I live with a nukalpiaq (good provider). We follow a subsistence calendar way of life on the mid-Kuskokwim River.
Each June, John George grabs his salmon nets from storage and spreads them out along the ground between our home and maqivik (steam bath). The salmon openers range from June 15 and as the fish run, we catch kings, reds, chum, and silvers through August. For kings, the net size is six-inch and 45 mesh and 150 feet for drift nets, and six-inch or less, 60 feet for set nets.
Our fish camp is across the river on the Kiktak Island, original site of the village, abandoned now. The story is told about two lovers who walked across the river, holding hands, and built their home in what is now Akiacuar, population of about 700 people.
In 2020, with the pandemic scare, we purchased a yurt from Nomad Shelter in Homer and had it shipped by planes in April. After storing it inside a shed, we waited for good weather and for the river to break before hauling it by multiple boat trips to the other side of the river. My husband and I cleared the land, and he built a round 24-foot foundation from cut logs and pieces of plywood. He raised the skylight with help from his nephew, and when he draped the walls his son-in-law muscled the fabric over the structure.
Fish camp is an important place for us. We work at the camp for six to eight weeks during the fish runs. Not only do we dry fish, but we also jar fresh salmon and smoked strips. I don’t count the cases or have a goal in mind; I just jar them until I don’t want to.
This summer my grandchildren visited in early July when we were living at camp. My granddaughter Kiersten and her sister Kaylyn Patricia and their cousin Robbie (my first grandchild) camped with us to help with the fishing, cutting, smoking, and jarring.
The weather was warm, and the cottonwood trees stood tall behind our camp to protect us from too much heat. The wildflowers grew abundantly amongst the lush ferns. Rose hips colored the greens and grass pink with lively petals peeking through the stands of older, fragile tree limbs. Valarian or teptukutuq stood high, flowering the grass reaching towards the sky.
Our feet make paths in every direction—circling around the yurt along the edge of the river, across to the hanging racks, the smokehouse, and beyond, to the stand of trees we forage from to build many fires. Fish camp is an awakening. Once the ice breaks free and the logs and floating debris clear the way for smelt, the king salmon, or Chinook, return. Taryavak are heavy fish weighing from ten to 40 pounds. They are awkward to carry but, once started, fish camp momentum begins.
My husband drifts and nets the fish up and down the river, along with all the other fishermen. As he catches, he rides back to the camp and carries each fish up the bank of the steep terrain to a fish tub, filled with river water. He covers the tub with a blue tarp to keep the flies at bay. Adjacent to the fish rack, he built a cutting table from willow trees and pallet boards. An overhang attached to the drying racks keeps the rain from settling in, and while cutting I can watch the raindrops and soak up the moisture.
A few years ago, my eldest daughter gifted me two expert uluaq curved knives for Mother’s Day, and since that time I have set aside my old knives in favor of the new. The key to a great ulu it its sharpness as well as its roundness, which gives me the advantage of gliding my knife into the deep folds of tough king salmon skin.
The first cut is the beheading. Oftentimes my husband cuts off the heads with his men’s knife, throws the heads and whole fish back into the tub of river water to wait in the thick, blood-reddened liquid. Quietly I cut each fish for hanging on the drying racks, rinse them in a saltwater brine, and smoke them outside until they are dry and the fat drips. A fire is lit from an older oil drum filled with mature willow wood to create a smoke that keeps the flies away and helps with the drying. Each fish is checked and rechecked for fly eggs. Flaps are smoothed out and turned around and cared for with attention. When moving the flaps to the smokehouse, my husband lines them up on willow branch poles and places each pole in the dark smokehouse. He can easily arrange and move them to allow for air and smoke to do their magic.
At the end of the fishing season, each smoked fish is checked thoroughly. We touch them, smell them, and decide together whether to keep them or bequeath them to the dog team. The good fish is stored in Ziploc bags and brought in to freeze. King salmon are the choiciest dry fish, but we dry and smoke all the fish we catch.
When the smoking begins, we try to keep the stove on throughout the night. We keep the fire going and the woodpile ready, so the smoking is continuous. The yurt shelters us from the bugs and weather, and it is a great place to cook and sleep. Inside we have an off-the-grid propane Unique stove for cooking and an Osburn wood stove for heat and comfort. Glass windows are adorned with dark curtains from J.C. Penney in Anchorage, and we purchased a bed from Amazon and a cot and IKEA table set from the village hardware store. Around the back of the yurt facing the trees and rose hip plants I situated Mrs. Sunmar, with a roll of toilet paper.
At fish camp, not only do we dry fish for winter, but I enjoy writing poetry as well and embroider and read books. Summer barges go by waking us up, and it’s fun to go out from the yurt porch to wave at the captain and crew.
In fall, while the colors change into deep cranberry and the purple fireweed flowers begin to drop or whiten, we gather the flowers to make fireweed jelly. Each petal from the flower releases itself into our hands.
Willow Tea
BY MARY GEORGE
She perched the
Willow leaves
Bunches in her hands
Set them on a cloth
On the floor
Beneath the window, large
To dry, wait.
She cut the bark
From the tree
And carved it with her knife
While the fishers were fishing
On the second day of drifts.
The inner bark and leaves
She boiled on her propane stove,
A small pot used for
Brown rice.
Medicine for the fisherman
And her grandson
Come nightfall.
