Bear Wrangler: The Memoirs of an Alaska Pioneer Biologist

258 Pages·2008·3.35 MB·English

by  Will Troyer

bear wrangler

Bear Wrangler
Memoirs of an Alaska
Pioneer Biologist
will Troyer
University of alaska Press
Fairbanks
© 2008 University of alaska Press
all rights reserved
University of alaska Press
P.O. box 756240
Fairbanks, aK 99775-6240
ISbn: 978-1-60223-043-9 (cloth)
978-1-60223-044-6 (paper)
library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Troyer, will (willard a.)
bear wrangler : memoirs of an alaska pioneer biologist / will Troyer.
p. cm.
ISbn 978-1-60223-043-9 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISbn 978-1-60223-044-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Troyer, will (willard a.) 2. biologists—alaska—biography. 3. natural history—
alaska. I. Title.
QH31.T765T76 2008
591.9798092--dc22
2008009913
Cover design by Dixon Jones, UaF rasmuson library graphics
This publication was printed on acid-free paper that meets the minimum requirements for
anSI / nISO Z39.48–1992 (r2002) (Permanence of Paper for Printed library Materials).
Contents
1 north to alaska 1
2 Summer on the Situk 5
3 Sand Point Summer 17
4 wrangell game warden 27
5 Fish Cop 37
6 adventures with goats 45
7 Sourdough Characters 53
8 romance in Juneau 59
9 Kodiak refuge Manager 67
10 wrangling Kodiak bears 75
11 life at Camp Island 89
12 Disaster at Tonki Cape 99
13 becoming a bush Pilot 107
14 bear Surveys 115
15 Managing the Kenai refuge 125
16 building a Canoe System 135
17 a Day in the life of a refuge Manager 145
18 working for wilderness 151
19 The remote Sea Islands 159
20 along the arctic Coast 171
21 The Firth river Valley 181
22 birds of the Delta 191
23 leaving the FwS 199
24 Dart guns at Katmai 207
25 Turquoise lake Calving grounds 221
26 Danger in Our business 235
Index 243
Dedication
To my family —LuRue, Janice, Eric, and Teresa—who share my love for wildlife
and the outdoors.
Acknowledgements
I am especially indebted to my son Eric, who critiqued each chapter and offered
valuable advice as to the contents and the organization of the book. I am also
grateful to my wife LuRue who spent many hours patiently editing the text. She
encouraged and cajoled me to continue working on the manuscript when I was
often tempted to quit. Without these two, the project would never have been
completed.
To my colleagues who accompanied me in the field and shared my adven-
tures—good and bad: many thanks!
Chapter 1
North to Alaska
uge white-capped combers slammed into the Sablefish, periodically caus-
H
ing its bow to sheer left and right. The skipper, Gene Stubb, throttled back
the engine and spun the wheel to face each onslaught. “Looks like a real nor’easter
coming down the strait,” he said to me.
My queasy stomach began to really churn. I knew I was in for another siege of
seasickness. I gripped the portside window ledge tightly and braced my legs as
wave after wave broke over the bow. A small chair slid across the wheelhouse floor
and crashed into the wall. It was getting too rough! The skipper spun the wheel to
starboard, and the Sablefish slowly responded. A moment later the waves were on
our stern and we were running with the raging seas.
“We better get out of this storm while we can,” Captain Stubb shouted. “We’ll
run behind that island ahead and hole up in Alert Bay until it blows itself out.”
I wholly agreed, as I was sweating profusely and swallowing to keep everything
down. But to no avail. I ran for the head and got rid of breakfast and lunch. It was
the third time I had been seasick in as many days, and now my voyage of adven-
ture did not seem to be so much fun. I dove for my bunk and lay there, wishing I
were on solid ground.
The Sablefish continued to roll as the breakers surged into our stern, but after thirty
minutes we gained the leeward side of the island and the waters calmed. I crawled out
of the bunk and went to the wheelhouse, where I cracked a window for some fresh air.
Captain Stubb looked at my ashen face and grinned. “Not feelin’ so hot?”
I did not answer, just frowned.
1
2 BeAr WrANGLer
The FWS Sablefish anchored along the British Columbia coast in 1951.
The little Sablefish was only thirty-six feet long and heavily loaded with sup-
plies and people, so it did not take very rough seas to make it buck and roll.
My real journey to Alaska had begun many years before. As a teenager dur-
ing the early 1940s I had read many books about the Last Frontier. The stories
enthralled me: a vast land relatively uninhabited and teeming with exotic wild-
life. It was a direct contrast to the Indiana farm life I knew. In 1948 I drove the
Alcan Highway to Alaska. After spending a few weeks in this immense north-
ern land of high mountains, lakes, glaciers, and an unending taiga forest, I was
convinced it was the place where I wanted to live and work someday.
In 1951, during my junior year at Oregon State College in Corvallis, I heard
about a job in Southeast Alaska. The seasonal position was with the commercial
fishery research branch of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS). I was a
wildlife management major and not looking for a job in fisheries, but working in
Alaska caught my attention. I applied for the job, even though I would have to
miss spring term.
Now, here I was, fighting my way through rough seas along the coast of British
Columbia, seasick, but determined to see it through. We had left Seattle three
days earlier, bound for Ketchikan and anticipating a three- to four-day voyage.
Unfortunately, we had not yet reached the halfway point. I wondered if my weak
stomach would survive the long trip.
Three of us seasonal employees were aboard the Sablefish, along with Captain
Stubb, his wife, and their four-year-old son. His wife was an incessant talker and
North to Alaska 3
constantly sought my ear. I was in no mood to talk when I was even slightly nause-
ated from the rolling ship, so I often retreated to my bunk to avoid her chatter.
We tied up at the dock in Alert Bay and spent two days in the Canadian fish-
ing village before the storm subsided. The trip to Ketchikan continued to be one
storm after another, and I became seasick at least four more times. We worked
our way north along the coast, dashing for shelter when the seas got too rough
and running when the weather permitted. I got a lesson in Canadian geography
as we passed Bella Bella, the Queen Charlotte Islands, Prince rupert, and various
other islands and landmarks along the British Columbia coast. On the tenth day
we finally reached our destination.
Ketchikan was a typical fishing town in Southeast Alaska, with its maritime
businesses crowded along the seashore. Large seiners, trollers, gillnetters, and
sailboats filled the local boat harbor and were anchored in every cove that
offered protection from stormy seas. Numerous docks jutted into the salt water,
and boardwalks lined many streets. A forest of huge spruce, cedar, and hemlock
trees bordered the edge of town. Wet sphagnum moss hanging from the tree
branches typified the rain forest that covered this part of coastal Alaska. Fisher-
men in knee boots and foul weather gear strolled along the boardwalks, con-
trasting sharply with the bankers in business suits. This fishing town was quite
dissimilar to the small towns I was used to in the States.
We spent several days in town recuperating from our voyage and taking on
more supplies. We then headed up the coast past Bell Island Hot Springs and
anchored at the mouth of a small salmon stream. After hauling the equipment a
hundred yards up the stream, we pitched our plywood tent frames on four feet
of hard-packed snow that remained from winter. As spring progressed and the
snow melted, the tent frames sometimes dropped a few inches, scattering our
supplies on the floor.
We stayed two months at the first site and at Old Tom Creek in Skowl Arm
on Prince of Wales Island, clipping the adipose fins from tiny pink salmon fry.
We caught the newly hatched fish in nets and placed them in small, shallow pans
of water mixed with a few drops of alcohol, which slowed their squirmy move-
ments. We then held the subdued fish between two fingers, clipped the fins, and
released them back into the stream. Pink salmon return to their parent stream to
spawn after two years at sea. The adults with clipped fins would later be counted
in salmon catches and in the streams to determine survival success and migra-
tion patterns.
After a few weeks of constantly clipping fins, the task became a bit boring. But
I loved the evenings and off-duty days when I roamed the beaches and forests