Excerpts From The Life Of A Logging Camp Kid

Episode Six: Orca Encounters Of The Close Kind

Orca, Killer Whale, Blackfish. All of these names apply to the largest member of the dolphin family. They truly are amazing creatures, and even I would rush to the side of the ferry railings with the tourists if one of those gigantic mammals made it's presence known. Wild animals are not cute and cuddly, and I tend to give them a wide berth when they cross my path. Anyone who has watched a nature video of an Orca feeding knows they will toss around their prey like a child wielding a bubble wand. That said, it is easy to forget all of your rules of perpetual self-preservation when you find yourself in the midst of a moment that can only be described as surreal and magical.

“You kids get your boots, we are going on a skiff ride with Chris!”

My mother delivered this elating news as she put her hair in her trademark pigtails. We knew the pigtails only came out when hard manual labor or adventure was going to occur. Jack and I broke into smiles of glee and rammed our almost dry sock clad feet into our boots. Mom must have been really excited to get out of the trailer, for she had a quality lunch packed that included bologna sandwiches on white bread. We only got white bread on special occasions, or when dad threw a fit, which was frequently. There were also cookies with partially hydrogenated white filling, that miracle of artery hardening, taste bud exciting, succulent goodness. When she threw the juice pouches in as the pinnacle of our lunch, I knew today was going to be like no other.

Chris was our neighbor, and she had two kids, Len and Kellyn, that were the same age as my brother and I. She also ran the gigantic 988 log loader at the mill yard. The wheel wells of this machine were tall enough for an adult to stand in. I often wondered if she, as the only woman that worked at yard, wanted to use those big log forks to grab and shake a handful of the heathen men that she worked with. Chris, however, could hold her own. She had the most creative vocabulary of any human that I have ever encountered. Her swear word lexicon was legendary. She always had a big chew in her bottom lip, and that day she spat a big wad of snoose [1] on the ground and said;

“Got the skiff all fueled up you little testicle flowers, let's roll.”

Chris never spoke in a tone above one that commanded a serene sort of respect. Her stocky frame always rolled confidently from place to place, and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. Maybe without the chew. We piled into their white Subaru station wagon and headed toward the South Cove dock. It was a rare sunny day, and the air was resplendent with the smell of herring roe and diesel. Seagulls and Eagles congregated around the dock and we completely ignored their requests and insults as we skipped down the wooden gangway, our rubber boots clunking in time with the seabird's calls.

“Do you think we will see a Humpback today?” My brother queried in a nervous tone. Jack had an encounter with that species of whale that still sends him the shivers all these years later.

“Probably not little nut butter Magoo.” Chris replied.

I tried to ignore all the leers that were being projected in our direction. Women were not especially common on the docks, so they were observed with intensity when they were present. I kept my eyes forward and focused on the planks as I walked next to Kellyn toward the red and silver skiff that was to be our chariot of adventure that day. Upon reaching it, I drew a big, sanctifying sigh of relief that we had traversed the eye and fish hook clad gauntlet and hopped into the small boat.

Before long, we were cruising out of the bay at maximum speed. Trees and beach flew by in a blur, and everyone in the boat looked like a happy bloodhound, cheeks flapping in the wind. We spent a couple hours halibut fishing in Chris' secret cove. I'm pretty sure the halibut knew we were visitors, and being a shy lot, sent their cousins out to bite our lines. We ended up with plenty of rock cod and red snappers that day, which was fine by us as our freezers were already pretty full of flaky white halibut and ling cod.

“I want to go swimming Mom!” Len shouted as Kellyn and I were battling to land our latest catches.

“I know just the place my sweet arsenic flower.” came Chris' amiable reply.

Before long we were sliding the skiff up a perfectly slopped and pebbled little beach on the edge of a channel. It being a sunny day in Southeast Alaska was pretty uncommon to begin with, but it being in the upper sixties on the Fahrenheit scale was pretty darn miraculous. Most of us kids started swimming in the forties. The ocean water had to be a balmy thirty-seven or so degrees, so the numbness factor was just right. Somewhere between cardiac arrest and “call my mom!”.

Chris and Len were looking at some form of sea life at the top of the beach. Mom was leisurely dunking her toes in the edge of the dark blue Pacific, distractedly watching Kellyn, Jack, and I splash in the water. I honestly don't know how we could walk upright, but as I recall I couldn't feel anything below my waist, and wasn't worried about that fact at all. Suddenly, our revelry was interrupted by a bellow:

“You little ducking horse mits[2]!!” Chris yelled at us, “Look behind you!”

About twenty feet behind us in the channel, a pod of killer whales had decided to pay a visit. There were at least five, but their exact number is hard to remember. I tend to recall more of the encounter all of these years later. Daddy Orca stayed out in the deeper water, swimming back and forth at a leisurely pace, his gigantic black dorsal fin looked like a rubber wind sail. Mother Orca just had to show off her two twins. Before we knew what was happening, Mother Orca had beached herself at a perpendicular angle to us, barely six feet away from where we were standing in the water. Salt water from her blow hole misted us as she expressed a sigh. I remember thinking she must be tired, as she had the cutest little twin babies to look after. Babies are exhausting to care for, let alone minding two. We held our breath as the two baby whales beached themselves right in front of us, emitting squeals of what I hoped was whale for hello and opening their mouths into toothy smiles. I was so mesmerized by their friendly demeanor and liquid eyes that I, standing knee deep in the ocean, reached out to touch the nose of the closest baby. My hand was almost touching its slippery looking black nose when I then became aware of some noise besides the intermittent expulsion of air from the whales;

“Get the WELL [4]outta the water! You dumb block mucking[5] SOB's”

Time sped back up. I was aware of many things simultaneously. One: It was a sloped beach; perfect for hunting. Two: As kids we squealed a lot, like seals. Three: Chris actually raised her voice twice in one day, and most importantly, Four: I was in the ocean with many multi-ton, apex predators. Slowly and muttering what we hoped were calming words under our breath; we began backing out of the water and up the beach. I never took my eyes off of mama Orca's. She was such an amazing animal, and all these years later, I really do think she was just showing off her babies and family. Kind of like mom's all over the world do, at parks, shopping malls, and schools. They could have eaten us at any time, and I am so happy to have experienced that moment in my life. Of all of my many interactions with larger than life wildlife, the Orca encounter is by far my favorite.

[1] Chewing tobacco. Do not get this in your eye or make the mistake of drinking out of the pop can that has been used as a spittoon. You're either welcome or have my sympathy in advance.
[2] Copulation combined with horse excrement
[3] Hades
[4] An act that some people get paid to perform, probably not the best phrase to be used around sensitive souls, Neo-Victorians, and children.

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