“Hey, General,” the party was greeted by the bluff mountain of a man who owned and ran the lodge. “Welcome, welcome! We’ve got booze for your parched throats, a nice hot shower for your beat-up bones from that miserable plane ride, and dinner’s almost done. C’mon up. The boys’ll bring up your gear.”
“We’re glad to finally get here after that hazardous trip,” Gen. Gabler said, laughing. “Let’s go up and see if this rascal’s description of his place is anything more than puffery.”
There were striking similarities and equally striking differences between the two men and between the two sets of sons. The fathers were both big men—tall, heavily muscled, and showing their age in their ponches. Both men had lined leathery faces from long days in the sun, and both men were beginning to show their age in their faces and small but definite bags under their eyes and turkey-wattled necks. The fathers’ differences were also notable: Glen Gabler had white, short cropped hair in a military brush cut; and his hard face was etched in frown lines from his years of hounding men who did not want to work or to go into battle to face bullets and bayonets; and there were scars which attested to his willingness to lead his men into those battles. His silver-steel blue eyes were as unforgiving as ice and carried a hint of sadness, a remembering which he could never shake.
Neille Bastrup had red hair—not sandy or pale reddish yellow or strawberry blond—and it was red enough almost to glow like an ember in the dark. As if to call attention to himself in any crowd, Neille’s hair was kinky-curly and stood out from his scalp like a clown hat. Unlike Glen, Neille’s face radiated kindness and bonhomie. His lined face showed smile lines and crinkles around his eyes which told of laughter, invitation, and goodwill—and, perhaps, a measure of rascality. It was evident that he had eaten well up there in the Alaskan outback, but his was still a formidable physique.
The sons of both fathers were all tall, athletic, and muscular, like runners, and unlike their fathers who were built more like powerlifters than racers. Glen’s three sons—Glen, Jr., Trace, and Jackson—favored their mother who was a handsome and willowy brunette. Neille’s four sons—Kevin, Able, Michael, and Donovan—all had red hair, freckles, and mischievous facial expressions—young men who might short-sheet your bed but who would be there to save you from the furies of the Arctic Ocean. It was as if they were born by reverse parthenogenesis and had no female genetic contribution. Their mother was a statuesque honey blond who looked ten years younger than her husband and drew looks from the sparse population of men in Excursion Inlet—visitors and locals—that many of them lived to regret. Neille had a well-deserved reputation as a jealous man.
Two hours later, besotted with drink and satiated with two-inch thick slabs of baked halibut and baked potatoes covered with hot secret-recipe chili, the Gabler party collapsed into their comfortable beds to get restored enough to start the following day of fishing at the crack of dawn.
Glen, his sons, and Maj. Saunders knew that the Bastrups had been up late readying the boats and had gotten up early to prepare a fortifying breakfast of scrambled eggs, slabs of bacon, racks of Russian rye toast, fruit bowls, and steaming coffee. They respected the lodge owner and staff, and showed that they did by pitching in to carry the day’s gear and food to the two fishing boats swaying gently against the docks. The Arctic Sun and the Winter’s Haven were old but well-kept motor and sail boats that could sleep ten men each with all of their gear. The fishing boats, safety gear, and fishing equipment were all seaworthy and in good working condition. Gen. Gabler took all of that in and appreciated the nearly military quality of the preparations, supplies, and conveyances.
The predawn light was just becoming noticeable when Neille announced, “Okay, look alive! We’ll head for Hoonah to pick up some extra food stuff and bait for today, then we’ll head off for Elfin Cove and try our luck in Cross Sound and the Icy Strait.”
It was still early morning when the Arctic Sun and Winter’s Haven put in at the rather rickety dock. Nielle watched as two dock workers hitched the mooring lines. Personnel changes were infrequent at the small Tlingit family operation, and he had never seen a non-Tlingit employee working there. That was—he presumed—because of a mutual distrust and general dislike between whites and the Alaska natives. He made a mental note to ask the Tlingit patriarch, Charlie Sobelev, when he got the chance. Something else nagged at the back of his mind: the two men were older than usual. Dock work was heavy physical labor—young man’s work—and there was something about the two that suggested Russian. Nothing concrete, but if it was true, it would be a distinct departure from the status quo because generally the Tlingits disliked Russians owing to the fact that they routinely mistreated the Tlingit women.
He, Kevin, Able, and Michael walked to the gee-dunk to get some snacks and soda pop. Donovan stayed back to mind the boats. Neille had told him to keep a close watch on the two possible Russians; but as soon as they moored the boats, they disappeared. The fishermen were all happy to stay aboard and fall back to sleep as the soft cradle rolling waves lulled and gently rocked them. In a few minutes Neille and the boys returned and stowed the luxury supplies. Donovan untied the mooring lines, and they headed off towards Elfin Cove.
Elfin Cove is located in a small flask-shaped harbor on the north end of Chichagof Island. There were no roads—just a one mile boardwalk, a sleepy village consisting of a handful of buildings—a post office, liquor store, and a general store. Neille dropped in to the liquor store, shared a few jokes, then told the owner his plans for the day and promised to check in again at day’s end—a standard safety precaution.
Just to wow the Gablers and Maj. Saunders, they took a small detour to have a look at the Glacier National Monument. In 1794—when it was first described by Captain George Vancouver—there was virtually no bay or inlet. Instead a massive glacier filled the area. It was more than 4,000 feet thick in places, up to 20 miles wide, and extended more than 100 miles to the St. Elias mountain range. In 1879, the famous naturalist John Muir reported that the ice had retreated more than thirty miles, and by then there was an actual bay. By 1916, naturalists reported that the Grand Pacific Glacier—the main glacier which carved the bay—had melted back sixty miles to the head of what became known as Tarr Inlet. Since 1951, the Arctic warmed roughly twice as much as the global average; and the area of arctic ice shrank by one-fifth as the 1960s dawned; and the Gabler and Bastrup party were amazed—more accurately, shocked—by the obvious growth of newly exposed land and the retreating moraine line.
Back outside the protected harbor of Elfin Cove and Glacier Bay, the two small fishing boats passed into Cross Sound and the Icy Strait. It was a bright sunny day with clear views of the rugged coastline of Chichag of Island and its coastal beaches, deep fjords, and plethora of tidewater glaciers. Looking back, they could see the snow-capped mountains and glacial fields of the national monument and the Fair Weather Mountains. The setting was perfect, and Neille unabashedly prophesized that they would take their limits that day.
The Bastrup boys put out the trolling lines over half a mile then dropped anchors—two for each boat. Each fisherman had a belt with a cup for the handle of his fishing rod and settled down holding the fishing gear for a happily anxious wait for the first cry of “hook-up.” Most of the guests were sliding back into a pleasant slumber in the cool Alaskan sun. The Arctic Sun and Winter’s Haven were the only boats visible, and Neille liked it that way. At nine-thirty, a Tlingit craft from Hoonah passed by—a bit too close for Neille’s comfort. He thought he had been out in the sun too long because he was sure on his first glance that he saw the two Russian-looking men. On second glance, he could not see them, and decided that his mind was playing tricks. He vowed to avoid hitting the sauce so hard the night before a big fishing trip.
The Gabler party members were all so drowsy that they relinquished their fishing rods to the Bastrup brothers who patiently waited for the first hit.
“Hook-up!” yelled Kevin, startling everyone and throwing
both boats into a controlled frenzy of activity.
Kevin knew he had either hooked into a huge sunken log or he had a mammoth fish on his line. He handed the rod to Gen. Gabler and warned him about how to bring the lunker in without losing it.
“Pull up on the pole, General, then as you let the end, go down reel some line in. Don’t jerk it, and don’t be in a hurry. This is going to take considerable time!”
Gen. Gabler began to work.
Neille called out to the rest of the men, “Slowly reel your lines in. Let’s check the bait and lures. If you get a hit, let it set for a couple of times then give a medium jerk to lodge the hook. No real fast moves!”
Trace Gabler shouted, “Hook-up!” and Donovan Bastrup moved alongside him to be sure he had a secure hit.
Another hit came on the line that Donovan Bastrup was holding, and he handed the line off to Jackson Gabler. Able Bastrup got the next hit and gave his pole to Glen, Jr. Now it was pandemonium.
Rick Saunders whooped from the deck of the Winter’s Haven, “Got one! Feels like a whale!”
His face was red from excitement and strain. Every man on the two boats had a fish on his line except for Neille on the Arctic Sun and Michael on the Winter’s Haven who had their hands full controlling the boats and lending a hand to the fishermen to keep them from entangling their lines or sawing off each others’ lines as they battled their fish.
Gen. Gabler was sweating and beet red from the exertion. Neille was beginning to worry about whether the general’s heart could handle the strain. Trace pulled a bright orange fish alongside the Arctic Sun, and Neille gaffed it.
“Hey, man,” Neille shouted, “you’ve got your year’s limit on Yelloweye rockfish! That beauty weighs a good thirty-five pounds, maybe forty. Great job?”
He clubbed the fish’s head and threw it into the cold locker, then he rebaited Trace’s hooks and helped him drop the line to the proper depth.
Kevin brought in a Coho salmon that weighed twelve pounds, and Jackson Gabler landed a Chinook (King) salmon that weighed in at twenty-two pounds. Ten minutes later Jackson Gabler pulled a pink (humpy) salmon in that weighed five pounds.
“That’s great eating! My favorite, Jackson,” Michael told him. “We’ll have that for supper!”
In rapid succession Glen Jr. landed an eighty-pound lingcod, and Jackson pulled in another one that weighed a healthy sixty-two pounds.
“Ugly boogers, aren’t they!” Neille said, admiring the two ancient fish that were so ugly that they were beautiful. “They’re my absolute favorites. We’ll have the best fish supper you guys have ever eaten tonight! Great work!”
Two hours later, Neille stopped to take stock of the haul to be sure the two boats had not brought in more than the limit. There were four kings weighing between twelve pounds and thirty-seven pounds, six Cohos weighing in at a hefty range of eight to fourteen pounds, four halibuts weighing from sixty-two to one hundred eighty pounds, three Lingcods ranging from a low of fourteen to a high of seventy-one pounds, eight rockfish of assorted colors and weights, twenty-one Chum (dog) salmon with their reputation as hard-hitting and fun sport fish—which on that successful day ran from eight to eighteen pounds, with one exception a twenty-four pounder, and the limit of twenty sea bass which almost finished filling the cold locker. The nearly exhausted general was still working on whatever he had on his line, and now all eyes were on him.
“Let’s give it a rest,” Neille announced. “Save some for tomorrow.”
“You okay, Dad?” Glen, Jr. asked the general, working to conceal the concern in his voice.
“I think so,” his sweating and extremely tired appearing father answered.
“How about I spell you off for a bit?” Glen Jr. offered.
The general was reluctant, but decided that wisdom was the better part of valor; and he had plenty of ammunition for bragging rights from whatever was on that line.
As soon as he transferred his pole to his eldest son, the fish took a dive for the bottom.
“Great fish,” Neille said. “Hang in there. Maybe we’ve got a record on the line.”
The “record” consumed three more hours of work and the efforts of every member of the Gabler party. A very tired Rick Saunders brought the even tireder fish up to a point near enough to the surface to be able to see it.”
“That’s got to be the biggest halibut we’ve ever seen, don’t you think, Dad?” Jackson asked Neille excitedly.
“Maybe so. Hey, Rick, how about letting the general have the honor of the final work before we put the gaffs in that lunker?”
Rick was only too glad to relinquish his role. He had been doing similar services for the general for more than twenty-five years; so, this was nothing new. Gen. Gabler staggered a little as he switched seats and sagged into the action seat. Rick stood by and gave a little assistance as the huge fish was brought up to the hull of the Arctic Sun. Kevin and Able each wielded a gaff and pinioned the great fish to the side. Neille, Michael, and Donovan were able to drop a net from the swing beam and the five men maneuvered the fish into it. The winch engine did the rest of the work. The halibut weighed in at a colossal 454 pounds—not a record, but a whole lot of great eating to come.
On the way back to Excursion Inlet and the Alaskan Bear Lodge, Neille discussed a plan to take a day off from fishing and have a nice restful hunting trip along the coastline. He predicted that they would see at least two big moose and a couple of nice coastal brown bears. The would-be hunters could only mumble their assent as they sagged into the discomfort of their deck chairs and fell asleep.
Back at the lodge, everyone helped to unload the gear and the day’s catch before they went inside to shower and change clothes. Neille glimpsed out into the inlet before going to his room and thought he saw the same Tinglt boat he had seen out on the Icy Strait during the midmorning. He shook his head. It could be anybody doing anything to or from Hoonah; so, he put it out of his mind.
The maids and cooks—two Tinglt girls and an Athabaskan Indian girl from the Yukon territory—made a dangerously large dinner including ptarmigan, moose, bear stew, fresh baked halibut, and grilled Coho salmon. The girls had made a trip to Hoonah for fresh vegetables, including little new red potatoes that they pan fried in butter with a heavy dusting of spices to a hard crispiness, and had baked a large chocolate layer cake for dessert. There was water, milk, three kinds of beer, a pleasant Chardonnay, and an assortment of mind-numbing cocktails to drink. Neille decided to leave off the booze and to fortify himself with milk; so, he would not have a repeat of his hallucination of the Russian dock workers coming back. He was not entirely ready to dismiss the memory, no matter how faulty it might be, however.
Glen asked a lot of questions about the extent of the retreating of the great glacier in Glacier Bay.
“Shame,” said Neille. “I guess it was about the time that Vancouver sailed into the area that the Little Ice Age was starting to come to an end.”
“Right. And it looks like the process is still going on. Glad we could be here to see it in time. My times in Alaska have been an altogether too short but great part of my life. After the terrific fishing trip today, I could die a happy man.”
Alaskan Recipes
Bear Stew—Serves Six
Ingredients
-Fresh bear meat-2 lbs, cut into 1 in. cubes.
Vegetables: 1 lg yellow onion, 2 cloves coarsely chopped fresh garlic, carrots, potatoes, celery, ±brussel sprouts, brown mushrooms cut into ½ inch cubes, fresh frozen or canned corn and fresh or frozen baby peas, 1 12 oz can strong dark beer, 2 tsps (may increase to taste) beef buillion.
Spices: 1 tbsp Worchestershire Sauce, sea salt, and coarsely ground pepper to taste
Preparation
-Lightly flour bear cubes, brown in extra virgin olive oil with salt and pepper and set aside.
-Sauté onions and garlic until golden brown and set aside
-Heat beer to near boiling, add bear meat, buillion, Worchestershire, onion
s, and garlic
-Add remainder of vegetables except for corn and peas when meat is almost done. Add corn and peas just before serving.
-Simmer until vegetables are cooked but still firm.
-Alternatively, may cook in crock pot or bake in an oven. May make dumplings for the pot.
Poached Halibut—Serves Six
Ingredients
-Halibut: 4 lbs thick sliced halibut cut into 6 equal pieces, milk-sufficient to cover fish, ⅓ cube butter.
-Spices: Salmon/trout mix or sea salt, ground powdered garlic, lemon pepper, ±cumin, dry parsley to taste.
Preparation
-Place spices and butter into milk and heat to near boiling. Lightly dust more spices on halibut itself and add to hot milk
-Cook in oven for 30 min. at 350° or until halibut is thoroughly cooked (by sampling), but do not overcook.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alaskan Bear Lodge, August 8, 1962
Nasnana—the Athabaskan girl—got up before everybody else and hurried around to get the breakfast preparations underway. She checked by the men’s rooms to see if any of them were awake and needed some coffee. Most of the doors were closed, but the famous general’s door was ajar. She knocked timidly—too timidly she decided, because there was no response—so, she knocked again and in so doing pushed the bedroom door half open. Then she screamed.
The first responder to the frightened scream was Asaaluk, the Tlingit girl from Hoonah. She joined in the ear and heart-piercing screams. Thirty seconds later everyone in the Alaskan Bear Lodge was a mute witness to the horror of the image of General Glen Gabler, USA ret., hanging from the ceiling beams of his room, his face contorted in agony, bloated, and purple.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 5