The Nushagak Chronicles Part 3: The Witch King of Angmar

The Witch King of Angmar

a smaller version

    We could smell it coming.  The pale tube of skin barely contained it’s contents.  It was hanging from the web like a big bag of snot.  Chris deftly maneuvered to the edge to intercept it before it sloshed it’s way into the boat.  A ripped hole near the gill revealed a ragged white sack of eggs that was rolling around a stew of rotting flesh inside.  The eyeballs were gone and the head was attached by only a thread of skin.  It was hard to believe that this was once a beautiful salmon.  Chris pulled the web high and it rolled over the lead line and under the net.  “Nice job dude!”  

    Not all salmon make it to the spawning grounds or the cannery.  Like in all great struggles there are casualties.   Some are inadvertently whacked by boat props or bitten by seals, others fall from the nets and fail to recover from their battle.  Regardless, the result is the same;  these lost souls become the ghosts of the bay.  Some call them zombies;  they seem to be alive as the sway in the current with their wavy flakey white skin, eyeless skulls and foul stench.

    Initially they sink.  Soon enough though, the bacteria begin their work producing some kind of gas.  “I think it’s methane.”  Corey Ambrose was my go-to biology guy on the beach and after a little research at home it was confirmed.  Apparently the bacteria have plenty of protein to break down and along with methane a stinky organic compound called amines are produced which gives us the lovely rotten-fish smell. Nice.  Their sinking days are over by now and these “floaters” are happy to share their glory with the world.

    “Holy shit look at that!”  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Coming up in the net, some fifteen feet away from the boat was a real doozy.  Hanging out among a dozen bright and shiny sockeyes was a former fifty pound king salmon.  “Oh my God, it’s the Witch King of Agmar!”  

     My reference to Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings character was spot on (if I don’t say so myself).  It’s giant white skull and black empty eye sockets sat atop it’s huge bloated pale body.  Preceded by it’s shocking odor, it moved towards the boat trapped by our net.  I could almost hear the screeching from the movie and wondered if it might be hiding a sword in its flank.  

      I lifted the net high enough for it to roll out and under the net.  We said our goodbyes to the Witch King and continued with our work.  We wouldn't see him again until the next tide change.

It lives……in the Nush!

The Nushagak Chronicles Part 2: The Man in the Moon

The Man in the Moon

  “Gonna be some sweet sounds coming down on the nightshift....”

-The Commodores-

    I was on the night shift.  Setting our nets out at 11:30 P.M., we would hold the line until 6:00 A.M.  It was a clear night and the sunset had dropped behind the mountains in spectacular form.  The deep blazen orange glowed behind the Ahklun mountains in diminishing intensity with each passing minute.  Side note: One of the mountains of the Ahklun is curiously shaped like a woman’s breast.  I digress.

    It was darker now and all that could be seen were several tender’s boat lights and the little net-lights blinking at the end of each net. Navigation between nets had become difficult making the GPS invaluable.

    We had just cleared the last net of fish and were clipped-on to our fifty fathom net enjoying the view.  No fish were hitting at the moment.  It was time to chill.

    “Mega-man, Tundra Prancer...”  I was being hailed on the VHF radio.

    “Go ahead Ian.”  Communication between boats is essential and we all have call-names (handles)  My handle, Tundra Prancer, was earned back in the late nineties.  As the story goes I had led a group of young men on a long hike behind camp through the rolling Nushagak tundra.  It was a hot day and the mosquitoes were relentless.  On our way back to camp as a way to avoid the bugs, apparently I broke out into a slow run or as some would call it...a prance.  Go figure.

     “How’s it going over there?”

     “P.D.S.” ( Pretty darn slow), I replied.

    The darkness blanketed us now and all that could be seen clearly was the hundred or so boat lights of varying brightness spotting the horizon like a constellation.  The moon was the dominant figure of the night and it was slowly sinking in the Southern sky.

     It hung low and large in the sky and as we watched it descend we became transfixed by its splendor.  “Yeah, not much going on here but check out the moon!”

    Ian and Cole were across Nushagak Bay on Coffee Point very close to where the moon appeared to be touching down.  I wondered if their view was as good as ours.  By now the moon had touched-down on the bay and the calm seas reflected its light.  From our vantage point it was clear; The moon was melting into the sea!

    It was the color of Tillamook Cheddar with a splash of pink thrown in but its coloration was not uniform. “Hey I see a man’s face!”  I said.

    “It’s the man in the moon.”  Chris replied.  He was my bowman and partner on the boat.  Almost 20 years my junior Chris is a scrappy carpenter from California with a cheerful outlook and a well developed work ethic.  We had shared the night shift duties for the last three nights and it was looking like the pattern would continue.

    We sat in amazement as we watched the man in the moon melt into the sea like some strange giant wax figure.  Soon he was gone and the Bay got just a little bit darker.

“Gonna be a long night

It’s gonna be alright

On the nightshift

Oh you found another home

I know you’re not alone

On the nightshift”

A rare sighting of Chris and I in the daylight.

The Nushagak Chronicles Part 1: The Mud Walk

The Mud Walk

    “This shit sucks!”  The guy was carrying a filthy raincoat and a bucket. He was a twenty-something crewman and was caked in mud from the thigh down. His Grunden’s rain pants had gained twenty pounds as he slopped his way through the mud.  “It gets worse every fucking time!”  Cussing like a sailor means nothing to a commercial fisherman and typically there is little restraint in this regard.  We were all slogging through the mud trying to get back to camp.  We all agreed with the guy to one degree or another and it was funny to hear someone vocalize it so bluntly.

    The walk-in from the anchored boats to the nice gravel beach is about 400 meters, half-of-which is ladened with the gloopiest of mud.  Maybe it should be called the Forest Gump walk.  Each step is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.  If you are lucky you’ll sink-in a mere six inches.  More common though are the foot to foot-and-a-half deep steps.  “These must be the steps that build character”-I kept telling myself.  Already I had seen the mud suck the footwear off of three different people’s feet.

    We were returning from a six hour setnet opener.  Among our catch were 91 king salmon...not bad.  There has been a recent decline in kings around the state and it has been a long time since I’ve seen so many at once.  I was on cloud nine!

   As I labored through the brown slop I noticed the picked over remains of another king, eyeballs missing no-doubt from an opportunistic seagull.  I could tell that it had been there for several tides because the mud had already caked its layers over top.  Soon it would become one with the mud.  

   Finally we reached the gravel beach and the pebbles clung to our muddy boots as we walked.  “Well dip me in shit and roll me in Wheaties.” I pronounced.   My off-handed commentary produced only the mildest of chuckles but I was okay with it.   We would return to the cabin for about three hours of rest.  There was a hot meal waiting for us followed by a short nap.  It wouldn’t be long before we would be heading back down the beach and back onto the mud to do it all over again.