5/22/07

After thirteen hours of traveling the dog and I landed in the booming metropolis that is King Salmon, Alaska. Recycled air and gritty street dust clung to oily fir, the dog was pretty dirty too. The scene: an unpaved parking lot outside a sagging airport sprinkled with gaunt commercial fishermen and scruffy, tired eyed young men carrying rod tubes and dry bags; guys like me, fishing guides.

I'm back. I returned, against my better judgment, for another season of massive trout, eighteen hour days and skidding jet boats. I returned for another four months of wilderness isolation living in a glorified tent, professional ego fluffing and wind knot detangling. The biting flies immediately swarmed my face and I realized that there was no one to meet my plane, no dented blue van waiting with keys in the ignition. They either forgot me, or they were just late, neither of which came as a shock. Welcome back.