Opportunity knocked on a cold, winter Saturday Night. I sat on a folding chair in a one car garage, flanked by three great friends; two small space heaters; an endless array of tools, decorations, toys, and memorabilia; and discussion of life and fishing. The usual suspects included Phil Leonardi (the Garaghahal’s owner / operator), life-long fishing partner Keith Seppel, and new found friend Peter Van Tuyen. Peter extended an invitation.
Alaska.
Bristol Bay.
The greatest Chinook run on the planet.
A fishing derby- NEQA on the Nushugak.
From the time fishing captivated me, the word Alaska has been spoken with reverence. You hear stories. You see photos. Your imagination runs wild.
Keith and I had whispered the word over campfires for decades. Someday, Alaska. Someday, bush planes. Someday, an impossible run of wild salmon. Time and someday flowed by like a river.
Someday had just opened its door.
A family’s tapestry is woven with threads of experience and memory. When looking at my family tapestry, you will find a myriad of outdoor patterns: mountains, camping trips, lakes, rivers, streams- and fishing.
Fishing, fresh off some backpacking or camping adventure, often led me to my grandfather’s. The trip was so recent, I still felt, thought, and acted in its wake. The conversation always began with my adventure. My grandfather, Louis, sitting in a red and blue flannel in his dining room, heron still, listened intently, nodding, smiling. From there the conversation braided like a flowing stream, and we would simply share outdoor stories. Six decades separated us. Grandpa was in the twilight of his life; I was young and invincible. We lived in different worlds, but we shared fishing stories.
Later in life, fishing consistently led my son, Finn, and me to the Bitterroot River in our hometown of Hamilton, MT. Early adventures always included a fishing pole, but consisted mostly of exploring, flipping rocks, and playing with water. When he became old enough to fish, our outings increased. During the COVID shutdown, as he faced fear and isolation, a commitment to fish together every day for the entire month of April not only kept us sane, but weaved the fabric of our relationship more tightly together.
Yearly fishing trips bring my older brother, Jeff, and I closer to one another as time and distance pull us apart.
Fishing forged the two greatest friendships I have ever known, and sustains them to this day.
So it was fishing that saw six of us board the plane in Missoula, Montana- destination Alaska. Bristol Bay. The Nushagak.
The party included those who sat in the garage that evening (Keith, Phil, and me); another Garagemahal friend, Christian; my Father-in-law, Dave; and my 15 year-old son, Finn. We marveled at ocean and mountain ranges the entire flight from Seattle to Anchorage, spent an evening at Peter’s, and boarded a plane to Dillingham the next morning.
Dillingham. A town with no roads in or out. You either enter by air, by water, or by foot. We touched down at the airport. Finn glanced around at the three or four metal buildings looked more like small warehouses than terminals. “This is an airport?” he commented, as we taxied to a stop.
Soon we boarded our next plane, climbing aboard from a rain soaked dock. The small prop plane looked old because it was, as in half a century old. The pilot gushed about it, a classic, a Beaver. He handed us ear plugs and soon Finn, Papa Dave, and I taxied onto the lake, turned, and gathered speed. Propellers whirred, deafening even with ear plugs. The river corridor blurred into forest green. We lifted off, trading water for air, an expanse of Alaskan wilderness, scoured flat by sheet glaciers, below us.
Like the salmon, we pushed up the river. All signs of civilization, save for the occasional fishing camp, vanished. Some time later, our camp came into view. A plane taxied down the river to ready for take off. We circled like a bird, and spiraled down until parallel to the river. We touched down on the Nushagak.
The camp bustled with activity, the start of the season at Toman’s Lodge. An excitement and urgency permeated everything. My mind flickered to the timelessness of the place and the salmon run. This excitement and energy had permeated the banks of the Nushagak for over 10,000 years. I was walking on sacred ground.
We weaved our way though excited conversations and wall tents, tossed our gear in one, and readied for the adventure.
My mind doesn’t process the most powerful moments in life in a concrete, sequential manner. I experience them in a blur, paying unintentional attention. Moments form a montage of the trip’s essence. The next three days on the Nushagak exist in such a fashion. After all, it’s June in Bristol Bay; the sun refuses to set. Afternoon subtly shifts to evening and hangs there. 6:15 pm becomes 9:30 pm becomes 1:45 am; the light never changes. Order is broken.
***
We are backtrolling. Conversation is casual, of sports, luck, weather, and fish. Six poles stick out of the side of the boat like some overturned beetle. I am at the bow on the right side of the boat, first seat. Finn sits in the second. His pole starts thumping. He jumps out of his seat, grabs the rod out the holder and the unexpected weight of the fish nearly rips the pole out of his hands. Our guide, Dylan, eyes Finn’s pole and adjusts the engine. We all dutifully jump up and begin reeling in.
Excitement and anticipation now permeate the boat. Finn’s reel sings. The fight commences. He reels, cranking the fish toward us. The fish pulls Finn to the left side of the boat. Finn glances at the reel and cries “15 feet!” Too close for the King. It turns down stream and runs. The run pulls Finn back to the right side of the boat as his reel hums. The salmon burns through 20, then 30, then 40 feet of line.
Dylan works the motor as he reads the battle. His sharp eyes dart from Finn to the fish. He shouts, “Who’s winning, Finn?”
“He is!” Finn yells as leans back, lifting the rod tip with all his strength.
Finn keeps cranking on the reel. His left arm exhausted, he tucks the pole under his armpit and leans back. He reels and reels. Christian stands up next to him to take a selfie. Papa Dave chatters happily, “This is perfect, Finn. This is perfect.”
The King powers down the river. “He keeps running!” Finn hollers.
Finn keeps reeling, keeps pulling, keeps talking, and the Chinook, back on the left side of the boat, makes its way. Dylan grabs the net and extends it toward the fish. Finn lifts with all his might. “Get him!!!!” he yells as he pulls the fish toward the extended net. The king thrashes at the surface.
The plug pops free.
Finn screams, “NOOOO!!!” as he feels the weightlessness on his pole. Simultaneously, Dylan shoots the net under the fish and captures it. Finn turns away, a look of shock on his face as a cheer erupts from the boat. Finn, eyes wide, gives a disbelieving fist pump to Papa Dave. He looks me in the eyes, and I smile.
It’s Father’s Day; the enormity of the trip brushes against my subconscious. The fishing, the comradery, the endless light, the culture, the experience- Bristol Bay. Another thread weaved into a pattern in the tapestry of my relationship with my son.
***
The music comes from a phone and blasts through a black portable speaker sitting on a stand next to the wall tent adorned with Salmon Art. A drum beat holds together a rhythmic flow. A singer’s voice chants in a language I do not understand. Four female dancers move gracefully to the music. They wear traditional headdresses. And blue jeans. Authentic smiles tug at the corners of the dancer’s mouths. Each holds a dance fan. Their arms and fans flow to the rhythm. Occasionally, the flow is broken by quick stomps and stabs at the air as raucous chants speak of celebration and triumph. They must speak of the Salmon, of the Nushagak, of Bristol Bay.
Lucy now stands in front of the tent, beaming. She wears a teal headband and bright purple hoodie that reads “No Pebble Mine” on the back. She holds a microphone, and speaks to the camp. She welcomes us with these words, “My heart is full of gratitude.” She speaks of her ancestors, her people, and thousands of years of stewardship of the land.
Her Sister Marie speaks next, sporting a teal headband and green “No Pebble Mine” hoodie. Her smile is radiant. She begins with, “To be on the land is healing.” And while I listen, I don’t need to hear anymore, I am so moved by the truth of the words.
We are reminded why we are here, of course, to experience the power of the place and its salmon run, to be among friends, to be healed, and to have hearts full of gratitude, but also to support the Bristol Bay Native Corporation and their stewardship of the land and its people.
Juxtaposing threads are being woven together. Nonprofits, fundraisers, corporations- these are words plucked from a business dictionary. Heritage, salmon, stewardship- these are words plucked from a love and appreciation of the land, water, and animals that thrive within Bristol Bay. An amazing pattern is being formed, carefully and delicately weaving together these two worlds. The pattern is beautiful.
***
Qigcikluku nunamta atullerkaa – Have respect for our land and it’s resources (Yup’ik)
Nunapet carlia’arluki – Taking care of our lands (Alutiiq)
Qaghishin shegh ghu dita – The earth is good and I use it (Dena’ina)
***
Lucy and Marie are fileting salmon, collecting roe and gathering fish heads for a traditional feast, a feast that will keep them awake until past 1:00 AM preparing. They are smiling, as always. Their smiles are radiant. They resonate with a power I can’t quite grasp, but I suspect it comes from the salmon. I am moved by the power.
***
Last boat of the night, of the trip. It’s somewhere around 11:00, maybe. Does it matter? It’s dusk. The fish are biting. The boat is electric, full of energy and joy. Jennifer, who I just met and had yet to land a fish that day, finally gets a shot at one. The battle is triumphant. Whoops and hollers resound throughout the boat with the ebb and flow of the fight. The King nearly takes Jennifer’s line into the prop. Our guide, Eric, who has missed the fish twice trying to net it, finally takes a stab into the water that succeeds. Jennifer lets out a holler. So does Eric. We are all yelling, cheering, grinning. “Everyone grab a fish!” Eric commands, and we dive into the well. Salmon are passed from person to person until we all hold one, and triumphantly look at Peter’s phone.
***
A campfire burns on the last night, restrictions just lifted. We circle it, my friends, my father-in-law, my son, and a handful of people I just met. We talk, laugh, grin, and revel late into the sunlit night.
We are healed; our hearts are full of gratitude.
***
Bristol Bay’s magic pulses throughout the land, through the water, through the salmon run. The salmon weave a thread in the Bristol Bay tapestry that connects not generations, but centuries. Threads so consistently and intricately woven they have the audacity to question the passing of time. Bristol Bay’s magic also pulses through its people. I see the magic most, the power of the place, in the Paul sisters, Marie and Lucy, seated overlooking the Nushagak, eyes and smiles alight with radiant joy at every fish. Their beatific laughter sounds across the river, ever present- at times in remarkable, spiritual waves- like the salmon. It’s a laughter that has echoed along the Nushagak for over a century; it’s a laughter that must echo forward time untold.