This is an excerpt from our newsletter. You never know where the stories might lead, but they can be quite an adventure in their own right.
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Imagine the single-minded determination salmon have to survive their years at sea and return to their birth waters, only to work and fight almost to their death to complete the 
circle.
This sequence of photos shows the smaller female salmon with her battered nose. The larger, dark male has a white gouge on his beak. He courted her for quite a while, running off a smaller male who was just as intent on being part of this final adventure.
The female mosied about, looking for just the right spot to dig her redd. As she did, the large male shadowed her until the smaller male cut in too close. The big fish would tear after the smaller one, chasing him forty or fifty feet from the female before turning back to her. But each time, the smaller male came right back.
For hours, the two males raced back and forth across the shallows. Then the female dug her redd, clearing the silt from between the rocks. This was where she would deposit the eggs. She might look dead in the shot at the right, but she's just turned sideways to fan the rocks clean.
When she was ready to lay, the larger male couldn't risk missing the moment by chasing off the smaller aggressor. Each male sidled in next to her just as the female shimmied.
Look closely at the picture to the left and you'll see all three fish have their mouths open. She ejected her eggs and they tumbled down in between the stones just as the males exploded, their milky white milt filling the water, the sperm from both males fertilizing the eggs.
The need for males to make sure their genes seed the next generation may not be tangible to the fish, but it's an intense instinct. Most whales aren't monogamous, but males will compete fiercely to be the last to mate with a female. That male's semen flushes the other males' semen out of the female and has the best chance of impregnanting the cow.
Note in the picture on the left how the larger male increased his sperms' chances by arcing over the female as she laid her eggs.
The female rapidly covered the eggs, creating a small whirlpool (right). His work done, the smaller fish left, but the larger male hung around for a while. We spotted the female hovering near her redd for several days and it was a melancholy sight. Maybe she was protecting it and maybe she just didn't have anywhere else to go; the redd was her last connection with this life. Each day, she had decomposed more.
All of that digging, then covering the
eggs had taken its toll. Her tail was tattered and ragged. Her skin was mottled and appeared to be rotting. But she still had the strength to stand her watch until it was over.
All three of the fish are probably dead now. Their mission, mysteriously ingrained in their brains from inception, was accomplished against such tremendous odds. It is an awesome spectacle to witness, and an honor.
As I've said for years - sometimes after getting a wondrous whale or dolphin shot and sometimes after missing it - nature photography takes patience, endurance and luck. We got to share this experience because Steph had all three and was willing to stand very still for a long time on a cold winter's day, waiting.
But this isn't the end of the spawning story. Read on.
Bobbi, the stained glass artist who writes so eloquently about life, struggles and nature, came up with Ardie to deliver and install her masterpiece. Knowing she would stay at Ardie's overnight, Bobbi thought she would make Ardie a suncatcher using one of the dragonfly designs from our window. I should note
that Bobbi does nothing in a small way. The design for Ardie's piece grew just as ours had, and so did Bobbi's need for a ring saw, which would make the difficult cuts far easier to pull off.
Now that she'
d completed two complex windows without it, we bought the ring saw for her, which allowed us to slide on in and sign the card for Ardie's window as well. When you've struggled as we have to find a tool or gadget Ardie doesn't already have, you can appreciate this a lot more. This picture doesn't do the glass justice, because it has no backlighting, but it is alive with sun behind it.
Ardie and Bobbi worked on Ardie's frame for our window, then, like Santa's elves, they took over the hanging of it. What was I doing? I know I was working on something, but my mind is blank. All I know is our guests stayed busy with their work for our pleasure. Aren't we gracious hosts?
This window was a gift from Bobbi and somehow Ardie got roped into making the frame. Well, I asked her to do it, so I guess that's how she got roped into it. The two of them decided where the glass would hang and after a brief consultation with us, there it was: Glorious and ever-changing, depending on the light, its source and its strength. It captures the view downriver from Laughing Salmon and is punctuated by 12 leaded glass jewels. The bottom says, "Believe." Those of you from our Sanctuary Cruises days might remember the pretty piece of driftwood on Princess of Whales that had the same word in the same writing. I made it not long after we bought the catamaran. If you're going to hitch your dreams on one word, that is a good one to choose. You can see the driftwood piece on the window sill under the glass below.
The last picture shows the glass with a snowy backdrop. One of our best Christmas presents came late: It was a heavy snowfall that lasted for days, draping our world in soft, muffled white.
All of us had projects to attend to, so Ardie and Bobbi's visit wasn't as fun-filled as it might have been, but we did have some memorable highlights, such as Bobbi introducing me to sidecars. You'd think Steph and I would know about this drink, since he has two sidecars and has transported our dog Bisco all the way to Washington and back in one of them, but we didn't.
You mix brandy, Cointreau and lemon juice together, shake it in ice, strain and serve. I found I like a cube in it, following the sentiment of our old neighbor Jane, who always took a cube in 
her glass of white wine.
"I know it's frowned on," she explained. "But I like the sound of ice tinkling against the glass." Me, too.
Bobbi has a bad back and was anxious to soak in the hot tub under the cold, starry sky, so we mixed up a few sidecars and headed for the tub. That was somewhere around 9 o'clock. We had our cocktails, not that many, really, and we talked. And we talked. I crawled into bed and snuggled up to Steph at 3 a.m., a complete raisin.
Ardie gravitates to hardware stores wherever she is. When she realized Tools and Supplies were needed to hang the window, off she went. It reminded me of the day last summer when Ardie was due to arrive after an Elderhostel photography camp in Florence, Oregon. Steph and I were at Plotzky's hardware store in Weaverville and who should come cruising around the aisle with her basket overflowing with Tools and Supplies but Ardie.
"Just needed a few things," she explained.
While Ardie was in Weaverville, Bobbi was called outside by Steph. Here is her description of what happened:
"Do you want to see a spawning salmon?" Steph's shout brought me straight out of my chair, through the door and into the sweet, but cold morning air. I ran to the edge of the deck and looked at the river where he was pointing.
"I can't tell if it is spawning, or has just spawned. But, isn't it something?" I just nodded, foolishly, because I couldn't speak past the lump that had formed instantly in my throat.
Steph continued with his morning duties, leaving me there to walk the length of the deck and back again, keeping pace with the salmon swimming a few feet beneath me. At first the only thing I saw was the dorsal fin, still proud, still flagging his presence in his home waters.
Then he turned and I saw him. All of him. All the journey, the relentless fevered purpose which had driven him so many miles, hurling himself against and through countless obstacles. His life flashed before my eyes as he turned, and again, all I could see was his fin.
He was swimming in lazy circles, just beneath the surface, circles that grew smaller and smaller. Then perhaps some briefly remembered burst of the relentless drive that had brought him here would stir, and there would be a muscular flash, sun on silver skin, and a purpose to the thrust of his tail. But, only for a moment, and then he settled back to his circling, an aimless concentric waiting, now that his purpose was fulfilled.
I paced back and forth, keeping step with the circles of this tired, tattered, and worn out warrior in the water below, watching the river rippling away from his endless circles. I stopped when he did, feeling the wood of the deck beneath my fingers, wondering what his end would be; a bear, a fisherman's hook, a wide-mouthed gasping at the water's edge?
The lump that had begun hurting my throat pushed unwelcome tears up to my eyes, and I lowered my head to quickly brush them away before they could be seen. I realized I was crying not for the death of this animal, but for fear that death would not dignify him, nor be as noble as his fight had been.
I carry in my mind a picture of that salmon swimming inside his diminishing circles, and I realize he has taught me a lesson about life and death. He won't be defined by the fact or manner of his death. He is defined by his success in fighting fatigue, predators, and water which continually beat him back, to come to the moment and place where he created the next cycle of life.
He is defined by the next silver flash of sun on skin, the next triumphant jump up the waterfall, the next one to return to this same place after many tomorrows, to trace the circles that he has drawn today, his personal circle of life. Life is his noble legacy, and death cannot change it.
Well, I feel better. I think I'll have salmon for dinner. By Bobbi Dunham 12/07