Here we go again

While I was embattled with an obnoxious woodpecker practicing wicked marimba beats on our logs this morning, a huge flock of cranes soared over the cabin and seemed to cheer the little *&&^%$ on.


I didn’t think much about it until after the pile-driving beak with feathers suddenly decided to jet off toward Malibu when he spotted what looked to be an enraged Sasquatch wielding a Wiffle bat storming his way snarling epithets that would embarrass a Navy Seal instructor.

Then it hit me. Here we go again. The Sandhills have sensed fall slinking up the back slopes of the mountains across Kachemak Bay and have begun to engage their teenage offspring in serious flight formation training while others fit themselves with tiny bullet-proof vests for their flight south later in September.

After this weekend, fishing activity will start to unwind big time because school has started and tourists have begun easing south in their mongo motor homes sporting roofs that could serve as alternative launch platforms for Predator drones.

Seasonal vendors will begin to shut down and campsites will become emptier than a mid winter nudist beach in Nome.

The expression “nice flats” normally associated with the type of fillets in the freezer will morph into a term associated with bragging rights about the size of big screen TVs installed in man caves that have more leather seating than custom Harleys at national biker’s rally.

Many of the metropolis dwelling types will start hauling their winterized boats into storage facilities to be cocooned in a polymer plastic shroud that leaves them resembling a shrink wrapped Wal-Mart mega toy and then drive off to commence acclimatizing their domiciles into a pre winter prep mode.

As September continues to glissade down the slippery slope toward the fall equinox some hard-cores will still be adding to their stashes of smoked, canned, frozen, fermented, pickled, honey cured and super secretly preserved fish that only they and their acutely deranged cat can stomach.

In any case, it really doesn’t matter who’s doing what. It was an impressive summer but time drifts on and darker days cometh.

Yes, it will be hard to forget the Coho season this year because, at times, there was more silver popping up in certain areas than at a Goth piercing convention featuring Dennis Rodman’s lips.

Chinook hunting was a different story. Things were either closed or so slow that weaving a hook and line through a bait herring was considered heavy action but freezers were still packed by slamming the waves of sockeye.

As the days lengthen, various sportsmen will hit the pucker brush for game while others will hit the sofas for games.

Football will rule but there are those who will opt for watching golf if Tiger Woods quits playing rounds like he’s spent way too many hours working out doing sit-ups under parked cars. The guy needs to get a grip on it.

Oh yeah, there’s soccer too. Many find the action exciting while others consider it an outstanding sleep aid that has twice the viewer snooze potency of any prescription drug a doctor could recommend. I’m neutral on the subject but there are rumors that certain sleep-aid clinics are offering 24/7 reruns of matches via bedroom monitors for patients with serious insomnia.

We all realize that the coming of fall portends sweeping changes, some of which will be addressed in a later column. As for now I’m going to prudently stow a bunch of old tackle in buckets strategically located in dark corners of the garage, shed, and basement. The semi-dubious deed will ensure that the gear will secretly corrode and morph into tangled heaps that, when spring rolls around, my bride will insist that I have crushed and recycled at the nearest salvage yard. My compliance will be instantaneous as will the emergency acquisition of all new stuff.

Sporting goods stores love me but I can’t say the same about my wife’s frame of mind toward the relationship. Can’t we all just get along?

Probably not...

Nick can be reached at if he isn’t busy rearranging the front room furniture for optimal game viewing and strategic snack placements of wife-endorsed veggies and hummus dips close to where he’s hiding his old tackle.


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