Somewhere along the Fishing Continuum
There are two types of fisherman - those who fish for sport and those who fish for fish.
A single waxy salmon egg hovered near the bottom. The egg was the spitting image of a currant berry in both size and color but the fish would know better. Skewered by a tiny hook, the egg was patiently casting its charms six inches off the bottom in a clear, deep pool below the beaver dam. A suspicious red and white bobber directly above bobbed and supported the tiny egg in all it’s endeavores. Behind my Snoopy pole I stood, eyes wide open, Kool-aid stain on my lips; I intensely watched the bobber on the surface for action. The afternoon glare prevented any view below. There could have been anything lurking down there. Just then the bobber twitched sending a ring of ripples back towards me. A nervous knot began to form in the pit of my stomach. Before the ripples would reach me though, the bobber would disappear entirely. “ Dad, I think I got one!”
So powerful were those early fishing memories that I have no trouble recalling the vivid details thirty six years later. I was four. The little rainbows we caught out of upper Eagle River so many years ago were not much longer than my fingers are now; A far cry from the sought after thirty incher of lore but I was hooked anyway. What was it about those bright, wiggly, fish? “This is neat” I told dad as I poked at a slimy eyeball in pure fascination.
My life since has been filled with a wide variety of fishing trips: From expedition style salmon fishing on the Deshka river, to ice fishing on Nancy Lake. Catching dolly varden on the Kenai or hooking Halibut in Kachemak bay, dad’s passion for hook and line was an easy sell to me. My first King salmon was landed at eight years old. The 45 pounder was almost as tall as I was. Fishing quickly became a part of my identity along with it an ideology rooted in subsistence.
I always looked forward to our week-long fishing trips up the Deshka river. An elaborate camp was constructed on the bank complete with canning supplies; The rattling of the canner was background music to our camping. The giant canner dwarfed the Coleman stove it sat on. Every half hour someone would have to pump up the stove to keep the regulator rattling away. A steamy waft of salmon-essence floated about; I whittled on an alder branch while dad cut fish. Once we got this next load of fish canning we could go out fishing again.
My dad was a doer; one year, after talking to a guy and finding a recipe, he bought a brand new rectangular kitchen garbage can filled with everything needed to pickle loads of salmon. By the end of that’s years big salmon trip it was filled up with a sloppy brine of pickling fish. Another cooler loaded with our limit of salmon, was destined for the freezer and the homemade smoker at home as well. The whole mess jostled and sloshed around as we scooted back down-river on our way home.
**********
Then suddenly the stars aligned just right, and, as if it were meant to be, my fishing life changed dramatically. When I was in the fourth grade my parents bought into a set-gillnet salmon fishing operation 26 miles out of Anchorage on the Susitna mud flats. No doubt inspired by a handful of subsistence setnetting ventures on Kasilof beach, this family decision would shape my life.
Five families, through acquaintance and friendship, went in together in faith, purchasing two limited entry set-net fishing permits. Business, friendship, and family mingled interchangeably. The fishing sites were located between the mouths of little and big Susitna rivers in Northern Cook Inlet . Little did I realize at the time in my tender youth that these memories, forged in the glacial muck of the Susitna mud flats, were bonding times and were also a kindling of sorts, feeding the flame of my own fishing destiny.
The kids played, explored, and sometime helped with fishing duties; most of the time we just got really muddy. The moms of fish-camp helped organize, cooked for the masses, and probably wondered secretly how much sense this all made. In the height of Susitna Fish Company, there were 17 kids to account for. The adult men would spend their fishcamp evenings plotting a plan of attack for the following days’ setnet efforts over beers. Humbled by defeat, they were quick to laugh at their mistakes when one of their grandiose plans failed. Occasionally success translated into loading the boats with lots of fish. Elation would run through camp unchecked along with a gratuitous bottle of cheap bourbon.
Granted, none of the families were relying on our fishing success to pay bills but everyone wanted it to work-out financially. I think everyone bought in with an optimistic sense of adventure without much of a clue as to what all it entailed.
Granted, none of the families were relying on our fishing success to pay bills but everyone wanted it to work-out financially. I think everyone bought in with an optimistic sense of adventure without much of a clue as to what all it entailed.
The concept of setnet fishing is simple enough; a rope strung intermittently with floating corks suspends webbing also attached to a lead line creating a curtain that unsuspecting fish swim into and hopefully become tangled. Both ends of the net are anchored down, allowing the tide to wash through; fish swim into the net catching their gills in the webbing. We un-tangle them and pull them into the skiff. Voile!
Sounds good on paper doesn’t it? In reality the six nets, three allowable per permit, create a laundry-list of logistical hurdles especially considering the tide-factor. Cook Inlet has one of the most extreme tide differentials on earth. A high tide of 30.5 feet rushing down to a low tide of minus 1.2 feet for instance, moves along with the swiftness of a strong river current. The rushing tide coupled with the super-flat slope of the fishing grounds can create problematic dynamics.
The most notorious result of misjudging the tide was letting a net go dry on the mud. You haven’t lived until you’ve picked salmon out of a muddy net. Like picking muddy potatoes, it felt more like farming, “Oh look there’s another one….I think…no that’s your boot..sorry!”
To make things worse Upper Cook Inlet is notorious for It’s South East weather affectionately dubbed “Turnagain winds”. Pressure differences between Whittier and Turnagain Arm create high winds that spill over and build huge seas that get rowdy on the shallow flats of the Susitna delta. Luckily enough we avoided tragedy through the years although it was near us at times.
We sold our catch to Frank on the Donkey, who was essentially a fish-buyer. The Donkey II was a big landing-craft/ bow picker that would make the rounds down the beach each fishing period collecting everyone’s catch en-route to the cannery back in Anchorage. My younger brother Peter, age 8 at the time, came up with a jingle he’s often reminded of:
Ohhhhhhh……..Frank on the Donkey do you copy?
Yes I’m Frank on the Donkey and I do.
We’ve got some fish for you,
So bring a dish or two
Oh Frank on the Donkey Donkey Doo?
One fine day, Peter’s fishcamp buddy, a starry-eyed Willy Lanier, stood in a pile of slimy pinks next to his dad. The skiff bobbed in a light afternoon breeze as they worked their way down the net. The dark blotches of mud splattered on his face were turning a lighter color as they dried. “Dad” he says, “I love this sport!”
On a different skiff, two nets down the beach, I was picking fish next to my good buddy Aras. His six siblings were scattered somewhere among the other skiffs and back at the cabin. Of all the Worthington kids, Aras was my age and we had hit it off immediately after we met. Both our dad’s were running different skiffs and were busy clearing nets in the summer sun. Although we kept it mainly to ourselves, we had come to share with each other our own opinions of the grand plans of the day. Often we would chuckle over the whole show. In typical teenage fashion, we were pretty damn sure that we had it all figured out.
That day the net, running along-side the wooden skiff, was full of all five species of salmon in various quantities. A big King bobbed our way tangled in the net by only a tooth. Together we wrestled and wrapped up the big-boy until it was safely in our skiff. Our slimy hands were busy all day untangling fish from the webbing. “Why would anyone want to catch fish one at a time?” I asked.
“Don’t know”.
It didn’t take too many years before two of the five families bought out. Eventually the final three families parted ways too, each striking out to seek their own version of setnetting glory.
We moved over to the West side of the Big Susitna on Ivan River to try our own hand. Our set-netting efforts have continued on without exception every summer thereafter. Consequently, a string of other gillnetting opportunities came my way too, out of Bristol Bay, setting further my affinity for the mass catch. I came to realize that with the exception of King Salmon fishing at the cabin in June, and ice-fishing in the winter, my sport fishing exploits were dwindling at dangerously low levels.
**********
“Hey Steve, It’s Brian”, I sat up to focus, the early call caught me off guard. “We have an extra spot on the Lake Creek float, We’d like you to come”.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, “oh yeah?”
I was indeed interested in floating Lake Creek. The trip involved flying in to Chalatna Lake, puffing up the rafts, and floating down Lake Creek over a few days arriving at it’s confluence with the Yentna river. Our family cabin, located a handful of river miles south of that point had me familiar with the geography. I’d never seen the headwaters of Lake Creek itself and the idea intrigued me. “ok, I’m in”.
I knew going in that this trip was a fly fisherman’s dream. Four of the other five guys on the trip were friends of mine and I knew they were dye-hard fly fishermen. They had spent winter evenings tying up gads of special flies in preparation. The fifth guy was Brian’s brother Ron, whom I’d never met. I, myself was not a fly fisherman but figured that I could appreciate a good fishing trip as well as anyone. Where’s my snoopy pole?
In lieu of the Snoopster, I packed an old light-weight spinning rod with a small plastic tackle box littered with a variety of rusty spinners deemed appropriate by myself during a hasty pack job.
Within minutes of pushing off the banks of lower Chalatna lake, we were already into em; game on! Arctic Grayling, and Rainbow Trout clamored for our offerings behind every boulder. Brian was our captain, steering the 16 foot cataraft around trouble spots as Ron and I would fling our trickery overboard, enticing whatever was down there in the absolute crystal clear waters of Lake Creek.
Like myself, Ron was not a fly fishing purist by any means. He had flown in from Chicago for a weeklong vacation to visit his brother and hopefully catch some fish. Having worked his way up the corporate ladder in a major sporting goods chain in the lower 48, Ron had good gear. Pro-deals and sweet hook-ups had Ron outfitted like a champ. I found myself looking for any dangling price tags on Ron’s get-up.
First up a feisty little iridescent rainbow grabbed a hold of my #1 mepps spinner and took it for a ride. Eventually, I pulled it out of the water to remove the hook. Snappity snap went the camera. I carefully slid the 14 incher back into the water and watched, mesmerized as it hovered briefly, then darted away no worse for wear. Then Ron hooked one of his own. Ron’s face lit up like a kid in a candy store as he grinned for the shot, sun shining off his new polarized sunglasses. It wasn’t too much longer before I hooked again, this time into a nice, fat grayling. Without thinking, I quickly pulled out one of the gills to commence bleeding.
Years of commercial salmon fishing had conditioned me to view fish as food. Besides I had come to love cooking and eating fresh fish. It was hard for me to reel in a nice big one, only to release it back into the water. It just was not anything I’d ever done. I was going to have to change my mind-set, I could it see it now. Lake creek was catch-and-release only for Rainbow trout, so we had to put those ones back. The grayling I caught was different, I grabbed my knife and filleted it out and dropped it into a zip-lock bag in a matter of minutes; Ron continued his fishing efforts in slightly too-big boots as Brian expertly navigated us down river while chuckling out-loud at the spectacle of his non-elitist crew.
We camped down river a mile or so on the cut- bank of the river, where we cooked up a mess of the tasty grayling. We caught and released a bunch of rainbows too. This pattern continued the next day as we fished our way down to our next camp spot that Brian had picked out for us.
Upon landing the raft on the beach, I was the first one off and with pole in hand I hustled over to another other branch of the river spilling in to nab the first drift behind some rocks. I collected myself and carefully cast my spinner across the water and upstream from the boulder. Slowly I retrieved the lure as it dipped down and around the boulder. Suddenly my line lit up and my pole bent over. The big dancing rainbow caused enough commotion to invoke distant cheering from my anglered brethren. Interestingly enough, our cheering, although enthusiastic, had taken on a bit of a hushed tone; homage to the wilderness experience I suppose. From that point on when anyone had a fish on line, a respectfully muted cheer could be heard from our camp. “whooooo”. Good form.
I came, I fished, I triumphed. I was done. I’m not sure the exact point of time, maybe after my 25th fish or so, I realized that I was losing interest in the pursuit. What? I never lose interest in catching fish. I’m never bored pulling salmon from my nets am I? Was it a subsistence objection? I wasn’t sure. Playing around on my end of the stick was fun; but the other end was a dire fight for life on the side for the Rainbow, and for what? My pleasure? I cast out a final time beyond a small pool dragging towards me where I knew there would be fish ready to roll; sure enough BAM! Fish-on. Gingerly I worked it in; I carefully released it from the shallows. The slippery rainbow swam away freely from my loosened clutches and into the deeper water it went. “Bye-Bye rainbow.”
Then my low-end rusty reel crapped out, maybe a sign from above, a fitting end for such a piece. To my surprise, no sense of let-down accompanied the crap-out. Extra poles and gear were graciously offered from my buddies. I politely declined, genuinely happy to “just hang”. I was completely content with my efforts; I had caught a lot of fish. Besides, there was still beer in the cooler.
My partners continued their efforts catching hundreds of rainbows and grayling all the way down river. The almost-silent cheering continued through the evening on the last night. The fish were plentiful on that trip; at one point we witnessed a bald eagle swoop down from a large cottonwood tree, grab an unsuspecting rainbow, and return to his perch. I was pretty sure that one wasn’t going to be released.
**********
I lay in the tent on the last night slowly fading after one too many cocktails and two too many snickers treats. I could not keep my eyelids open any longer nor could I keep the struggles of the Rainbow Trout out of my head.
I adjusted my make-shift pillow and quickly drifted off. In my dreamy state, I found myself going about my business on some crowded city sidewalk or something like that. Everything seems to be rushing by so quickly. The crowds and the city noise are getting to me so I duck into a quiet coffee shop. Suddenly out of nowhere a big loaded meatball sub drops down before me dangling just outside the coffee shop. Some sort of clear line disappears upward, that’s funny? Oh those meatballs smell so good! Is that parmesan cheese? I try to ignore it as I leave but can’t; I’m too hungry. I loop around it once, twice, then can’t resist because it’s bouncing now. Aggressively, I grab the sandwich and take a big bite. Suddenly the whole mess flies upward snagging my lip with something sharp “OW!” I am jerked from my feet sky-ward, meatballs raining down all around me. It hurts like hell, but I’m more concerned with staying alive; I fight for my life.
After a paramount struggle involving some jarring shimmy flops and a few impressive kipping flails, I am pulled up through the clouds and then onto the deck of some huge boat. I look up, stunned, bleeding a little, and really tired. My gaze is met by a much bigger pair of eyes. There he is sitting on a huge bucket with a bamboo fishing pole and a shit-eating grin on his face; That’s right, it’s the Jolly Green Giant.
The green beast reaches into a pocket of his rather fetching Orvis fly-fishing vest, and pulls out a green I-phone. He starts snapping pictures wildly as I struggle to free myself. He aggressively grabs me and with his other arm outstretched and takes a picture of himself holding me up. Strategically he pushes me closer to the camera so that I may appear bigger than I actually am.
The Oxygen at this altitude is staggeringly thin or something because I can feel my lungs collapsing. My vision starts to blur as two big green fingers grab hold of the piercing sandwich hook. He twists and pulls on the shank of the hook eventually tearing through my upper lip entirely. My red blood spills off my chin onto his green hand creating some kind of weird Christmas tangent. Sure enough, I look up and notice a few shiny holiday ball ornaments dangling from his giant ears.
Then, rather rudely, the big green hand scoots me to the edge of the boat and wouldn’t-you-know-it, he pushes me over the edge. Son of a bitch!
“Ho, Ho, Ho Green Giant” echoes from above as I fall. Down, down, down, I go until my little fishing dream is cut short with a snarfling snore courtesy of the whole wake-up–before-you-land-bit. I wipe the drool off my fleece coat pillow and drift off and away again, this time dreaming about plate tectonics and Victoria’s Secrets.
The sun hit the tent early before any of us were ready to rouse. Reluctantly I began my slide back to conscious thought; Somewhere in this transient state, I remembered that in a few short weeks I would be submerged hip-deep in my own version of fishing heaven. Seventy river miles downstream from our current Lake Creek position, our fishcamp was waiting, nets hung on a driftwood net rack, anchors and buoys lined up along our wooden walkway. The salmon weren’t there yet, but they were well on their way and I knew that as sure as the sun will rise, we would be there to welcome them.
***********
“There’s fish in the river”. I announced clutching a cheap can of beer.
The deck I was standing on had seen better days, but who was complaining? I stood there looking out. The tide was washing up the Ivan past our anchored skiffs pushing tons of silty water up-stream. A forty-foot cottonwood log floated past my boat barely missing the anchor line. A lone harbor seal bobbed its head near the corner, checking us out.
Watching the river is a constant pastime at fishcamp. Having a finger on the pulse of the salmon run means paying attention. Another fish swirled by the far bank. “There’s another one”, mom affirmed.
An hour before we had come winding up Ivan River on step. I had propped two fish from the mouth. “We could be in for a good day tomorrow”, dad announced after feeling the second bump hit the back.
The run itself comes in pushes. Kings come early, then Reds followed by the others: Silvers, Dogs, and Pinks. Fairly predictable on the calendar, we position ourselves for the onslaught.
Our fish camp is located a mile up Ivan river which resembles a muddy slough much more than a river. A far cry from the crystalline waters of Lake Creek, Ivan river’s grey silt snakes it’s way through the Susitna mud flats finally spilling out into the Inlet near the mouth of the Big Susitna River. The Ivan is almost entirely tidal. At low tide hardly any water remains, our boats idle motionless, sitting on the silty bottom waiting for more water.
Glacial silt is everywhere; In fact the mouth of the great Susitna river is a giant silt depository. Thousands of years of glacial silt have washed down from valleys of the Alaska Range collecting along this wide delta ultimately forming the Susitna mud flats. The topography here is flat. So flat in fact that when the tide goes out you can’t even see the waters of Cook Inlet at all from ground level. The muddy water spills back out and meanders for miles until it finally reaches the swirling mix of Cook Inlet proper. Eventually the tide changes again, and we look for the covering up of certain sandbars that signify the incoming tide is on it’s way. Fishcamp life revolves entirely around the tide.
Skiffs are always loaded the night before. Carefully we arrange our gear in the boat. We have made our coiled nets ready to peel out the stern of the skiff for the mornings’ fishing period.
“The boats have turned!” announces mom. Sure enough, I peer over the edge of the bank and watch as both boats swing around slowly together, like syncronized swimmers on cue with the switching of the in-coming tide.
The pace quickens; Everyone gathers their things and starts down the bank. Negotiating the way down the steep, slick mud-banks of the Ivan requires a unique skill-set in itself, akin to kicking steps like a mountaineer. We have secured a fixed line down the mud-bank with loops tied-in intermittently for anchorage. We climb into the boat all giving half-hearted efforts at rinsing our boots of the glossy mud. Regardless of our best efforts, the mud streaks and globs it’s way on-board. The skiff has been floating now for ten minutes; I start the engine.
Soon we will be pulling dime-bright reds and silvers over the gunnels in droves. Gills will be pulled to bleed the writhing fish and then shuttled into iced coolers. I feel lucky to be a part of it all.
Then later that day it happened. The net, draped over-top our skiff during a pick-through was loaded with fish. I notice a swerving fin break free from the bondage of the net. Slowly it swam towards the stern of the skiff. In younger years I would have grabbed for it, I let this one go.
