Adventure Partners
Safety forth!
It's almost time for Bristol Baycation, and this year my fellow deckhand also happens to be my fiancee. We've been adventure partners for a long time, but this will be our most committing expedition by far. Of course there are a few things to be nervous about. I'm not sure which will be the biggest issue, getting along with each other, or resisting the urge to get along too well in front of the skipper. I suspect a combination based on how much time we wind up sitting around versus fishing and catching.
I first wooed Mariah in our Junior year of college, by inviting her on a backcountry ski trip to the Tetons. We drove down from Bozeman on a Friday night that happened to be April Fools Day, only to realize that every campground was closed and snowed in. For hours we rattled down every enticing dirt road we came across, dodging potholes to an eclectic soundtrack of Otis Redding, MC 900 Ft. Jesus, and Die Antwoord. The first artist was from my playlist, the latter two from hers. Probing the musical sensibilities of one another kept us awake and entertained. Although both of us were tired and hangry, we managed to keep it together mostly.
Walls of snow turned us around a half dozen times before we found an acceptable out of the way camp spot near the top of Togwotee Pass. It was a secluded gravel pit complete with pallets, a porta-potty and an backhoe. We parked between the pallets and the porta-potty, turned off the truck and just sat there in the dark for a couple exhausted yet awkward minutes, while my mind raced for something suave to say.
We'd already been to a classy concert together and gone on a couple single day ski trips, but this would be our first night in a tent together. I finally settled on a smooth line that I hoped would do the trick.
"Do you think this could be more than just an adventure partnership?"
"Yeah... But why call it anything else?"
Then she reached over the center console and rested her hand on mine. Sweet.
When the novelty of holding hands was overpowered by the cold and hunger, we got out and started a pallet fire in front of the truck, then had our dinner and stood by the fire in each other's arms. For nearly an hour we stood there kissing, taking turns warming our rumps, like intertwined rotisserie chickens wrapped in polar fleece and gore tex. Then we went to the tent, got in our respective sleeping bags, and called it a night.
We awoke to a couple inches of fresh snow and had breakfast in the sun, but the day soon turned grey. We decided to skin up 25 Feet Short, a peak so named because it is 25 feet short of being ten thousand feet tall. As we wound our way up the side of Avalanche Canyon it started to rain. Our bodies and spirits were dampened by the precipitation and an acute awareness of the name of the terrain feature we were in, so we decided to call it a day. On the way down we triggered a volley of massive pinwheels. Fueled by the classic snowball effect, they grew to six feet in diameter before bowling over a couple six-inch diameter trees downslope. We were puckered, but we both kept it together yet again. I was highly impressed by Mariah's grace under fire.
After extricating ourselves from Avalanche Canyon we slogged across the increasingly slushy Taggart Lake towards the truck. The water was ankle-deep on top of the ice in some spots, but we made it across without soaking much more than our skins, socks, and boots.
There was still enough daylight left to look for a closer campsite, and we eventually settled on a snowed in and closed campground down by the river. We parked near the gate and walked in a little ways to set up the tent.
I whipped out my dutch oven, planning on showing off my camp cooking skills with a big buttery peach cobbler. But I couldn't get the charcoal lit. Being parked next to a snowbank, there was a sheet of meltwater running over the road that soaked everything in its path. I was about to give up when Mariah suggested perching the charcoal on the blade of my avalanche shovel. We piled the briquettes on the blade, and they were soon glowing to match the orange anodized aluminum. Mariah was duly impressed by my cobbler, but I think I was more impressed by her ingenuity.
That night we unzipped our sleeping bags and did a little more snuggling, stoked as ever with where we were and who we were with. The next morning we had some greasy breakfast burritos which inspired the term "greasicle" to describe what was dangling from our fingers half way through the gut-bombs.
Looming homework lead us back over Teton Pass before turning north back towards Bozeman. We did stop at the top of the pass for a quick lap up Mount Glory, where I got to see Mariah really open it up on skis for the first time. Her high-school racing form left me in the slush. At one point in the trees, I had the misguided impression that I might be ahead of her. I stopped to wait for a minute, and discovered that I was really worried about her. More than I had ever been worried about anyone in the mountains. Of course my worry was unwarranted. She was cooly propping her skis against the truck as I crested the last slope. So maybe the feeling that paralyzed me in my tracks was something else, caring maybe? Could it be love? Either way I knew I wanted to hang out with Mariah a lot more.
In the six years since, we've had many more adventures, some recreational, some for science or profit. I guess I'm growing up, because lately I get more excited by the potentially profitable adventures we have planned, the most committing of which is commercial gillnetting for sockeye salmon in Bristol Bay, Alaska.
For the past three seasons we've both been deckhands in Bristol Bay, but on separate boats. Despite having open spots on the boat I crew on, I didn't want her first experience in Bristol Bay to be on a boat with me. I've seen a few friendships soured by the sudden shift in dynamics that results when it becomes the responsibility of one to train the other, especially with a little cabin fever added to the mix.
Some people think it's really weird when we fly thousands of miles to the same general area, only to get on different boats and not see each other for weeks some seasons. In the boatyard our boats are parked next to each other, so it's easy to keep tabs on one another pre and post season. On the water, we often fish near each other, and our skippers are in the same radio code group, so us deckhands are allowed to chat as freely as cell phone service allows. Sometimes we even tie up so we can have dinner together, or we anchor close enough to talk and simultaneously oggle each other through binoculars. It's pretty romantic.
"Looks like you got some sun today, hon."
"Oh yeah! You have so many scales on your face, babe."
"Aaaaawww, thanks!"
Most people who are familiar with the work seem to understand it, but they've always expected us to work together eventually.
I've been working on the same boat with the same skipper for ten seasons, and he's helping me get ready to start running things when he retires in a couple years. Mariah had forewarned her skipper that the only reason she would quit his boat is if she had a chance to come fish with me.
A spot recently opened up on my boat, and my skipper offered the job to Mariah without any prompting from me. He wants to hire someone who will be committed to sticking around for a few seasons and learning the boat. I think it's a good time to join forces, as she has plenty of experience on deck now, and we can both learn about running the boat at the same time so we'll be pretty equal partners in the long run too.
Between our compatible musical tastes, and our knack for creative problem solving and poise under pressure, I think we'll work well together. Adventure partners, setting sail (burning diesel) on the sea (bay, river) of love. Has a nice ring to it.