Dipnetting In Alaska — Michelle McAfee

My first fishing trip on the Copper River

I rolled out of my sleeping bag, still in my clothes, and pulled on a pair of brown hiking boots while my friend Katy hollered, “C’mon, get up. The fish are biting!” My first thought, How the hell does she know that standing outside the VW van? Katy is magic like that. We loaded backpacks with rope, food, a couple of thermoses full of hot chai tea, filet knives, and a cutting board, and some extra layers of clothing. It was early July, 2011 at 11 pm, and the sun was sinking below the mountain to the west of fish camp. After shaking off a two hour nap, Katy grabbed the long aluminum pole with a large dip net attached to the end and double-checked the VW van door lock.

We walked a mile or so from fish camp down the trail to a steep embankment. “This is it. I remember this rock.” She was pulling branches back to get a better look at a trail I couldn’t see from where I stood. Katy took three more steps and disappeared into the alder thicket out of sight. I was new to this place and didn’t exactly want to lose her and have to bushwhack in the darkening twilight next to a river full of salmon. Stories of bears ambushing people on this trail were numerous. “Are you coming?” I heard her voice from somewhere down below, “Be careful. It’s steep.”

I dropped into the thicket where I last saw her and found the trail. The slope was full of loose, flat scree, like walking on a bunch of ceramic tiles piled up on a steep hill. Shifty is an understatement. My hands clutched the alder trunks on the way down, trusting they were rooted deep enough in the hillside to hold. When I made it to the bottom, there was no landing: only boulders and scattered scree. Katy was busy tying a rope off to a medium-sized tree up on the hillside. The other end wrapped around her waist. She stooped down, grabbed another coil, and tossed it to me. “Here, tie yourself in. This is sketchy.”

The Copper River flows an average of 57,000 CFS (cubic feet per second) at the mouth in mid-summer. Obee Creek and fish camp are located just above the steep canyon where that flow is constricted, making the current extremely dangerous in this area. That same current is excellent for dip netting due to the large eddies and “conveyor belt” flow reversals along the shore. The salmon travel upriver through the canyon along those shoreline features where the current is less strenuous. It’s the perfect place to drop a net in the water. It’s a terrible place to drop yourself in the water.

The Copper carries massive quantities of silt, or powdered rock, from grinding glaciers upstream. This glacial flour is heavy. If you are unlucky enough to fall in, it fills in the fabric of your clothing, weighing you down like a brick. You will sink faster in a glacial river than you would in a clear blue, non-glacial river. All that heavy, voluminous water was recently ice, so the water temperature hovers around 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Hypothermia happens fast in this river.

I caught Katy’s toss and tied the rope around my waist as if that suddenly made me safer. As soon as I dropped the backpack, I took the loose end of my safety line and hiked up the hill to a tree next to the one anchoring Katy’s rope. After several wraps, I tied multiple secure knots then made sure my rope length was just enough, but not too much because that would just be ridiculous - to drown on the end of your safety line.

By the time I got my footing and nerve up enough to creep up to the water’s edge and plop down on a boulder, Katy already had the net in the water. She’s magic like that. It was midnight. The sun sank below the ridge, but it doesn’t really get dark in early July in Alaska. It just gets dusk. Katy perched on a rock, the dip net pole snuggled up under her arm, completely at peace with the world. I dug a little pouch of tobacco out of my backpack and took a pinch between my fingers. Taking in a few deep breaths, closing my eyes, I silently thanked the river for being an artery of life in this land. I gave thanks to the Original People of the place, the ancestors, the water, the fish, and all things that give life. My hand sprinkled the offering into the silty current, and I watched the river swallow the tobacco flakes.

Katy kept working the net. It’s exhausting holding that thing underwater against the current. She mainly worked one spot, just patiently sitting…waiting. My mind and eyes drifted to the mountains surrounding us, a view I never tire of. An hour or so passed with the river swooshing by, an occasional eagle soaring above, and Katy adjusting the net position. Suddenly she jerked the pole back and jumped to her feet, walking backward. My first thought was, “Oh god, don’t slip Katy.” She didn’t slip. She hauled a huge salmon ashore, pinned down the net, grabbed a thick stick, struck it on the head to kill it, then picked it up and showed it to me with a big smile on her face. I was stunned. She did that effortlessly, standing precariously close to the water’s edge. As I said, she’s magic like that.

Katy was excited, “Maybe they’re getting ready to hit.” It was my first time dip netting, so I assumed she meant we might catch another one in an hour. She handed me the pole, “I have to pee. Here, put this in the water and hold on.” She scurried up the embankment and squatted behind a bush.

I set the net into the current near the place Katy caught the fish. It took a few minutes to get used to the pull of the water through the webbing. No, it wasn’t a fish. It was a surge—the river pulses just like our heart and the blood in our veins. Katy came back, poured a thermos cup of hot tea, and stretched her legs while I got used to the feel of the net. Then something grabbed it and tried to jerk the thing out of my hand.

“Pull, pull up! Don’t lose it! Bring it in!” Katy hollered instructions, and before I knew it, I landed a big flopping fish. “Here’s the bat.” She handed me the wood, and I hesitated. My heart was pumping. It happened so fast. “Take this. Hold the net down this way.” Katy put her hand near mine and showed me her technique. I didn’t want to take the bat, but she wouldn’t let me wiggle out of it. The fish was suffering, breathing air on land, so I did as Katy had done and thunked it hard on the head. It lay lifeless and still. My hands peeled the net off its body. I held it up, but instead of a big smile, I burst out crying. A strong, profound wave of gratitude and humility washed through my body, taking me by surprise.

Salmon eggs hatch in freshwater rivers and lakes and rear for 1 to 3 years. When they reach the smolt stage, they migrate to the ocean to feed and grow. They live and mature in the ocean for 2-5 years, then swim sometimes treacherous waters for thousands of miles back to their spawning grounds, where they lay and fertilize eggs. All salmon die within a few weeks of spawning. Their carcasses then become a source of food and nutrients to the river ecosystem. It may be the most valiant, noble life of any creature on earth.

Taking the life of a fish that worked so hard to get this far upriver was not easy. The realization of responsibility and sacredness of ending this creature’s journey was potent. It was a moment of understanding what these fish give to this world. What they go through to live - and die. Katy knelt near me, closed her eyes, and just held the space. In a few moments, I gathered myself and walked the fish to the stringer, where it joined Katy’s.

Katy put the net back in the water, and within minutes she was hauling out another fish. The fish “hit” for four or five hours until we caught our limit of 40. It was exhausting work. When we’d get 10-12 fish, we’d load them in the backpack and hike them out to the van where a big cooler full of ice sat waiting. It’s too heavy to bring the cooler down the trail to the river, and not a good idea to have a cooler full of fish sitting next to you all night. Bears can smell that a mile away. Everyone we talked to in fish camp that night was “limiting out.” The salmon run was on, and it was good and strong.

Halfway through the night, after my hands filleted around 20 fish, Katy shaved off a few pieces of “sushi,” and we ate in the dusky early morning twilight. “I hope they keep hitting. We’re halfway to our limit.” She looked up at the glowing eastern sky, “Isn’t this the most beautiful place on earth?” The cold bright red meat melted in my mouth like candy as I nodded in agreement, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

By 7 am, the cheerful sun was cruising across the sky and had been since 4:30 am. We hiked the last round of fish back to the VW van, put them on ice, then fell into our sleeping bags exhausted. We woke up around noon, fired up the old engine, and crept up the steep road leading out fish camp. Back in Fairbanks, the fish were brined, smoked, dried, and canned - enough food to feed a family of four for a year.

A few nights later, sitting around the kitchen table with her family, Katy set a hot baking dish down in the middle of the table featuring a steaming bright “Red” filet. She sat down, thanked the fish for feeding us, the water for feeding the fish, and the land for supporting us all. She looked up and smiled at me, “This is why we fish.” I poked a fork into the flaky meat and placed a bite in my mouth. A rich flavor bomb of protein, meat, silt, nutrients, and sacredness exploded on my tongue. Katy laughed at the look on my face, “You’ve never tasted baked fish like that, have you?” Nope. No, I haven’t.

After loading the truck that night, I left the next morning and arrived seven hours later in a remote town where I had a Saturday night gig. My hands grabbed the cooler to walk it into the cabin, but it was almost too heavy to carry. I opened the lid, and inside, Katy packed it full, without me knowing - jars of smoked salmon, salmon jerky, and a few frozen filets on ice. Because Katy is magic like that.

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