Kaliakh River Alaska
Used to be, one hopes still is, a run of fat coho in the Kaliakh river. Every September Jack loaded fisher families and their gear onto the Kayak at Yakutat, traveled up to the Kaliakh, set up camp in the river, bring a few of those beautiful silver sides back to Seattle in tins*. Summer of sixty eight I came along for a couple weeks of the trip.
Canned red salmon at Clair Clark fish camp in Big Creek that year, then ran up the Kvichak River and canned dogs. Crew of technicians from Japan processing the row under visqueen shack on the top deck. Mostly native fishers in the Kvichak, big open outboard skiffs with tent or plywood shelter forward. They all anchored out near the cannery between openings, seemed fun compared to the noise and slime in the ship.
On the way out of that country Jack lay over a day in the Naknek river in front of the town. After dinner he gave everybody fifty dollars cash draw and turned us loose on the beach. Gathered us in the next day, scattered around town like lost sheep. Cost another fifty each to cover the damages. Then it's up anchor and trundle down the coast, heading for Yakutat, Unalakleet bobbing along behind on stout black poly tow line. Slow trip.
The evening we got into town Jack told Cal and me to put the Unalakleet on the beach, see if you can figure out why the damned thing slowed us down so much. I let go the lines and Cal threw both engines in gear to swing her ass out to back away, fifteen hundred produced little more than an hellish rattle and clanking sound. Next morning at low water we had to cut the biggest ball of poly line anyone has ever seen fowling both wheels. In addition, the hubs were hopelessly worn out, rattling on the shafts. Not fixable without extensive machine work.
On the way walking over to check out the boat that morning, Cal stopped by the trailer house liquor store, came out with a pint of vodka. Scrutinized the cap between work gnarled thumb and forefinger, flipped it in the bushes, wont be needing this.
Sunny morning on the beach. After cutting the line away from the wheels we leaned our backs against a log and finished the bottle. Head back in time for lunch. Me reeling from a few hits on the bottle, Cal just getting into a party mood.
Older crew suggested that us kids not go out partying with the locals. Sometimes things get rough in small communities like that and outsiders may be tested. Cal, ten years older been in the army, ignored the warnings. Third or fourth night drinking at a house up in the town, showed up on the boat breakfast time beaten up badly enough that Jack flew him out to the hospital in Juneau. Cal said it was the damnedest thing. Middle of the night everyone sleeping he suddenly hears someone yell get that Texan and they all jumped on him in the dark. Next morning we's all friends again. Broken ribs and black eyes, but then a decent drunk down in Juneau.
Lay at the wharf in Yakutat for several days getting ourselves outfitted for the run up the coast to the Kaliakh. Took on new crew, two women. Been drinking the day they came aboard, had to fish one out of the water with a line around her middle. Women's bathroom smelled strong of whisky and perfume for the rest of the trip. Can't say for sure if the boss brought them along as passengers or crew.
Last day in town loaded the fisher families gear, open skiffs nested on the top deck. About dusk families started coming aboard, baby in arms to old grandpa carried over the gap between the wharf and our top deck in a rocking chair. At that Jack gave the word to let go the lines, ran all night up the coast.
Nine or ten the next morning we lay a mile or so off what appeared to be an unbroken surf line in front of the river. Jack squinting through his binoculars leaning out the open port hole four feet over my head. He had trained me to run the bow anchor wenches. Three hundred pound cast iron Danforth style anchors on wire cable no chain.
Let her go.....tell Jimmy to get the skiff down.
By the time the dog clicked in place on the anchor wench Jim jerked the outboard to life, leaned his but into the motor to get full thrust backing away from the Kayak into the ocean swell. Jack standing at the forward fish checker, hanging on to the painter. They disappeared off toward the breakers. Open boat into the surf looking for the channel, heavy clothing no safety gear weren't even wearing float coats.
Soon as the anchor clanged back into the chocks Jack headed us toward the breaker line at slow speed, let the anchor go the instant I yell. Green kid, all I knew is that if he yelled it wouldn't be good. He didn't yell. Found the slot where a big flood tide flowing up into the channel flattened the breakers into steep sided rollers through which Kayak cut with ease. Never knew if he had an old timers trick for estimating depth of water in the channel or if we went in on guess and by golly and hope the anchor holds if she plows into the sand. He had been in there a dozen or more times so he knew what to expect.
Settled into an anchorage close enough to the sheer bank that we could cross ashore on two by twelve planks from about half tide. Communication between the wheel house and mooring stations often included shouts and curses from above, Jimmy moving around below silently running the deck gang. Heavy anchor on the stern set first, then pay out ahead until the starboard bow anchor is set. Back the boat using twin screw to pull the stern toward the beach, set a second anchor off the stern, wench the boat forward so she hangs between the anchors no matter which way the current is flowing. Second bow anchor set from the skiff while a crew of us younger guys dug the holes and put together the dead man anchor points. Lines to the land had to be constantly tended as the tide rose and fell throughout the day and night.
A second processor, the Teddy pulled in not long after we got set up in the river, anchoring a couple hundred yards down stream. A freezer boat instead of cannery,otherwise the same surplus LCI. I never went over to have a look at the setup. Couple years later I helped convert the Bearing to a freezer, but that's another story.
Cal flew in a couple days later. In high spirits, tweed sport jacket over his work shirt, carrying a sweet little cowboy .30.30 he got at a pawn shop in town. Standing on the top deck, nearly level with the field beyond the river bank, we each plinked off a couple shots at a drift log fifty yards ahead of the boat. Jack came out, took his turn shooting, then took the gun with him back into his cabin. Only three rules on the boat. No drinking, no guns, and wear shoes.
ADFG managed the fishery by counting fish in the river. Low return numbers that year kept the fishers gillnets on the beach most of the time. We got little piles of fish, enough to run the can line an hour or two, with several down days between openings.
Jack's drinking rule seems to be informally suspended although most of the partying went on over at the Teddy and in cabins up on the beach. Pretty much the same group Cal had been drinking with in Yakutat. Other than punches exchanged between brothers over on the Teddy one night we didn't hear about any more rough stuff. Cal stayed home, smoking Chesterfield straight and playing checkers or chess against Jimmy in the galley; no drinking in that room.
Closest to a party for me were a few kisses that tasted of Viceroy cigarette and the bosses finest sipping whiskey. She tried to teach me to look people in the eye and told me just because someone works hard it doesn't mean they are honest. Someone sent her a dozen little purple pills from San Francisco. She gave me one while we were up the Kvichak. Acid trip in a steel ship with a four seventy-one gen set rattling all night isn't recommended. If you have been on acid you will know, if not there is no way to explain. More fun on the beach north of the Kaliakh, although we were caught out in the open when a storm suddenly ripped up the coast. Hours later found us knocking at the fish and game agent's door. His cabin overlooked the river entrance half mile north of the Kayak. Cooked pork chops for us in a huge black cast iron pan, wood fire cook range. Seasoned his pan with a bit of fat-back like a painter applies pigment to canvas. When we got home Tom the cook acted miffed that we missed his regular dinner in the galley.
All too soon real world, or as close to real world as I ever ventured, called and I had to flew out to the city to start classes at UW. A theist's vision of paradise is no better than the anticipation one feels in the chest when your loaded duffel bag clunks into the back of the bush plane and the pilot cranks the engine to life. He had to lean way forward in the seat to watch for logs on the beach, circled the boat then south along the coast to Yakutat. Some of the most spectacularly beautiful country one could ever hope to see.
*even in the nineties when I ran a troll fish buying scow in southeast one didn't see many of the wild coho salmon like the run that came into the Kaliakh. Think medium king. Hurts to visualize those beauties sliced and diced in that cannery.
Found this photo on facebook West Coast Fisherman page I think, without attribution other than Brystol Bay boats. Charley, Peter, forget the name of the aluminum boat facing us on the end of the raft, owned by Jack, leased to fishermen. Could have been taken the day we ran up the Kvichak. Lay over the tide on the mud that afternoon, boats rafted along side in the same order as this picture. Remember sitting in the galley on the Charley passing joints around, not noticing the rising tide until lines started parting.
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| KAYAK on the left |
Canned red salmon at Clair Clark fish camp in Big Creek that year, then ran up the Kvichak River and canned dogs. Crew of technicians from Japan processing the row under visqueen shack on the top deck. Mostly native fishers in the Kvichak, big open outboard skiffs with tent or plywood shelter forward. They all anchored out near the cannery between openings, seemed fun compared to the noise and slime in the ship.
On the way out of that country Jack lay over a day in the Naknek river in front of the town. After dinner he gave everybody fifty dollars cash draw and turned us loose on the beach. Gathered us in the next day, scattered around town like lost sheep. Cost another fifty each to cover the damages. Then it's up anchor and trundle down the coast, heading for Yakutat, Unalakleet bobbing along behind on stout black poly tow line. Slow trip.
The evening we got into town Jack told Cal and me to put the Unalakleet on the beach, see if you can figure out why the damned thing slowed us down so much. I let go the lines and Cal threw both engines in gear to swing her ass out to back away, fifteen hundred produced little more than an hellish rattle and clanking sound. Next morning at low water we had to cut the biggest ball of poly line anyone has ever seen fowling both wheels. In addition, the hubs were hopelessly worn out, rattling on the shafts. Not fixable without extensive machine work.
On the way walking over to check out the boat that morning, Cal stopped by the trailer house liquor store, came out with a pint of vodka. Scrutinized the cap between work gnarled thumb and forefinger, flipped it in the bushes, wont be needing this.
Sunny morning on the beach. After cutting the line away from the wheels we leaned our backs against a log and finished the bottle. Head back in time for lunch. Me reeling from a few hits on the bottle, Cal just getting into a party mood.
Older crew suggested that us kids not go out partying with the locals. Sometimes things get rough in small communities like that and outsiders may be tested. Cal, ten years older been in the army, ignored the warnings. Third or fourth night drinking at a house up in the town, showed up on the boat breakfast time beaten up badly enough that Jack flew him out to the hospital in Juneau. Cal said it was the damnedest thing. Middle of the night everyone sleeping he suddenly hears someone yell get that Texan and they all jumped on him in the dark. Next morning we's all friends again. Broken ribs and black eyes, but then a decent drunk down in Juneau.
Lay at the wharf in Yakutat for several days getting ourselves outfitted for the run up the coast to the Kaliakh. Took on new crew, two women. Been drinking the day they came aboard, had to fish one out of the water with a line around her middle. Women's bathroom smelled strong of whisky and perfume for the rest of the trip. Can't say for sure if the boss brought them along as passengers or crew.
Last day in town loaded the fisher families gear, open skiffs nested on the top deck. About dusk families started coming aboard, baby in arms to old grandpa carried over the gap between the wharf and our top deck in a rocking chair. At that Jack gave the word to let go the lines, ran all night up the coast.
Nine or ten the next morning we lay a mile or so off what appeared to be an unbroken surf line in front of the river. Jack squinting through his binoculars leaning out the open port hole four feet over my head. He had trained me to run the bow anchor wenches. Three hundred pound cast iron Danforth style anchors on wire cable no chain.
Let her go.....tell Jimmy to get the skiff down.
By the time the dog clicked in place on the anchor wench Jim jerked the outboard to life, leaned his but into the motor to get full thrust backing away from the Kayak into the ocean swell. Jack standing at the forward fish checker, hanging on to the painter. They disappeared off toward the breakers. Open boat into the surf looking for the channel, heavy clothing no safety gear weren't even wearing float coats.
Soon as the anchor clanged back into the chocks Jack headed us toward the breaker line at slow speed, let the anchor go the instant I yell. Green kid, all I knew is that if he yelled it wouldn't be good. He didn't yell. Found the slot where a big flood tide flowing up into the channel flattened the breakers into steep sided rollers through which Kayak cut with ease. Never knew if he had an old timers trick for estimating depth of water in the channel or if we went in on guess and by golly and hope the anchor holds if she plows into the sand. He had been in there a dozen or more times so he knew what to expect.
A second processor, the Teddy pulled in not long after we got set up in the river, anchoring a couple hundred yards down stream. A freezer boat instead of cannery,otherwise the same surplus LCI. I never went over to have a look at the setup. Couple years later I helped convert the Bearing to a freezer, but that's another story.
Cal flew in a couple days later. In high spirits, tweed sport jacket over his work shirt, carrying a sweet little cowboy .30.30 he got at a pawn shop in town. Standing on the top deck, nearly level with the field beyond the river bank, we each plinked off a couple shots at a drift log fifty yards ahead of the boat. Jack came out, took his turn shooting, then took the gun with him back into his cabin. Only three rules on the boat. No drinking, no guns, and wear shoes.
ADFG managed the fishery by counting fish in the river. Low return numbers that year kept the fishers gillnets on the beach most of the time. We got little piles of fish, enough to run the can line an hour or two, with several down days between openings.
Jack's drinking rule seems to be informally suspended although most of the partying went on over at the Teddy and in cabins up on the beach. Pretty much the same group Cal had been drinking with in Yakutat. Other than punches exchanged between brothers over on the Teddy one night we didn't hear about any more rough stuff. Cal stayed home, smoking Chesterfield straight and playing checkers or chess against Jimmy in the galley; no drinking in that room.
Closest to a party for me were a few kisses that tasted of Viceroy cigarette and the bosses finest sipping whiskey. She tried to teach me to look people in the eye and told me just because someone works hard it doesn't mean they are honest. Someone sent her a dozen little purple pills from San Francisco. She gave me one while we were up the Kvichak. Acid trip in a steel ship with a four seventy-one gen set rattling all night isn't recommended. If you have been on acid you will know, if not there is no way to explain. More fun on the beach north of the Kaliakh, although we were caught out in the open when a storm suddenly ripped up the coast. Hours later found us knocking at the fish and game agent's door. His cabin overlooked the river entrance half mile north of the Kayak. Cooked pork chops for us in a huge black cast iron pan, wood fire cook range. Seasoned his pan with a bit of fat-back like a painter applies pigment to canvas. When we got home Tom the cook acted miffed that we missed his regular dinner in the galley.
All too soon real world, or as close to real world as I ever ventured, called and I had to flew out to the city to start classes at UW. A theist's vision of paradise is no better than the anticipation one feels in the chest when your loaded duffel bag clunks into the back of the bush plane and the pilot cranks the engine to life. He had to lean way forward in the seat to watch for logs on the beach, circled the boat then south along the coast to Yakutat. Some of the most spectacularly beautiful country one could ever hope to see.
*even in the nineties when I ran a troll fish buying scow in southeast one didn't see many of the wild coho salmon like the run that came into the Kaliakh. Think medium king. Hurts to visualize those beauties sliced and diced in that cannery.
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| Jack's boats rafted alongside Kayak |
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