was about 25 pounds, Dave’s biggest was about 35 pounds. He is an expert fisherman - a self described all around angler. I’m just a novice, but I still had a great time.
The other ten guys at the camp - all guys - were older men who loved to fish. They were Republicans, members of NRA, sellers of genetically engineered seed. I liked them. Really. Four of them were fly fisherman, and they would spend hours and hours standing in freezing water up to their waists casting and casting - and catching big salmon on light lines. Real fisherman.
Chris and Jon filleted our fish for us, vacuum packed and froze the pieces, and we each took over 40 pounds of fillets with us when we left. Now my freezer at home is full of frozen chinook salmon, and my head is full of great memories.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Bears!
I just got back from my trip to Alaska with stories to tell and pictures to show. I will work hard and try to get something posted by Wednesday (July 25, 2012)
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
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