Back On Blocks Again, Part II

I really enjoy thinking about it in those terms…the journey the meat takes. It’s even more intriguing to think about the smaller quantities of fish that take the journey back to the smokehouses of the Natives. Thousands of strips of meat hang from the racks, being smoked above a fire which must be built early every morning and late every night and tended to constantly to ensure the right heat, amount of smoke, and air flow. When fully smoked, the meat is used to subsist through the bitter-cold winter that grips this part of the world. And even a few jars make it back to the Bay the following year as gifts to remind us out-of-towners how many miles and how much work and pride are put into smoking fish every fall for the winter season. (It is candy, let me tell you.)

Those of you who have tried my pickled fish (or any pickled fish, for that matter) can appreciate the journey of this meat as well – the stern of the Odie in a strong blow to the butchering table to be filleted. Up to the net locker where I layer the fish in five gallon buckets, meat-to-meat, skin-to-skin, salting every layer up to the top. The brine is created and rises as the salt pulls the moisture from the meat and cures it. Three months later, the salt buckets arrive Seattle on the barge and make their way to the garage until around Christmas time, where large quantities of onions, lemons, cauliflower, spices, and other (secret, of course!) ingredients, passed down through generations, combine themselves with the red sockeye meat to make a gorgeous presentation. It nourishes, brings people together, tastes heavenly, and tells a unique story through the looking-glass of the Mason jar.

As my dad says, “It’s all just grunt-labor.” Well, he’s right. And it’s not just grunt labor for the fisherman, but it’s grunt labor for the cannery worker, the tenderman, the machinist, the laundry lady in the bunkhouse. But as this season comes to close, I can’t help but reflect on how pure and direct this industry is no matter how complicated the business side is. It is direct in its labor and direct in the fruit it produces, and it affects people all over the world…directly. It makes men. It makes sleazebags. It makes money; sometimes it makes tribulation and tragedy. It is farming…on the ocean.

But the fact remains: you’ve made it this far in reading my gobbledygook. Thank you so much for that. I’m the son of a 50-year veteran of the Bering Sea and its bounty, and I don’t plan on stopping; in fact, I plan on pushing the throttles forward even a little more. There is a lot of work to do in the industry, in politics, and with external forces like the prospect of the world’s largest copper mine slated to sit at the headwaters of this resource. And most importantly, whatever we do in this narrow nook of the world will inevitably serve as a model for the rest of the world and how other cultures handle their resources and industries at their disposal.

I hope you can eat some fresh salmon from Alaska and think about the journey that the meat made from slimy, writhing fish to presentation on your plate via an industry that encompasses so many facets of business, nature, mechanics, and man – all in a recurring, sustainable way. Then think about the journey that you read about through this blog on which my father and I embark every year along with the other 1,473 vessels – sometimes more, sometimes fewer – that all possess a finite number of available permits. Each boat and crew is different, but they all commonly ply the waters of Bristol Bay season after season to make a living and feed the world.

Keep checking back; I may continue to post with updates and random tidbits. My dad’s heart has been in Alaska for a half-century, and a large piece of mine is north, too. There’s a good chance he and I will fly up to the Bay one weekend soon for a helicopter tour of the proposed mine site. And I’m trying to get on board the Alaska ferry Columbia for some pilothouse time on the Bellingham-Ketchikan run, and that may happen tomorrow. So look for thoughts, reflections, and pictures if you are so interested.

Until then, cheers to making it this far in reading. Cheers to my old man for making it 50 years in the Bay. Cheers to wild salmon.