July 18

Ran up Bison Gulch this morning—four thousand feet of vertical gain in two miles. Just about fucking killed me, but I heard there is going to be a race up the same trail come August & wanted to prospect it. The remainder of the day cooking & reading, preparing for my run of three night shifts starting at four this afternoon. My legs already in revolt, rubbery & flaccid. I thought briefly about fishing Otto Lake today, since my permit stretched into this afternoon before expiring, but thought better to wait & try a river running with salmon instead of grayling. A lot of them, preferably, that I might actually catch something. I had my quick fly fishing tutorial at the Chatanika north of Fairbanks while camping with my ranger couple friends. We found a spot past a recreation area, parking our trucks just up the bank of the small river at a hole they’d fished weeks prior. & all around, just the braided river, its rocky banks, patches of dwarf willows & then forest sloping up hills. Bear prints along the opposite shore, dusted over, a few days old. Casting with a fly rod is a kind of meditation, it turns out, & one of which I am fonder than I thought I might be. The thrumming river, its clear scents, the breeze gentle & singing through the trees, the silhouetted line hovering quiet over the water & the entrancing whoosh of line & lead. I am not bothered in the least that I failed to catch a thing. After fishing for some time the first day we drank whiskey, ate curried chicken, talked about the ranger division & so on. Showed me their firearms. Chased their two dogs around. Built a fire from downed logs & a palate someone had left behind. The next day awakened to a steady rain, & when it cleared, we headed to a stocked pond for another futile try at lining a grayling. Ate blueberries from the bush while I fished. & then to the farmers market in Fairbanks before we split company & I did the rest of my errands before eventually driving home through the blanketing smoke of the Minto Flats & Bear Creek fires that have several hundred thousand acres alight between the park & town. It was sweet reprieve to take that time in the company of others. They move to Palmer in two weeks, so the timing is perhaps poor, but one travels in this state, to be sure, & I’ve likely not camped or fished my last with them.

& so to prepare for the long haul at work now. Planning a two-night solo camping venture for early next week, & the lulling quiet hours of work will, I hope, allow me time for those particulars. Away, then.