I named him Beaumont, although I often called him Beau – but never Bo.

He was a total surprise when he suddenly showed up at my door. I could easily hold him in my hand. He seemed to weigh nothing at all.

It was my junior year in college, and suddenly I had a major responsibility before me. He was of mixed race. Yet over the years I learned that made him unique.

The timing could not have been worse – I had a major Russian history exam the next morning. I called my professor at home and simply said, “my girlfriend just gave me a dog.”  

His reply, to his credit, was “so when do you want to reschedule your exam?”

Yep, I was now the proud owner of a German Shepherd-Border Collie mix. That first night was memorable.  I always wanted a dog that would sleep at the foot of the bed so I put little Beau there. I awoke in the middle of the night with him straddling me and peeing all over me.

He never slept in my bed again.

But I loved him fiercely. He went to classes with me, we walked miles in the woods together. He bit me once because I wouldn’t stop on one particular trail. He finally ran a few yards ahead of me, jumped a log and attacked something. When I got there I found a big snake he had just killed. He proudly carried that scar on his nose from that day forward.

We traveled the country together: Virginia, Oklahoma, Georgia, Washington, D.C., and Alaska. He never ran, he hopped. And he loved to chase rats, even when there weren’t any. “Go get the rat, Beau,” my wife or I would say, and laugh as he hopped around looking for them.

We aged together. A few years ago, The Little Black Dress, my wife, who was the daughter of a veterinarian, brought up the absurd idea of getting him “fixed.” I took it personally. I mean this was my dog. In the end, she convinced me solely because her dad told me he would live longer.

Of course, I was told he would never raise his leg again – ha, till the end he continued to do just that. My dog was still a stud.

The Alaska winters because harder and harder for him. And once again The Dress stepped in to deal with the issues I simply couldn’t. She constantly reminds me that one girlfriend gave me the dog, another commissioned a huge painting of him – which takes a prominent space in every house we live in and is the first thing unpacked and put up – while she is the one who took care of him.

When it got to the point where he couldn’t walk up the stairs, I knew it was time. So I decided a Viking funeral would be the only way. I’d put him on a little raft, set him adrift on our favorite fishing stream, light it on fire and watch the tide take him out.

Once again The Dress, after talking with her dad, stepped in. She gently informed me it probably would not be as romantic and heroic as I thought. And so she made the arrangements.

Friends came over loaded down with wine. Beau, my then 1-year old first-born Son of Thunder and I went for a final romp. The vet came over to our house. I put him down on his favorite blanket and played his favorite song – “Too Many Rivers To Cross” by the reggae band UB40.

I held him in my arms while the vet injected him first with a muscle relaxant. When the song reached the perfect spot, I nodded, the vet gave him another injection. Beau looked at me, I believe with a knowing but understanding look, and then he died.

He was my best friend. I’ve kept his collar and still carry a picture of him in my wallet. I’m fortunate in having other best friends now – The Dress especially and my two Sons of Thunder. They have filled a huge gap. I’m lucky.

One day I’ll get another dog, although it might be a while. I still miss Beau; plus The Dress said there was no way she was going to potty train three babies at once.

Until next time.

It started Christmas Eve, and even factoring our five-year stay in Alaska and other northern regions, it was our first white Christmas. The Sons of Thunder were rather pumped.  And of course we outfitted them in all the proper snow survival gear – being former Alaskans and what not. Or not.  Seems during our foray in Georgia we sort of purged all that.

Note to self – we’re back where it snows. Be prepared.  And yes, kids can turn blue.  And I’m talking a really deep royal blue.

Anyway …  We were rather barricaded in for a couple of days. Winds coming off the lake at 30 mph-plus have a tendency to do that, especially when you live right on the water.  They also have a tendency to create some incredible Sahara-like drifts.  One, about 30 feet long and five feet high, caught my attention.

Anyone can build a snowman.  Carrot nose, coal eyes, scarf, hat, that special wind that makes them come alive. Yeah, done that.

But a tunnel? Now that’s just flipping the dog. 

Due to my summer arm operation, I needed help to make this happen.  And I have the three Sons, so anything is possible.  While they are about as adventurous as you can get, at times they need a little coaxing.  This becomes more difficult right after Christmas when there are several new electronic games/toys to experience.

I am slowing learning, at glacial speed, that while they are all my kids, there are also all very different.  What works for one doesn’t work for another.  They are their own; they are individuals even at this age.  I probably will spend the rest of my life learning – and remembering – that.

We all should.

To my six-year-old: “Hey, want to build a tunnel to China?” Done.

To my nine-year-old: “Hey, it’s time to get off the Playstation/Gameboy/PSP/Whatever and come outside and play. Because I said so (damn, I swore I’d never use that line) and if you don’t, you’re off electronics for two days.” Done

To my 11-year-old: “Hey, I need help figuring out how to build this tunnel, and I’m too big to crawl in and break us through to the other side. Oh, and your friends will be totally blown away.” Done.

Fun is fun until there is work involved.  Their enthusiasm started to wane as they realized you actually have to dig out the snow to make a tunnel.  And wet snow is heavy.

Let us just say allegations of who was actually “working” started. Let us just say they started on the rules.

Let us just say said author was going to build this friggin tunnel regardless and ended all that.

As head engineer, I basically said “no” to getting two-by-fours to board it up and “no” to ropes in case of cave collapse.  I did institute the “no climbing on top of the roof of the tunnel” and “no throwing shovels at your brother” rules.

This was supposed to be fun.  So I also instituted the “dive” rule.  Basically, you could stand at the mouth of the tunnel and dive in.  The only rule was you had to bring snow out with you.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

So I’m at one end using a big shovel and shoving it as hard as I can to get through.  And the Sons are following the “dive” rule at the other end.  And it finally hits me we’re pretty close and I will probably take some Son’s head off  with the shovel.  That would constitute a “party foul.”  It would also mean various explanations to the Little Black Dress, so let’s just stop that idea now.

We abandon the “dad digging with the shovel” idea.  We also are at a point where the dive rule is no longer working as the Sons can literally be at either in with only their feet showing and we still haven’t broken through.

New plan.  The two older Sons are at one end.  I and the youngest at the other end.  One Son at each end crawls as far as he can and grabs as much snow as possible.  At the sound of “pull!!!!” I and the other Son grab the feet of the “miner” and pull them out along with all the snow they can grab.

Teamwork? With the Sons?

Sometimes, I have to just stand back and stare in astonishment, awe, amazement and several other appropriate words at my own brilliance.

Anyway … we finally break through.  And then the battle starts as to who will actually go first.  I somehow convince them to let the smallest/youngest go first.  This is agreed to as I point out the tunnel is still rather tight and he can make it larger for the other two. Plus, I point out that if one of the larger ones goes first, it might result in a CAVE IN from too much initial pressure.

The order is agreed upon.  Brilliance shines once more.

And they have a blast crawling through.  And the Little Black Dress comes up and takes pictures.  And by now I realize I’m approaching 50 and my arms are killing me and it’s absurd how cold I am.  And no, I’m not helping on the “side tunnel.”

My work is done.  Minimal rules.  Teamwork.  A “little” work.  A lot of fun.

The oldest and youngest Sons stay to work on the side tunnel.  The middle Son is the only smart one and comes back and hits the computer/PSP/Playstation/Whatever where it’s warm.

But we have a tunnel.  And we have three Sons who banded together to make it happen.

And we had a very, very, good day.

I have met the enemy, and it’s squirrels.

I’m not talking about the cute little things people throw peanuts to, but rather the furry, tree climbing rat-types.

To put it simply, squirrels in Nebraska are similar to ravens in Alaska. There aren’t a lot of squirrels in Alaska, at least not that you can see. That’s basically because they are scared to death of ravens. If a squirrel is stupid enough to come out, they are quickly attacked. 

Ravens are huge. And they are smart. I’ve watched them swarm around trash cans on pickup day and literally pull the handles off the trash cans and scatter trash all over. In Juneau, it was so bad everyone had to get those bungee cords and tie down their garbage.

Sometimes they figure those out too, and many a time I got a call from my wife swearing it was the last time she was going to pick up the trash scattered all over the yard because I didn’t sufficiently, glue, tie down, batten down, put enough concrete blocks down or whatever to keep the ravens out.

Native Americans in Juneau are primarily from the Tlinglit tribe and they are either members of the Raven or Eagle clan. Tradition has it that if you hear a raven calling your name, you’re toast – as in death is right around the corner.

That in itself is pretty scary because ravens talk a lot. You’ll be out in your yard with some neighbors talking and the ravens start yapping. Everyone gets real quiet, waiting to see what happens. If it’s just jabbering, and we didn’t hear our name, we’d give a big sigh of relief. Of course if you did hear something remotely like your name, your neighbors would give you this “gee sorry” look, pat you on your back and start putting their names on your stuff.

Here in Grand Island, the squirrels have taken the place of ravens, especially when it comes to: 1. scaring me to death and 2. getting into my garbage.

The death scare came around Halloween. We had put out several pumpkins and a harvest wreath with corn, squash and the like out on our front porch.  Bad idea. Very bad idea.

I remember walking out one morning to get the newspaper and noticed a hole in one of the pumpkins about the size of a tennis ball. Hmmm. I picked it up, looked into the hole and I swear a squirrel stuck its head out of the pumpkin and looked right at me.

It scared me to death. So much so that I threw the pumpkin out into the middle of the yard, smashing it and sending the squirrel squirreling. I think it ticked the squirrel off, whom I have since named Rat One, because the next morning I open the door and was startled by three squirrels at eye level munching away on the corn on the wreath. Rat One had brought his friends. Rat Two and Rat Three. (they don’t deserve anything fancier.

Now it was war.  As in any war, a key military strategy is to cut off the enemy’s supplies. So eight pumpkins and what remained of the wreath quickly went into the big rubber dumpster. Case closed, war won. Ha!

Two days later I noticed the evil mutants had literally chewed a hole through the dumpster and several trash bags were eaten through. How can anything eat through rubber or hard plastic? You’d think they’d at least be polite enough to clean up after themselves, but no, we have to just spew it all over.

It’s obvious I need a raven, but I’m afraid the squirrels would have the advantage here with home territory and all that.

My only solace is that the squirrels can’t speak and therefore can’t say my name. At least I think they can’t.

Until next time.

So I bought a truck.

Now I know around here that’s not saying much. Every other vehicle is a truck.  But this one is mine, so it’s special.

I did not go out and get a gun-rack, roll-bar, fog-light, brush guard, leather interior packed monster truck. Instead, I got one with character: read old.

It has, what they called in Alaska, a Juneau body. Here’s they call that rust. Built in the late 80s, this truck has seen better days.

Why a truck? I needed a truck to do, well truck things. Every guy needs a truck. As I near the big 4-0, maybe my midlife crisis is developing. My wife is thrilled (really). I think she’s just happy it’s an old truck and not a new Porsche.

My 3-year-old Caleb thinks the “frack,” as he calls it, is very cool. That’s probably because it didn’t have a muffler so it was loud, very loud. Note to law enforcement, that’s been fixed.

The first adventure Caleb and I had in our new (old) truck was going to the dump. In Alaska, going to the dump on Saturday is akin to going to church here on Sunday. It’s just something you did. You meet all your friends and try and not tick off the dump police and laugh at those who do. It’s sort of a weekend contest sort of thing.

They take their landfill very seriously. Woe to you for failing to separate your trash properly. This goes in the incinerator, that goes in the metal pile, that can go in the landfill, that has to go to the plastic pile, and that goes to the “yes, it has metal but not enough so put it there pile.” Life would have been easier if they just gave us a manual.

Of course, if you violated one of the gazillion rules they would chase after you in a five-story bulldozer, pull in front of you with tires bigger than your car and start yelling that the item you put in the plastics area actually had 1.3987 percent too little plastic and should have gone in the scrap plastic/carbonated beverage pile. The people at the Grand Island landfill are much nicer.

Another reason we would go to the dump, especially when people visited from down South, was to see eagles. Now for locals, after a while watching eagles in Alaska is similar to New Yorkers checking out the World Trade Center. Yes, they’re beautiful, but we see them all the time.

Visitors of course are thrilled, which in turn thrills us and makes us remember. How often we forget the beauty around us and take it for granted until someone travels thousands of miles and spends thousands of dollars and says, “hey, idiot, this is a great place.” It doesn’t matter where you live, each community offers its own special benefits.

I do think its kinda ironic that you can see more eagles – the symbol of our nation – at the dump than anywhere else. Yes, eagles are scavengers. And they are scared to death of ravens, which are half their size. So much for our national bird.

Which brings up the point of perception verses reality. After being in this business for 15 years, I’ve learned that perception is reality, facts are often times irrelevant. Being a journalist, this of course makes me cringe. But I’ve learned what people think is what they believe. It’s our role as a newspaper, however, to provide facts so people can make an intelligent decision regardless of their perceptions.

Take the “dump eagles” for example. Friends would come and I’d take them to the dump to see eagles, which made my wife cringe.  After pointing them out, my friends would look at me with all honesty and say, “no seriously, I want to see eagles.” My replies that those WERE eagles were to no avail. They would politely but firmly inform me they were not eagles. Go figure.

Until next time.

Not those; rather those containing one’s clothing, which I grant could include one’s drawers.

Anyway …

Uncovered some of my favorite old T-shirts. Keen observers will notice a trend in said clothing.

Having said that, the keenness factor is lowered.

Anyway …

1. I fish … Therefore, I am
2. Reel men play with their flies
3. Whip me, tie me, fly me. Alaska
4. So many flies, so little time
5. Walk softly, and carry a big fish
6. Keep your eye on your fly
7. Flip the Dog (gift from the old Juneau gang)

Well, it’s the middle of winter; a time when any self-respecting sportsman begins prepping for the ultimate sport – fly fishing.

For me, it’s always the same ritual. I am usually blessed each Christmas with stacks of wonderful books, both fiction and non-fiction, on fly fishing. Right about this time, I start diving into them, mentally preparing myself for the upcoming season with stories from some of the best writers in the world.

 The book I’m reading now, “On the Spine of Time,” has a great fly fishing metaphor along the lines of why don’t we quit making a living and start living a life. Which just goes to show that fly fishermen also make the best writers and all that time spent on the stream accounts for something other than just fishing. 

Of course, it’s also time to start replenishing my arsenal of flies, which I tie myself. The majority are, or I should now say were, for salmon, although I do mix in a few for trout.

Alaska salmon flies are, well, interesting. Compared to the delicate artistic trout flies used in the Lower 48, salmon flies are just big, honking conglomerates. It’s like comparing a ballet dancer to Hulk Hogan.

Trout flies try to mimic the small insects the fish feed on. Salmon flies are big, furry, don’t look like anything close to the insect world, and come in the most obnoxious colors you can imagine. Think classical music verses rap music, and you get the point.

I love the names of salmon flies – Woolly Bugger, Flash Fly, Happy Meal and the ultimate of all time, the Egg-Sucking Leach. And if you could only fish one fly in Alaska, I’d take the Egg-Sucking Leach with a dark purple body and a hot pink head any time. Now, what self-respecting fish wouldn’t just jump at that?

At these times, I also reminisce about the previous season: the monster king salmon that got away; the day every other cast brought in a silver to the extent that my fly was so torn up I as practically catching them with nothing but a hook.

And how can I forget the time I caught my son, Caleb? I say caught as in fishing, not as in he did something wrong. I hope my wife is reading this part.

No, I did not throw him in the river and try to fish him out. You see, I have this backpack/harness contraption that I can set Caleb in and carry him on my back. He loved to go fishing with me, but the problem was when I had a fish on, he would try to swing around to see. Often times, I’d be trying to reel in a fish and, at the same time, trying to push him back behind me so he wouldn’t tumble over. You’d have to see it to actually appreciate it, but I think you get the picture.

Anyway, I was in my back cast when the wind shifted just slightly and blew my line over. I heard this thud, which was really, really weird sound, followed immediately by an “ooooowwwwweeeee” from Caleb. The thud was the fly hitting the back of Caleb’s head.

Fortunately for both of us, he was wearing a hat, which mitigated the impact. I guess that’s why the sound came out as a thud instead of a whack. For some reason, Caleb didn’t care for the harness too much after that.

As I wrap this up, I would be remiss, well, stupid really, not to point out that Monday is our seventh anniversary. I could write several columns about how wonderful she is, but let it suffice that it’s been the best seven years of my life. And so, here’s to you, Corby.

Until next time.