Friends by Default

Here's day thirty's submission for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month). This is the last day of April, and I've done something I thought was impossible for me – write a poem a day for a month. I wondered at the onset of this project if I had the discipline and the creativity to pull it off, but the people who stuck with me and read the posts (and commented to let me know they were there) helped me expect enough of myself that I showed up to the computer each evening. And the creativity – what to write about and how to write it at least passably well – was a surprise every night. The most valuable piece of that was this jewel I found right here in my pocket: that  my daily life is filled with moments perfect for poems. I think I'm paying way more attention to my daily doings as we drop into May than I was when I stumbled onto April, and that is indeed a gift. Thanks again for joining me. I'll try to continue to post these, if not nightly, at least frequently.



Friends by Default

We weren’t all that close growing up,

but our parents were best friends,

so that made us friends by default, I guess.

We played together when we were little,

a few times is all, the two of them and me

while our moms and dads drank cocktails and told jokes.

I grew up first – four years older than him,

six older than her – and in my adolescent wisdom

blamed mom and dad for everything that was wrong.

I cleaned that house thoroughly

throwing out anything my parents liked,

including their friends, and their friends’ children.

It was after my siblings and I scattered from the Indiana corn

like field mice running from fire,

his father died, and mine was available and alone.

He became the good son we never were,

he overlooked the long list of my father’s failings

with a grace I could never touch.

They spent a lot of time fishing together.

Who knows what all they said in that boat floating on a northern lake,

but the words hardened into something solid,

and after dad turned his Cadillac up the last country road,

we became friends again, and he taught me to remember

my father as more light than dark.

At least he used to… until the disease broke

his memories into jumbled rubble.

His sister called today in tears:

they moved him into another home

because his roommate struck him –

who knows what was said in that boat without water?

He didn’t recognize his wife that day,

but he knew his sister.

I have a trip planned: in a few weeks I’ll visit

them their mom, his wife.

I’m not looking forward to it, no, not at all.

but my midwestern roots apparently grew deeper

than I ever expected: my mirror tells me I need to go –

for him, for me, for our dad. Our dad.

I wonder what we’ll say

or if there will even be a boat.

Alone on the Fish Part 2: Broken Down

“Hey Marauder, Skookum Too. I have a problem here, Don.”

Steph, Don’s girlfriend and deckhand, comes back. “Hang on, Skookum Too. I’ll wake him.”

While we wait, Dan drops into the engine room and starts poking around with a flashlight. “Check the fuel lines,” I tell him. “And the solenoid.” This engine, a Caterpillar 3160,  has a temperamental fuel system anyway, and when the device called the solenoid quits, the entire system becomes paralyzed. It has an indicator switch that lets us know when it has tripped off - like a circuit breaker - but everything on it looks fine. There’s no leaks, no loose wires, nothing that would indicate a problem. I turn the ignition to “On,” so the gauges come to life, but don’t turn the engine over, not with Danny so near the fan belts. The needles all snap into place. Water temperature, amperes, volts. Everything looks normal.

“Skookum Too, what’s going on back there?” Don’s voice crackles sleepily over the radio.

“Not sure. She just quit running. We’re looking at the engine now. As far as we can tell, everything looks fine, but she won’t start.”

“I’ll come back and give you a tow to the river, “ he says. “Be there in about ten.”

"Roger."

We wait and keep trying to fix the problem, but we can’t figure out what’s wrong. We check battery cables, wires, circuit breakers, in-line fuses to the ignition and the fuel filter. Everything checks out. She still won’t start. When Don arrives, we rig up a tow line from our bow to his stern, and he starts the tow slowly, so as to not snap the line. With a gentle heave we are under way again, but a boat under tow is disconcerting. I imagine it must be a little like sailing, with the only sounds being those of the water rushing past the hull and the wind in the rigging. Add to that the creaking of the line as it strains to pull several tons of wood and fish through rolling waves, and you have an earful. I try to ignore it as I sit in the skipper’s seat, helping steer so we don’t veer off to one side or the other with the swell behind us. Six-to-eight-foot swells are now lifting our stern and pushing us north. A big one rolls under us, and when we ride down its back, the towline dips into it, slicing it like a knife. When the swell catches and lifts the Marauder, the force of the large waves and two boats heavy with fish is too much, and the line parts with a ‘thwaannngggg.’ Dan and I are on our feet in an instant. I steer the boat with the waves while he goes forward and brings the line back on board.  Don puts the Marauder into neutral while Steph collects the line hanging off their stern. Once she has it on board he swings back around. This time we tie one of the old tires Don uses for boat bumpers between the lines connecting our boats. He lashes his end to the corkline of his net that is on the reel so the tow will be in the center of his stern, allowing him to steer better. Steph eases the boat forward as Don stands on deck directly behind the reel and watches to see how the tow will work. Satisfied, he walks in the cabin and closes the door. Not 15 seconds later, the line snaps again, this time between the tire and my bow, and the tire shoots forward like it was attached to a giant bungee. Dan and I both watch in the fading light as it rockets directly over the reel where Don was just standing, rope trailing behind it like the tail of a kite. It slams into the cabin door with enough force to send it bouncing back over the reel to the picking deck. “Jesus Christ!” I shout.  If the line had split 20 seconds earlier, Don would be dead or injured and knocked overboard. This is getting a little scary.

Again he puts the Marauder in neutral. Steph goes out on deck and gathers the line hanging behind the Marauder while Dan does the same on the bow of the Skookum. Meanwhile, Don and I discuss what to do on the radio. “The boats are just too heavy in this swell,” he says. “I’ll try tying off alongside you.” Dan taps on the windshield and points to the bow cleat. As I watch, he steps over to it and lifts the back end of it up. The bolts holding it are almost completely pulled through the deck. No more tows on it today.

Don and the Marauder on a calm day.

The Marauder approaches from our starboard side, the direction the swell is coming from. We get lines ready, and Don comes out of the cabin and climbs the ladder to the bridge for better visibility while he maneuvers in close quarters. Steph readies lines on the Marauder’s deck. The Skookum is full in the trough now, riding up and down the swells and rolling deeply with each one. We’re in no danger of capsizing, but the motion has the sides of the boat rising and falling several feet with each wave. The Marauder approaches us at an angle, bow first. As she swings into us, Steph passes me a line already secured to the Marauder’s midship cleat and straddles the boats while I start to wrap the line on our side cleat and pull the boats together. Meanwhile Dan has secured a line to our stern cleat, and tosses the rest of it into the stern of the Marauder, still four feet away. He dashes by us onto the Marauder and down into the stern compartment to tie off. The Marauder is made of fiberglass, the Skookum wood. I loop the midship line around the cleat just as the Marauder is lifted by a swell, and the cleat and the 4-inch long bolts holding it to the deck of the Skookum slide up through the wood like butter. Surprised at the force of the two heavy boats moving in opposite directions, I look up at Steph, one leg on her boat, one leg on ours. She hasn't seen what has happened, and still has one foot on each boat. The cleat and bolts fall in between the boats as they roll apart, smacking the side of the Marauder. I grab Steph by the front of her jacket with a growl, “You come here,” and pull her on board as the boats surge away from each other. Seeing what's happened, Don throws the Marauder in gear and guns the engine so we don’t crash together on the next wave, and just like that we’ve switched deckhands.

I make sure Steph is well on board before releasing her. “You okay?” I ask. She nods. We watch as Don turns the Marauder around to come alongside again, this time to trade people. He pulls within a foot of us and hits reverse, stopping dead. In an instant Steph and Dan trade positions. Don pulls away again, and he and Steph disappear into the cabin. Dan and I do the same. “Well that was fun," I say into the microphone. "What now?” 

“I don’t know,” Don says. “We can’t tow you, that’s obvious. There’s nothing left to tow with.”

"I'm gonna call Ray,” I say. “Maybe he’ll have an idea.” Ray is the cannery superintendent, and an ex-engineer. He’s seen all sorts of trouble during his years in the industry, and if anyone can puzzle out what our next move is, it’s Ray. I call him on the VHF and we discuss the possibility of rigging a cradle of rope under the boat and around the cabin to tow with, but that sounds a bit iffy to me. "How would we get the line under the boat?" I ask. "Could a tender come help us out?"
“You could drop the line off the bow and walk it back to just aft of the cabin. Then tie off to that line for your tow."
The idea sounds pretty iffy to me. I know the cabin of the Skookum is mostly constructed of marine plywood, and with the stress of a tow will most likely come apart easier than the cleats we'd just pulled out.
"Yeah, Pat. All the tenders are filled with fish and have several boats in line to deliver more,” says Ray. “Besides, I don’t know what they could do, anyway. I could send the power skiff out, but we’d need to wait until the sea calmed down a little. You could toss out the anchor and wait.” The prospect of trying to set an anchor while adrift and without power doesn’t seem like a good plan to me. Plus I don't have a bow cleat to tie off to. I'd have to tie off to the reel in the stern. It’s completely dark now, and the wind and tide are pushing us toward the beach, where the shoreline is riddled with rocks. There's no good decision here.
“Let me see if we can figure out what’s wrong with the engine one more time, Ray. I’ll get back to you.”

Don comes on the other radio. “I’ll stand by here until you figure out what’s going on, Pat.” I know that’s a sacrifice. It’s late, and we’re the only ones out here. We’re going to be the last boats in the river, and even if we do arrive at a solution for this predicament, it’s going to be several hours before we get any sleep. I look over at the dark shape of the Marauder rolling in the sea next to me and see my friend looking out his window at me. I put a hand up. “Thanks Don," I say. It's a far cry from the feeling I have, but it's all I can express over the radio. "I’ll keep you posted.”

I look at the engine and mentally go back to the beginning. Danny and I stretch out on the cabin floor and start inspecting every wire related to the power system. We are tracing one that runs from the ignition to the top of the solenoid when Dan asks, “What’s that dark line?" I shine the flashlight beam along it. There, about two feet from the solenoid, is a pencil-thin crack in the white insulation. I feel it with my fingernail and bend it apart. Corroded by who knows how many days of salt water and air, the wire comes apart in my hands. 
“Get the wire strippers, connectors and black tape,” I say. I stand up and look outside the windows while Dan scrambles for the electrical supplies. Don is still there, his cabin lights reflecting on the black waves between us. I hold the light as Dan repairs the wire. He straightens up and steps back from the fan belts. "Try that."
I sit at the helm and hold my breath as I turn the key. The engine roars to life! "Oh, Yeah!" we exclaim as I gram the radio. “We got it, Don!  Let’s go home!”

It’s 4:00 am by the time we deliver our fish and head to the dock. We’re high boat for the cannery for the first time ever. As I leave the tender in the dark and motor up to the string of boats tied to the dock, I hear a voice shout out, “Goddamn teachers!” It’s Bill, a friend of mine, a full-time fisherman whom I know likes to imagine that teacher/fishermen aren’t as good as “real” fishermen. I also know he watched us as we delivered, and has a good idea of how we did. It’s his way of paying me a compliment. Surprised and tired, I laugh a little too loud and reply, “Yeah, and you call yourself a fisherman!” We tie off to the dock and head for our trucks, exhausted. We’ll clean the boat in the morning, after I hit the liquor store. I owe the skipper of the Marauder, my friend, some beer and a bottle of whiskey. Sitting down to drink it later that evening, we'll both pretend it makes us even.

Don's boat, the Marauder, tied alongside the Watersong,
my boat, the Skookum Too and Don's brother Dean's boat,
the Cheechako, at anchor in Snug Harbor, 

Alone on the Fish - Part 1

Don Lee and Dean Pugh are close friends of mine. Their dad, also named Don, whom we called “Senior,” even though Don Lee wasn’t “Junior,” started fishing Cook Inlet in the 50’s, and brought his boys up to Alaska as deckhands when they were teens. Don started running his own boat for Kenai Packers at 17, Dean at 15. I met the two of them on one of my very first days of running my own boat in 1980, almost a decade later. In the winters senior was a school principal in Bellevue, and their mom Betty was an elementary schoolteacher. She deckhanded for senior as long as they fished together. To my good fortune, both Dean and Don had their parents’ Norwegian blood as fishermen and teachers, and  they took me under wing during my first two years as a skipper. They taught me how to work on boats, mend gear, how to read tides and how to fish. Sitting here thirty years later, I wonder if there was much they didn’t teach me about how to be a fisherman. In the process we became lifelong friends.

I’m writing this on Nov. 14, 2012, three days after Betty passed away. When Don called me with the news I asked him if he wanted some company – that I would come up and spend the night. “You know, I think I’d like that,” he answered. I drove to his house in Snohomish that morning, and spent the past two days with he and Dean and Dean’s wife Michelle and son Chris. We talked, drank whiskey and beer, laughed, cried, cleaned Betty’s apartment, and talked more. These are my friends. They say you can’t pick your family. Maybe not, but you can sometimes pick the one you’d like to be part of. Theirs is the one I picked. Here’s just one story about them, starting with Don Lee:

Don Pugh "Senior" runs his boat, the Sumac, out of 

the Kenai River just behind his son, Don Lee, on the Marauder.

This is how I like to remember fishing: 1983, fishing the Skookum down south on the west side at the end of the day. My deckhand, Dan Rediske, a former student of mine fresh out of high school, is weary after picking 600 fish on our first set of the day and 300 on the second. We move west of the fleet in a building sea, trying to avoid a large, scattered kelp rip, and make what I am already thinking is the last set of the day. The radio reports of fish are few, and the boats that aren’t already heading back to the river aren’t catching much. I see one boat, a speck on the horizon north and east of me a couple of miles - the only vessel in sight. The water is clear of sticks and kelp as we set to the west. A bunch hits the net in a flurry of foam, but it’s quickly lost among all the whitecaps. We are setting the gear while running in the trough, and on the bridge I am hanging on to the wheel as the boat rolls underneath me. It’s hard enough to keep track of my direction with the compass, let alone look back at the net while setting. Dan has his head down, helping the gear peel off the net with his hands. There’s a freshening wind blowing and he’s keeping a close eye on the wind-whipped web so he can pull the brake on the reel if it hangs up on a cork or a snag. Neither of us can really tell if we’re getting any fish or not.

 We finally get the gear out and both of us head to the cabin. The wind is steady and cold, with spits of needle-like raindrops mixed in, and the cabin is warm and dry. Dan asks if I mind if he takes a nap for 10 or 15 minutes. I nod, put my army jacket on over my oilskin bibs, pull on a pair of gloves and a sock cap, and head topside to watch the gear. Even after three years on this boat and two more deckhanding for Jim, I still can get queasy in the cabin on a rocky day, so I figure I stand a better chance of staying on the grounds and finishing out the period if I’m in the fresh air. I go out on deck and put the boat in reverse so I can get some slack in the tow line. I pull it around to the port side and tie it off on the midship cleat so I can tow into the waves. I climb the ladder to the bridge and swivel the seat to face the stern, bracing myself on the life raft rack with my legs. I hang on to the side of the bridge with one hand and steer the boat with the other. I tow the net, trying to keep the gear from “flagging out,” or stretching in the direction of the wind and current, where it won’t catch as many fish. I watch the net as it stretches off to the east into grey, angry waves. I can only clearly see the first shackle, (the first third of the net), and I can barely see our orange buoy bobbing every now and then, tiny in the distance, 300 yards away at the end of the net. I light up a smoke with a good deal of twisting and turning against the wind to shield the lighter, suck on it and watch the net. About halfway down the first shackle the corks bob and disappear. Suddenly the water is lit up with splashes. A good-sized bunch there. A few seconds pass. Another, right behind the boat. And another kicking up foam toward the other end of the gear. The bunches light up for just a second as the fish struggle against the web, then stop. The fish we're catching can’t fight long because of the tension created by the waves and the boat towing so hard, so I’m pretty sure I’m not seeing at least as many hits as I am seeing. This is getting good, and after a particularly large hit, I let out a whoop and scramble back down the ladder to make a fish call.

  There are eight boats in our group, and we communicate well to each other about the numbers and species of the fish we catch, our location and how long the gear has been in the water. We also let each other know when we are on fish and getting activity in the gear, something I know from experience that other groups find difficult.  I spent a couple of years fishing in a group of 22 boats. Not only do some of those guys not talk much, they go out of their way to conceal information from their own group so they can catch more fish. The day I decide to leave the group is when one guy catches 900 fish on one set and doesn’t call anyone in the group until it’s all over and he’s done picking. Afterward, he claims he didn’t see them hit. No one else in the group believes him, but nobody says anything. I start looking for a new group to fish with the next day.

  I key the microphone on our scrambled sideband. “Yeah, I’m getting quite a few hits here in the last few minutes, in case anyone is interested.” I look out the window at the gear while I’m talking, and a bunch slams into the net about fifty corks out. I love when that happens while I’m on the radio, because then I get to say, “Yeah, there’s another good one right now!” Don, on the Marauder answers, “What are your numbers, Pat?” I tell him my latitude/longitude, and he pauses a second before replying, “Do you see a boat a couple of miles north and east of you? Are you off west by yourself?”

“Yep,” I answer. “That’s me. Is that you up there?” All I can see is a gray dot bobbing up and down near the horizon in the direction of the river.

        “Yeah," he says, "We’re clearing out a raft of kelp that hit our gear on the last set. I had to roll it on just to get out of there, and moved west. We’re setting it out again and clearing it as we go. I don’t know if I want to move over now.”

  “Uh, Don,” I say. “This is looking really good here, and they’re charging north. Trust me. You want to move over and get in line with me. I’m still getting nailed here.” I feel a sense of urgency trying to convince him that this little shot is worth the effort. The day is almost over. I know the feeling of being tired and frustrated dealing with sticks or kelp in the gear. But, I think, it’s rare to be out here all by ourselves on a school of fish. I see another hit, and key the mike again. “Yeah, there’s been a couple more since we stopped talking,” I say. “And there’s another one, right behind the boat.”

   A long pause, and then he comes on. “Ok. We still have a shackle to clear. Let me know if it dies off.”

A speck of a boat a few miles away, Cook Inlet, 1977.

  “Will do.” I hang up the microphone, plug in the external speaker and head back topside. Fish are hanging in the gear as far back as I can see. We’re going to have to pick up soon, or we’ll never make it before the end of the period. I look at my watch. It’s just before 5:00 pm. We have a little over an hour to go. I watch as Don moves to the west. I figure I’ll wake Dan in five minutes, start picking in ten. Excited, I light another cigarette. The wind whistles around me until I jump down from the bridge and swing into the cabin. “C’mon Dan,” I yell. “We’ve loaded up again! It’s time to pick some fish!” As he sleepily rubs his eyes and pulls on his boots, I call Don and tell him I’m going to start picking.

  “How’s it goin’ up there?” I ask.            

  “Not bad,” he says. There’s definitely some fish here. We’ve had a couple nice bunches already, and we just got it all out. We’ll wait 10-15 more minutes and pick up then.”

        “Roger that,” I’ll be on the back deck.” Dan and I put on our gloves and raingear while I take off the tow and let the net flag. Picking while using the net as a sea anchor makes for a more stable deck, and it’s impossible to get the fish out of the gear when you’re towing. We bunji the door open and hurry to the back deck. I estimate we have at least 600 fish as we pull the end of the first shackle on board 20 minutes later.  5:30. We’re not going to get it all out of the water by the period’s end. If we get caught by Fish and Game with gear out, the entire catch will be confiscated by the state, and we'll get fined $3,000 to boot. Though the odds are low of getting caught way out here by ourselves, with all these fish I don’t even want to risk it.

   “Let’s pick as much as we can until 10 of,” I say to Dan as we bring on another bunch. “Then we’ll roundhaul the rest.” He nods and grunts as he bends down to pick a fish. Dan doesn’t say much, but he’s a hard worker and good fish picker. We both step it up a notch, feeling the urgency. We barely notice the white-crested waves slapping the stern unless one actually sprays us with ice-cold water. The boat is full and heavy, and rolls lazily even in a crazy sea. It makes for an easier working environment, but she’s significantly lower in the water. I notice the waves are starting to push the sea into the scuppers, holes reserved for water to drain out as we bring the soaked net on board. I have tapered wooden plugs tied to the stern cleats. “Get a hammer,” I tell Dan. “Let’s put the plugs in.” He stops picking and scoots to the cabin as fast as he can. I unlash the scupper plug on my side of the boat, get down on my knees and lean over the gunwale to guide it into place. I reach behind my back and Dan puts the hammer in my hand. A few solid whacks, including one as we roll to the side which puts the plug under water, causing me to splash and soak my own face, and the plug is in. We repeat the process for the starboard side, toss the hammer up by the door to the cabin and start picking again. I am wet and cold and tired, but I still feel great. We are on our best set of the season, and no one has come close to reporting this many fish all day. This is the kind of day I dream about each spring. It's 5:45. We pick furiously, swearing when a fish is bagged in the net or is stubborn and won’t come out fast. I watch the corks behind the boat as Dan finishes clearing a fish out of the gear, only to see another bunch hit!            

“We’re still getting fish!” I shake my head. “Shit. Why couldn’t it be noon right now?”

“Because we’d sink!” Dan smiles. “We can’t hold much more!” I realize he’s right.

“Okay. Let’s get outta here. Clear the deck.” We pitch all the fish at our feet over the reel into the open fish hold. I then press my foot on the treadle that powers the hydraulic motor that turns the reel and roll the net, fish and all on board. We have a powerful hydraulic motor, and even though the fish and gear weigh a tremendous amount we wrap a little over a shackle and some 250 more fish onto the reel. 6:05. We’re out of the water. I figure we have more than 1,600 six-to-seven-pound salmon on board.

 The boat rolls in the trough, so I put her in gear, turn her north, stern into the sea, and race to the bridge where I clean gurry off  my glasses and head toward Don, who is still picking up. Dan starts pulling the net off the reel by hand, and picking the fish off the reel. Don is just bringing on the buoy as we come alongside, and he’s grinning. “That was a great shot to end the day!” He shouts over the wind. “Thanks for that. We must’ve had 400 on that one!”

Don Lee Pugh picks fish from a gill net, c 1983.

“Great! See you in the river!” I yell back. And we both go into our respective cabins and throttle up, heading northeast.  I steer and put TV dinners in the oven as Dan clears the fish off the reel and rolls the net back on. The Marauder is faster than the Skookum, and a better sea boat with more hull above the waterline than we have. He passes us and slowly pulls away as we run home. There are still a few other boats out here, but with the weather turning nasty at the period’s end and the bulk of the fleet headed in early, I’m glad Don’s with us. The lonely feeling that haunts me periodically over all the years I fish, the one that comes over me when I realize how small a boat I am - a tiny black speck on a great big ocean - feels less powerful when I’m running near somebody I know. I never have liked being out here by myself, even with a boatload of fish.

I’m even more grateful for Don’s presence nearby when the engine quits about an hour out of the river. I’m asleep in the bunk when the drone of the engine goes quiet. “Hey, Pat,” Dan calls, but I’m already wide-awake and getting up. It’s almost 9:00 pm under gray skies, and the light is dim outside. “What happened?” I ask as I look out the windows. The boat is coasting with the last of its forward momentum, and swinging into the trough of the waves. The wind down south hasn’t turned the waves into whitecaps yet, but we’re riding a sea swell forecasting the coming storm. I think Danny shut her down for some reason.“I don’t know,” he replies. “Everything was running fine when she just quit.” He slides out of the skipper’s seat and I climb in.  I turn the key. The engine cranks but doesn’t start. We click on the cabin lights over the table and the sink. “Let’s unbutton her and take a look.” I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I’m hoping something will be obvious. While Dan rolls back the rug and lifts the floorboards in the cabin to allow access to the engine, I call Don. “Hey Marauder, Skookum Too. I have a problem here, Don.”

to be continued...

My Friend Roy

I have this friend. I met him the first year I lived in Alaska. I was in a mall, selling cheap color nature photographs at an art fair and noticed a flash going off in a shop behind my booth. During a break I wandered in and introduced myself. Turns out he had just opened his own photography business, "Visual Sensitivity Unlimited." We were the same age and he was, to be honest, a little wilder and crazier than I was - but not by much! We hit it off, and back then I had no idea what a huge, positive influence he was to have upon my life.

As I think back, our friendship grew as he took me under his wing and taught me more and more about the craft I would come to love and spend my life doing. I knew a little about photography in those days, and next to nothing about the studio or darkroom. Like me, Roy was self-taught but was learning fast. I had a small darkroom available to me in the school where I was teaching, but the more I tried, the more I struggled with it. I mentioned my frustration to him and he quickly offered to teach me. "Tell you what," he said as he passed me a joint one night, also one of our favorite pastimes, "if you're willing to do my black-and-white work, I'll teach you, and you can use the darkroom any time you want." I jumped at the offer.

He taught me how to mix chemicals, how to use his Beseler 4x5 enlarger, how to develop film consistently, how to use contrast filters when printing. But mostly he taught me how to see the tiny little spots of white that pieces of dust on the negative leave on the print! There were many nights I went in and printed his work, only to have him reprint it the next day, before the client would show up. I would check in to see how he liked the work, and he would have saved the spotty prints for me, showing me each and every piece of evidence that I had not yet figured this out. Though he never said it, I knew I was driving him crazy, and began learning to pay attention to the small details. I just kept trying harder each time. Eventually I got it, but I'm sure it cost him a small fortune in paper, and many mornings of frustration.

Years later, in the middle of the winter of 1979, he asked, "Want to go to a photo workshop in Yosemite, California this coming June?" He had heard about the Ansel Adams Workshops and how they were becoming world-famous for their quality of instruction in fine-art photography. It seemed like a far-off dream to actually consider going off and studying under a master. But once he said it, it somehow became a real possibility. "Sure!" I said, and we wrote away for applications from the school. I eagerly filled mine out, but Roy, busy as always, let it slip and never sent his in. I was accepted, and early June found me actually standing next to Ansel himself and learning what photography could be. That workshop, and Roy's fateful question about going, changed the arc of my life forever. I came away from that workshop changed, convinced that I would indeed, somehow, be a photographer. A year later I landed a job the next year teaching photography at the high school - and I have taught photography from then until now, 30 years later.

Over the years - my 23 years in Alaska anyway - Roy and I took many photo trips together. We'd load up the car with junk food and head out to the mountains or seashore - where didn't seem to matter as much as who was in the car - always looking for shots, but mostly enjoying each other's company; laughing, talking about art, talking about life, telling stories and making our own new ones. Once we did a workshop together in California, and though we barely survived because of our antics, had a blast. In all, Roy was one of my best friends for the many years we lived in Alaska.

Once we moved to Olympia, though, things changed. With all the distance between us, we didn't see each other anywhere near enough. I called him when I needed photo advice ("Roy, how do I set up lights to do portraits in a tiny room?" "Shoot through the back instead of bouncing off the front of the umbrella."); he came down and stayed with us for four days so I could tutor him in Photoshop as he moved his studio into the digital world; he even arranged for me to interview his dad when I returned to Alaska one summer to collect video footage of old-timers for my Masters degree, a session that was a highlight of the experience. Even so, many months passed without contact other than through email. And that, I believe, became the problem.

To understand this next bit, you need to realize who I am politically. I would classify myself as a liberal environmentalist, and even that might not be strong enough. I care deeply about the policies of this country. During the years I was in Alaska I was in a tiny, tiny minority among some of the most blatant right-wing folks I have ever met. If that seems an exaggeration, remember, it was Alaskan voters who elected Sarah Palin! So when I landed in Olympia, Washington, a veritable hotbed of left-wing liberalism, and as I lived through the George W. Bush years, I became, like many of the people of this country today, even more uncompromising in my beliefs. It was a few short years into this transition, after arguing with an equally rabid right-wing colleague, that I recall asking myself, "When did tolerance (of other points of view) become a bad thing?" Somewhere along the line, things had changed.

They had changed me too, apparently. Roy, on the other hand, and my relationship with him, had always been amazingly apolitical. What he did always have, however, was a sense of humor. So when I received jokes from him that he had forwarded from his sister who was decidedly on the other end of the political spectrum from me, I reacted. Insulted by the political humor that made fun of my beliefs, I asked that I not be included on the mailing list for such jokes. But when another arrived that I found particularly offensive, I went off the deep end. I don't recall the exact joke, nor do I recall what my specific response was, other than the emotion of the moment. I "Replied to All," and basically 'went off' on the humor and what I believed was the mindset that inspired it. I wasn't particularly nice or kind, or thoughtful. I was offended and angry, and I lashed out...not only at Roy, but at his sister, too. I didn't care. I was mad. I basically said, "If you can't stop sending these, don't send anything!"

The forwarded emails between us stopped abruptly. In fact, all emails stopped. All contact stopped. Completely. Thousands of miles away, I told myself that it was probably no big deal - that he had just gotten the message. What I didn't realize was that I had been as offensive in my own way as I was by those I was offended by. And what I REALLY failed to do was to treat my lifelong friend with the respect or love he deserved and that I truly feel for him regardless of politics.

Years went by. I made a few attempts at reconnecting, but each time I was met with little response and no interest. Calls and conversation were short and abrupt, and emails weren't replied to. I'm slow, but on some level I got the message. A few years ago I went to Alaska but didn't call or even let him know I was there. I didn't like how it felt, but I didn't know how to fix it. But this last August I went back again for a visit, and thought I'd give it one more try. To my surprise he agreed to meet me for lunch.

I have to admit I was anxious about meeting. Turns out he was too. We spent time catching up during lunch, then went back to his house & studio. He showed me the changes he had made, and his new work. We continued to visit and at one point I mentioned that he was welcome to visit anytime he was in the area, and his face got serious. He took a deep breath and said, "There's no way to do this easily, so I'll just say it. Remember that email you sent years ago?" And he reminded me of them and how they had caught him completely off-guard - and how surprised and hurt he was at the vehemence of my response. And that I had also sent my reply to his sister. We talked about it for a long time. He said he doesn't send political emails out any more at all. In turn, I apologized for my rabid response. We both agreed that the price wasn't worth it - that our friendship was far more important than any political misunderstanding or disagreement. Over the past couple of months our emails have been full of testimonies to the joy we feel now that we are friends again.

I believe two things got in our way:

1. Politics and how divisive it can be, and is these days.

2. "Communication" in the techno-era, whether it's via Facebook, texting or email, isn't as effective, intimate or valuable as face-to-face contact. The hug we ended our visit with felt better to me than all the emails I have ever received combined.

Luckily for me, and from all I can tell, for Roy, I have my friend back. I don't intend on letting politics or anything else get in the way of that again. He means too much to me.