Welcome to My Back Yard. These short stories are my attempt to document some of my many fine Alaskan adventures. My developing love for writing is a perfect match for my uncanny ability to forget all but the most fundamental of details. J.R.R. Tolkien's timeless quote is my mantra- "Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."- so I write.
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.
“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.
“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.
The 12 foot aluminum boat was a gift from Tamra’s dad. Overturned on the bank at the island for years on end, the run-about had ceased to run anywhere at all and was collecting moss into it’s riveted seams.
“Well thanks Dave....can I give you a couple hundred bucks for it?” The 7.5 horse Gamefisher motor that came with it along with a gas tank was worth at least as much and felt obliged to offer at least something.
“No. You’re not going to stop giving us salmon are you?” Not a chance. Corey and I carried the thing up the hill to the truck. We loaded the kicker into the boat and slid it into the back of my truck.
The next day I replaced the transom which had rotted away with some new 1 1/8 inch plywood. The rear seat was rotten too. I found an old 1 X 10 inch trim board in the garage and custom fit it into place. I bought some oar locks to work with my 7 foot raft oars and trolling mount for the back seat. I found some old gray primer spray paint in the garage and blasted the new wood with several coats. Done.
Corey honing his tiller skills. Thanks Papaw!
Tamra bringing home the bacon.
The bacon.
My reel broke mid-battle with this guy.
I managed to pull him in by hand.
Here I am displaying my cut ring finger.
The line was wrapped around it during the struggle.
I will have you know that, yes I am okay.
New grill works great.
Hazelee showing Grandma
her catch as we pass her
in the canoe.
Dad at the helm as we troll
for kings down the creek.
Corey ate this entire 18 inch rainbow
that he caught!
Today he was in a funk. This time I wasn't quite sure why. It happens. Raising teenagers can be an exercise in patience. He had refused dinner. The rest of us were almost done with our burgers when he finally decided to join us at the table. The springtime sun was glorious and on this day we were having a good-ol' fashion Bar-Bee-Que. On the menu: Cheeseburgers (his favorite.)
Finally he sat down. Miraculously, despite his stubborn mood, he managed to wolf-down a grilled cheeseburger The 1/3 pound angus beef patty had been grilled to perfection and was adorned with all the accouterments.
Although still quite sullen and unsure whether or not this was the family for him or not, he pointed the ketchup bottle at his empty plate and I watched out of the corner of my eye. The rather large gloop of glossy redness piled-up. He had already eaten his burger. I was suspicious.
Sure enough, with his right hand, he slowly produced a lone tater tot from below the table. He dipped, He munched.
Done with my own dinner, I Deftly maneuver to his right side and waited for the right moment. “Give me some of your tots!”, I demanded with a smidge of drama.
“Get some of your own”, he told me. “I haven’t had anything all-flippen day!” There was a a small pause before I did what I knew I had to do. Noticing his hand poised at his right-hip pocket, I raised my foot and followed through with a good kick, aiming at the bulge in his right-hand pocket.
“Idiot!” He told me. We both laughed and suddenly the mood was right again as he produced a flattened glob of processed potato product from his grease-stained pocket.
I wish I could say that no tater-tots were harmed in the events that unfolded on this evening. If I had made such a statement it would be a bold-faced lie; don't judge.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Return to Nushagak
E-mail March 25th, 2015 8:15 AM:
“Looking to bring Jordan back out of retirement this season (Jordan would be you). Long story short, I’m currently in the process of taking over my dad’s Bristol Bay operation and I’m in need of someone to run a boat for this upcoming season....”
- Levi
Interesting. Levi wants me to fish for him and he was using the Michael Jordan comparison as a hook. His reference to M.J. was flattering although not entirely accurate. Let’s look at the facts: Michael played 16 seasons for the Chicago Bulls earning six NBA Championships, a thousand or so MVP’s and a laundry list of records that to this day have stood the test of time. Myself on the other hand fished for his dad, Tom Sr., for all of three seasons including two of the worst Bristol Bay salmon returns on record. I was able to distinguish myself by getting extra slimy and cracking a few tasteless jokes. Hmm.
“Mr. Harrison can I get my locker combo?” Back to reality. I was about to start my work day at SuValley. My usual morning e-mails aren’t nearly as interesting as this one from Levi. Throughout the day my mind kept coming back to the proposal.
I decided to forward the e-mail to my wife. “Are you considering this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The idea was exciting to me for a number of reasons. It had been fourteen years since I’d crewed for Tom Sr. and it would be great to reconnect with him and all of the other characters I met back then. Many of them are still there. Also, Bristol Bay is the cutting edge setnet fishery in the world and I was interested to see what innovations and improvements have been developed since I was last there. Our family operation in Cook Inlet might benefit. It would be like a setnet training camp, seminar or something. That night we talked about it and decided that I would go.
This wouldn't be my first rodeo. Growing up setnetting on the mudflats of the Susitna River eventually led to other fishing opportunities as I grew older. Bristol Bay bound, I was offered a job crewing for my dad’s friend, Steve Davis, at the tender age of 16. In some respects it was a bit like throwing a babe to the wolves. I gained the first inklings of work-ethic and mental toughness that I so covet these days, and I won’t deny that at least some of that was discovered on the Combine mud-flats of Nushagak. I would return to Bristol Bay five more times after that; the last of which was in 2001 with Tom.
For those that don’t know; Bristol Bay is an amazing spectacle of nature. It remains one of the last strongholds of salmon super-abundance. For reasons rooted in preferential geography, conservative management and the incredible life force of the salmon itself, the runs of sockeye have flourished in the Bay beyond compare. Whereas most salmon runs around the world are greatly diminished or gone altogether, the Bristol Bay fishery has actually increased in size. Not only has this giant flush of salmon each year been an economic boon for fisherman and the people of the Bristol Bay region, it has also fed billions of people around the world nourishing them with the most amazing nutrition.
There is at least another reason why the salmon runs in Bristol Bay have remained strong. The headwaters have been left alone.
Low-and-behold there is a giant company called Northern Dynasty Minerals Ltd. that is busy scheming and trying to bully their way into the headwaters of the Nushagak and Kvichak River systems and they have pockets of gold spilling from their britches. Britches that many think they are too big for. They hope to create one of the world’s largest open-pit mines. The run-offs from this mine would inevitably leach poisonous chemicals downstream through the spawning beds.
These two systems (Nushagak, Kvichak) account for 50 percent of salmon harvested in Bristol Bay annually. Outspoken critic and regular contributor to the Huffington post Joel Reynolds calls it "A very large mine in a very bad place."
I have to agree with Joel. Along with the proposed Susitna-Watana Dam, Pebble is quite possibly the worst idea ever. Don't get me started.
(Check out the film The Breach for more details.)
All said and done and after all the ranting, I am still as committed to our own Cook Inlet operation as much as ever. Conveniently, the peak of the Bristol Bay salmon season hits a good week and a half before our own in Cook Inlet. When I return from the Bay I’ll be ready to head down to fish camp to start our own season. From that point in the summer on, I will be focused on filling all of our customers orders in Talkeetna; Out of the frying pan-into the fire.
Roger Phillips- Deshka Landing trail Report (Facebook) Jan. 11th. - Got home (a few miles above Northwoods Lodge) about 11:00 last night. WHAT TRAIL........Yentna river was pretty good all the way to about 2 miles below Lake Creek. THEN Overflow, Overflow and More Overflow. Flowing Water over Ice.. I am done hauling I believe, for a while.
For some strange reason I seemed to have developed a sudden interested in hydrology.
Heading towards
the Yentna fog.
As we pulled onto the Yentna River the fog was winning the battle with the sunrise and it was a spectacular sight to behold. It was time to go home. We were all packed up and ready to head back up river to the McDougal trail. From there we would be dry-landers and the remaining forty miles would be a breeze. On Friday, a few days prior, the five mile ride down the Yentna to the cabin had been solid. The trail was essentially hard-packed snow and ice; not particularly fun, but safe.
We were leaving now and there had been no fog at the cabin that morning. It appeared that the fog was contained to the Yentna basin and we would soon see why. The river-fog was making visibility poor but this didn’t turn out to be our main concern as we motored out of the mouth of Indian Creek onto the Yentna itself. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that the Yentna had risen overnight..six inches or more was my guess! What?
All the low places had filled up with water as far as the eye could see. There was standing water, grey slushy water (typical of Yentna overflow) and there was even water running over the top of the ice where the day before there had been none.
How could the river rise so much overnight? I thought. It’s not like there was a major weather event like a rainstorm or a heavy dump of snow. a big dump of snow could press down on the river-ice making cracks and pushing up water from below. The low 30’s temperatures with no precipitation whatsoever seemed like a recipe for stability to me.
These were all afterthoughts by the way. What I was really thinking about was; “how the hell are we going to get over all this shit?”
If we couldn't make it to McDougal then we would have to retreat back to the cabin.
“You’ve got to keep your speed up!” Bryan was the water skipping coach. As it turned out we had to blast over four different wet places. Our up-river progress looked like this; I would ride out front and stop to inspect the watery section of the trail. I would blast across and find the best place to cross. Bryan, bringing up the rear was the skip coach and would line everyone up for a straight-line blast across the water. “THIS HAS TO SAY 25 AT LEAST.” Bryan’s finger was tapping on mom’s speedometer. He was shouting over the sound of the motor idling and I could hear him from the other side.
Keep in mind that solid ice was confirmed underneath all of these splashy crossings. Snowmachine tracks were visible under the water at two of these places and solid ice under the rest. The worst-case scenario was that I would get to use my new winch!
As luck would have it, we made it unscathed. We scooted over the last of the overflow taking us safely to Mcdougal.
“At least we don’t have to worry about our snowmachines getting dirty.” I quipped. We had splashed our way to cleanliness and now we would head down the trail crossing swamps and creeks and following seismic lines all the way back to Amber Lake where the truck was waiting for us. Observation of note: several of the other drainages we crossed had risen in water level too. This baffled me. I knew that I needed more information.
Scotland shares (roughly) the same latitude as us. As it turns out the Scottish Environmental Protection Agency (SEPA), conducted an extensive hydrological survey of their creeks and rivers spanning from 1961 to 2008. The Scots have undoubtedly discovered what we have; the earth is warming. In their study they have looked at such factors as snowfall (depth), winter temperatures, and hydrology (flow rate) of their major rivers and creeks.
“Snow can play an important part in the dynamics of river flows in catchments which extend to high elevations. Precipitation falling as snow is stored within a catchment and generally released more slowly than run-off resulting from rain. A reduction in snowfall is likely to increase the number and magnitude of flood peaks in rivers where snow has historically been a significant water store. A combination of increased winter rainfall and higher temperatures (as forecasted
in most climate change scenarios) is likely to result in increased flood risk in some catchments.”
Does the Yentna extend to higher catchments? Yes, I know this to be true; both the East and West fork of the Yentna flow from the snowy crags of the Alaska Range. If my non-scientific observations over the last twenty four years of traveling the Yentna in the winter have any merit, it seems that the Yentna has historically been a significant source of snow-based water storage. Usually the snow is super deep. The last two years specifically, have seen the lowest snowfall accumulation that I’ve ever seen. In addition, temperatures have been warmer and rainfall has become almost as regular as snow.
Apparently all of these factors can cause the water level to rise greatly overnight without a major weather event, essentially without warning. Weird.
After years of traveling the frozen Yentna I was counting on a certain level of predictability gained through experience but from what transpired this weekend all bets are off.
Bryan, celebrating the last of the watery crossings, takes to the air
spreading his wings on his Dad's 600 switchback.
Corey relentlessly attacking a defenseless beer can at the site
of our Iditarod camp.
Once again, we did not starve.
Yours truly displaying a nice moose shed, and my newly
mounted winch on the back of the superwide.
Thanks Matt Clark for capturing us at the base of a giant
erratic boulder on the way home.
You don't see this every day. The tier 2 moose hunt was in full
swing on this weekend. Matt Clark said it best: "Why wouldn't
you bring a sled?" We were able to salvage a small amount of
