Here on the lower Yukon and many other parts of Alaska, Christmas is celebrated twice.
We have the traditional Christmas on Dec 25th with Santa Claus and presents- just like the rest of the lower United States. But some villages celebrate Slavic as wel. It's the Russian version of Christmas. It comes from the early eighteenth century Russian influence on Alaska.
Many villagers still bear the names of there Russian ancestory.
It begins on the seventh of January. The Russian orthodox priest will start the proceedings with a mass in the church, then followed by a procession of singing villagers following behind the priest. A boy will also follow holding a three foot star on a spindel. The star is hand spun the whole while, by the boy, as the procession follows to the first house that will host the feed.
The star is brought into the house while the procession follows singing the whole way.
After gathering into the house the priest says a small prayer and then another over the table and spread of food.
Then the feasting begins. Most of the villagers will converge on the house that is feeding and everyone eats in shifts so everyone gets fed. On the menu will be things like moose soup or beaver, baked salmon, dryfish and agutak for desert (Eskimo ice cream made of fish, berries suger and whipped shortning) along with fry bread and tea or coffee.
Small gifts are also given away by the host that is feeding. Some will get a pair of gloves or soap or wash cloths, decks of cards or other small items.
The star will spend several hours at the house and then the whole singing procession will start up once again and head off to the next house led by the priest. And the spinning star to repeat the feast again in the next house. This goes on nonstop for several days or up to a week or longer depending on how many houses in the village want to host the star and have a feed.
The Cabin
When I first moved to the village I was quiet fortunate and was able to procure a small log cabin on the edge of town located right on the bank of the Yukon River. It had no plumbing, but was in a great location. I lived there more than ten years and grew to love the place. It was totally the best time of my life.
It was one room with a small woodstove in the middle of the room. And there was a small partition in one corner that was used as a bathroom. To the immediate left, along the wall, was a small table with a basin for washing and a towel hanging on a hook. A mirror and a bed was on the far wall. And there was yet another bigger table by the window facing the river. There, I could have coffee in the morning and dinner in the evening while watching the geese fly by and the beavers swimming up the banks as the salmon jump in the channel. I once watched a muskoxen walk across the frozen river one winter and right through the yard.
It did have power; as in two light bulbs and two wall sockets. So I was not totally in the dark. It was quite a luxury as far as bush living goes. I was able to have a freezer and small compartment under the floor boards acted as my fridge. It would keep most anything cool even in summer. I had a radio and could listen to KNOM in Nome.
The cabin was old, built in the 40s, and the logs were getting rotten. Voles ran through the hallow walls most nights while I lay awake listening to them. The ones that came in the house got trapped. And in that way, I could keep the numbers down and my sanity intact.
I made my living at the time running a tender boat up and down the Yukon buying fish for various fish companies during the summer. I also supported my major existence by trapping the winters.
Once, during the spring, around April I was getting caught up on my beaver skinning. I had a large beaver laid out on a bench in the middle of the room. The door was propped open. It was such a nice day, with the long spring daylight hours things were warming up nicely.
I started skinning the beaver by first removing the paws and tail and tossed them on the wood pile that I kept by the door. When I had the beaver about half skinned, I looked up, and to my surprise here comes a white long tailed weasel (ermine) hopping through the open door.
I put down my knife and watched as he slowly hopped through the cabin, checking under the table, then the bed, and back out again. He was on his way out the door, and then he stopped dead in his tracks. He appeared to be stretched out and stiff. And with careful steps he started creeping closer to the beaver feet in the woodpile by the door. I chuckled to myself realizing the little white mouser, was about to be fooled into thinking that a small front beaver paw with a bit of fur still on it looked like a live vole. He was in the process of putting the stalk on it (much like a cat would) and after a few moments and a few steps closer, he made a mad dash in and pounced on the small fur ball. And, to my surprise, I could hear an audible squeal and could not believe my eyes as he lifted his head and held in his jaws a limp small shrew that was apparently munching on one of the beaver paws totally unnoticed by me.
The weasel pranced out the door with his prize, seemed not to even notice me watching, and left me feeling as if I just witnessed a lion kill a wildebeest.
Fur Season
As December rolls in, the men are once again setting their traps in hope of catching some prime beaver, lynx, fox, mink, marten, wolf, and wolverine. Once the fur is caught, skinned, stretched, and dried it will be traded for much needed cash to buy Christmas presents, fuel, oil, gas, and pay bills and other needs.
During the winter, the few jobs in the construction have shut down. Fishing and wild-land firefighting is over. So it can be a economically challenging time for villagers as they try to make a living. Fur sales is one way they can make it, rather than welfare and government subsidies
The animal populations here are just short of amazing. Since we have so few people per square mile, the fur resource is hardly even fully utilized. We have beaver everywhere and lots of fox and we are in a high cycle for lynx. We can harvest these animals during the season as a renewable resource. And it will not harm the population as a whole. As one area is trapped, it makes room for the young of the past year to fill in the void and reproduce in that area. It's a never ending cycle that works pretty good. The alternative to controlling the populations is disease and starvation naturally, and that is cruel and such a waste in my opinion.
There are people that are dead set against trapping; claiming it's cruel and unjust. But the alternative is worse and can be way more devastating to the populations than what the trappers can ever do. And if the populations ever get low enough to warrant a decrease, trapping seasons are adjusted or even closed entirely to let the population recoup until they are healthy again.
Fur is truly a green renewable resource and very warm. The folks that live in northern climates still wear fur. Since there is no real substitute that is comparable in warmth and style, it's the only logical thing to use. And it looks great as well.
Many trappers feed themselves with there catch. Beaver, muskrat, lynx, and even otter are eaten. And if not being eaten by the trapper and their family- the village dogs get their much needed protein (that is so important to survive the sub zero temperatures in this northern climate).
Owl In The Smokehouse
Daylight is slow coming in this norther region. As the sun slowly crept over the horizion at ten AM, I checked out the back window and see if the local pine squirrel was at the bird feeder that is set up on the side of the smokehouse. It usually sits and eats the beans or seeds or crusts of bread we put out there for him. The birds, who struggle to survive in this snowy climate, also come to nibble on the treats.
On this crapisicular morning I could just make out a ghostly pale silhoutte of a small owl perched on one of the upright posts. He sat at the top, on the pointy end of the verticle post; from his advantage point he could see the bird feeder where some seed was scatterd across the snow. There, the voles were getting a free lunch as well.
I could see his head slowly rotating while he scanned below for the slight movement of a vole searching out the seeds in the snow. I sat and watched as it became full daylight and realized the squirrel would soon arrive at the bird feeder for his customery breakfast.
I went in the kitchen and got a cup of mocha (that was my morning ritual) and by the time I made it back to the window all hell had broken loose. The squirrel had arrived and was loudly chattering and bouncing around the side the smokehouse like spiderman on crack. All the while cussing at that owl - that didnt look much bigger than a ptarmigin. To tell you the truth, had this been Las Vegas I would of put my wager on the squirrel. He was fearless of me and the neighborhood dogs that would send him scampering up the pole to the feeder. But once just out of reach of the dogs, he would sit and cuss their mother and everything else about them and showed no fear of even God himself.
Well he went spinning around the smoke house chattering for an hour, while the small boreal owl swiveled his head around trying to make sense of all the commotion that was going on while he was trying to take a nap in the new morning sunshine.
The owl eventually seemed to get aggravated and flew to perch on the piece of plywood that was partially covering the smokhouse door. He fluffed his feathers and ignored the squirrel as best he could while dozing off.
The squirrel still seemed upset about the owl's presence at "his" feeder, but was content to sit just above the owl on the smokehouse. There, he could keep and eye on the intruder and doze off into the morning sunshine with him.
Moose And Me
After a rough ride through the broken ice on my snowmachine I got to the other side of the river. There is a high cut bank that detours me down river a short ways until I come to a small creek that allows me acces up the bank. From there it's a big frozen swamp with huge areas that the snow is pawed away. Often times moose get down on their front knees, while their hind ends are still standing and eat the plants that are froze under the snow. They gather in these areas in large numbers when the snow is not too deep. There they forage while also scraping bark from the willow bushes with there lower front teeth. They munch the tips of the branches usually by method of grabbing the branch in there mouth and breaking it down for easy access.
The Alaska Department of Fish and Game estimates 4000 moose in this area and down river to the coast.
The moose are a blessing for sure. This part of Alaska was meat hungry as early back as the 1980s. The moose population was dier and they closed hunting season for 5 years in hopes they would repopulate. They sure did. It was a success story unlike any other. The population increased rapidly, due to what many believe was the fires upriver. They think they drove many moose down to inhabit this lush willow rich country. With very few wolves in the area as well, they have a pretty easy life around here.
I also can see a down side to having too many moose, especially when I come riding down a thick willow trail and there is a moose or three on the trail ahead. The drill goes like this: Do a face off for a few minutes and see if he leaves the trail. If not, yell and clap my hands. If that doesn't work, I get off and start manually turning my machine around on the tight trail all the while keeping one eye over my shoulder watching the moose.
Once, while having a face off and getting about midway turned around I had a impatiant moose charge down the trail towards me. I had to jump off the trail and flounder through the chest deep snow to a tree to climb. I was able to get five feet up before the now running moose decided he would jump over my snowmachine. He leapt through the air with form much like you would see a flying reindeer on Santa's sleigh. The moose's leap fell short; his back hooves didn't clear the machine and caught on the back rack and he fell like a grand piano right in the snow next to me in the small tree. He looked over. We shared a glance while he layed there for a moment gathering himself. Then he got to his feet and trotted down the trail in the direction he so desperately wanted to go; like nothing ever happend.
Crossing the Yukon River
The ice in front of the village has stopped flowing and jammed early last week. With the colder temps the river is now locked under hard water until mid May when it breaks up again. It will be our highway, our grocery store, and from its banks we will utilize the driftwood to heat our homes through out the long winter. The women will gather down on the ice in front of the village and jig for pike through the ice. They will catch them to be freeze-dried on fish racks out in there yards so they can keep a close eye on them and keep the ever hungry ravens at bay.
The men will be busy with their nets and fish traps out on the ice, so there is a social atmosphere about it. There is always someone doing somthing out on the ice.
The ice quickly thickens with the colder weather and by spring it will be as much as four feet thick in some places.
The water is low during the fall freeze-up so the tops of sandbars are sticking out and can blow sand during storms much like a desert dust storm.
The men are eager to cross and usually one man will walk on the jumbled broken ice (that looks like broken glass pushed into piles and ridges) testing with an ice pick ahead of each step to see if it's safe enough to drive a snowmobile (snowmachine) across.
If he succeeds and makes it, he will return with his snowmachine and get his sled. Then he will gather driftwood poles and stand them up in small holes chipped in the ice with his ice pick to mark the trail. These will be used so when it snows folks can find the marked trail and make it across safely. Some places are still open so we must not deviate from the trail for fear of going through a thin spot on the ice until everything is solidly froze over in a month or so.
On the far side of the river is a mud cutbank that's ten feet high and must be climbed with the snowmachine to access a network of trails called portages cut through the thick willow and alder brush with stands of cottonwood mixed in.
These trails are arteries that lead to sloughs that we can travel on. They lead to lakes and that's where the country opens up and travel is uninhibited by lack of trees so we can go most anywhere.
The men will busy once they get across the river. Some will be hauling driftwood logs and loading sledloads of firewood before the snow gets deep and the wood is burried. Others will be setting blackfish traps in the marshes. And many will be setting out and tending their traplines to catch meat and fur- the latter for much needed winter income to buy gas and everyday needs.
It will be the beginning of the long Alaskan winter. A time to slow down and enjoy the peace and tranquility only the winter snow seems to bring.
I will be out there almost daily doing my thing. It is my favorite time of the year.
The Morning After: Alaska Bering Sea Storm
The view in my backyard hasn't changed.
Well here it is, the morning after the expected apocalypse and everything seams fine. The winds last night were atrocious and had the house shaking on its very foundation, but we didn’t wake up in the land of OZ.
We are inland 75 miles from the Bering Sea so it seems we didn’t get the full brunt of the storm. So far I have not heard of any major flooding on our immediate coastal area. Even Nome was relatively dry. As far as water and ice coming into town as predicted, so far there has just been some roof damage and one village lost power. That is about the extent of it, from what I have heard. The winds here this morning are calm, but a lot of our snow is gone. It simply blew away from the high winds we had last night. The temps have warmed and the morning is gun metal gray. So we can expect some more snow or possibly rain yet today, or yet another wave from the storm to wrap around and hit us again before all is said and done.
Folks here are used to these storms. They roll in as old remnants of Japanese typhoons. Often times they are from the tropical storms that come to die in the western Bering Sea. Much like the salmon, they soon lose strength and become just another snow storm or rain and high winds.
And yet some are very much alive, and can pound our small villages on the west coast.
As long as there is not high water rolling through the main streets, the villages are pretty much bullet proof against these storms. As they have endured others just like it and are still standing. Sometimes I look at some of the old buildings in town and wonder in amazement how they are still standing after such a storm, despite there leaning like the Tower of Pisa even before the onset of the storm.
Around the village life will go on as normal. People will go to the post office despite no mail plane yesterday. The local store will be open for business. Even school is on for the kids. Most locals will say it was nothing really, just another storm, and wonder why all the international media hype. They will go about their normal daily lives. The nets will be checked, the wood chopped, as any another day in the life of the village.
Alaska Bering Sea Storm Update
A picture of the village with our first few strong gusts. Approximately 6:00 AK time.
Satellite Shot of the storm Curtosy of Alaska Weather Service
Alaska Bering Sea Storm
After getting the net checked this morning, I got some wood cut and brought into the house to feed the always hungry wood stove. All was accomplished during what is made out to be the mother of all storms, headed our way. The Yukon River spills into the Bering Sea and the small Yup'ik Eskimo villages that live along its low lying areas are about to be flooded. That could be bad in more ways than one. First off, it's pretty much winter here and the low-lying villages are barley above sea level so when the wind blows the water up on shore during the high tides people will have virtually no high ground to get to.
I experianced one bad storm on the coast while on a hunt. When the tide came up and the small cabin we were staying in was flooded and we actually floated the cabin on a high tide that was six feet over the bank. Had I not tied two big set net anchors to hold the house in place before hand, the house would of floated inland with us in it. It was one of the most hair raising experiences I was ever in. At one point the tide went back out and we were set back on the ground. We opened the door and let the two feet of water that was sloshing around like bilgewater out. We simply lit the stove again with wood we had piled on the bunks to stay dry along with all our bedding.
We were tired but alive and all went to bed only to be awoke again because of the waves rocking the house again. And this time they were much bigger. We floated up again. The logs under the cabin acting as pontoons to keep up afloat, but this time the winds got even worse and one of the anchor lines pulled loose and the house went sideways in the wind. one anchor still held but we were no longer afforded the leward side of the house where we could tie to the boat out of the waves.
My partner and his young boy of 16 yrs old decided it was time to try and call on the VHF on channel sixteen [the emergencey channel]. But his call for assitance went unanswerd. We could see now, as it was getting light. And though we could jump into the boat and try to make it up the Yukon River to the safety of the river banks, they too were flooded. We pushed off and rolled in the huge surf of the Bering Sea in our 20 foot open skiff. It felt like a toy in the bath tub as we rode up one big wave and down the back side. Slowly but surely we made our way up, and after a few miles made it into the relative safety of river banks that were still somewhat flooded even miles up the river. We were tired and stopped at a fish camp to rest. The floor of the cabin was wet, so we knew the water came up that far. We lit the stove and slept for a day eating and drying up.
The next mornning we continued up river the remaining sixty miles and made it home where even here the water had rose overnight from the storm surge and went down again.
So now I sit and wait for our 948 millabar low that's supposed to decend on us tonight. If this was the lower fourty eight states they would call it a hurricane. But here it's still just a storm.
We hope and pray for those on the lower Yukon River and Bering Sea coastal areas, that they can find high ground and get out of harms way. We should be OK here with minimal damage, but those poor lowland folks could have ice chunks pushed by water crashing through there village tonight.
Our river here is fresh froze over with ice, so it will be interesting to see if the high water surge makes it upriver seventy miles like it did last time. Some fishing nets recently set in the new formed ice could be lost if the ice opens up again.
I can expect the house to be shaking from the high winds. It's a common occurance here. We can expect to lose our internet, perhaps even the power we all depend on.
But here we will be fine. We have freezers full of meat and fish and woodstoves to keep warm.
We hope for the storm to have mercy on the poor souls that cannot get out of it's path.
How To Set an Ice Net
Fish is a very important food source here on the big river. During summer it's salmon and in winter there is four species referred to as whitefish or white meated fish. There is burbot, lush, sheefish (that can get huge and look like a tarpon), and then two smaller species of actual whitefish.
These are important for fresh fish during the winter months and most families here will keep an under ice net all winter.
Early in November when the Yukon has frozen over only a few inches, all the men will go out on the new ice right in front of the village. There, they strech out their nets on top of a smooth patch of ice to create a marker for holes that they will chop to set the net. Laying the net down helps to measure the length.
At each end of the net a hole is chipped through the ice, until we have a round hole about 3 feet in diameter.
We also have a long pole or board about ten to fifteen feet long. A short string is tied on with a net floater (or an empty air-tight jug) attached to it.
The pole is laid on the ice as a marker in between the two holes and more holes are chopped through the ice at each measured length of the pole.
Then a line is tied to the floater and pushed under the ice until the floater pops up in the next hole. The line is then untied and held while the pole is retracted out the way it came. The line is tied again and pushed under the ice again until the floater pops up in the next hole and so on until you have a line under the ice from the first hole to the furtherest hole.
Then the net is piled in front of one hole and tied to the line. Going to the other hole, pull the line as the net feeds down the hole and under the ice. Continue to pull until it pops out at the other end. It is then tied to a long pole (approximately 6 to 8 feet). That pole is submersed down the hole several feet and tied to a brace stick that is frozen in the ice beside the hole for support. (To create the brace stick, chop a hole beside the large hole and place the brace stick inside. By the time we finish setting the net the brace stick is frozen into the ice enough to hold the other stick). The other end is also tied to a pole in the same manner. We push the stick straight down through the hole into the water and tie it off on a wooden support brace frozen into the ice as well.
When checking the net daily, ice is chopped out of the two end holes and the slush is scooped out with a shovel. Then a line is laid out the a little longer than the length of the net on top the ice. One of the poles is then untied from the support and pulled up out of the water. The net is untied from that pole and tied to the line stretched out on top the ice. It is let go. Then we go to the other end; that pole is untied from the support then pulled out of the water and left tied to the pole as the net is pulled out of the water. We pile the net on top of the ice in front of the hole and each fish is carfully picked out of the net as they come out on top of the ice.
Once you reach the end of the net the end is thrown back into the hole. The line at the other end, at the far hole, is pulled and the net feeds itself back under the ice. The pole is reset on the support stick and the other end is untied from the line and reattached to the pole and tied back to the support.
The line is rewrapped and the fish are loaded up in a sack to be shared with friends and family back in the village.
Waiting For Eels
It is Halloween and the river is freezing. Cakes of ice are flowing. The ice shelf is growing out from the edge and getting thicker each day. The nights have been down in the teens and single digits and the mighty Yukon is slowing down for the winter.
The salmon are done running, but there are still whitefish and others in the river. But right now it’s time for the great eel migration. They enter the Yukon from the Bering Sea. After living their life attached to salmon, sucking the life blood out of them until they are fat enough to detach, they make their migration up river to spawn in the silty Yukon River.
Lamprey eels are a delicacy here on the Yukon. They are raked up from long narrow holes chopped in the ice, using a long board with sharp headless nails up and down the sides. The eel stick is raked through the water back and forth until an eel is impaled on the nails much like a hotdog on a stick. They wrap there slithering bodies around the stick and are raked up and out from under the water and thrown on top of the ice. They act and look very much like a snakes slithering around your feet until the cold overcomes them and they quickly freeze.
When they are running thick dip nets are used and great quantities can be harvested. We even have a commercial fishery here on the Yukon and we will get a $1 a pound for them at the local salmon buying office. There is a market for them in Asia and they are also an important food source here.
The first eels of the season are brought home and shared for everyone to get a taste of the rich oily flavor. They remind me of canned sardines and are very good baked or fried.
Some years we miss them and they pass, so we try to check the river daily starting before Halloween and into mid-November until they arrive. Each day someone from the village will chop a slot in the ice to see if they have arrived.
We are still waiting patiently ....this all hallows eve.
The Autumn Harvest
Making meat is one of the most important aspects of life here in rural Alaska. I would say it's right up there with getting our wood pile put up so we can have heat during the long Alaskan winter.
Meat can come in many forms. Folks here harvest waterfowl and ptarmigin, and even some caribou and seal. But it's moose that fills our freezers and is on the table more than most other dishes.
Moose is suprisingly very good, and very good for you. It's filled with vitimins and tastes great; nice and tender (and nice and fat depending on your timing of the harvest and the animal chosen for the freezer).
We don't hunt for horns here, so an average sized bull with modest antlers is desirable. We harvest before the rut, so the meat is tender and doesn't have a gamey taste, like a late season large bull would have.
The hunt itself is a peaceful, get in tune with nature, kind of thing. There is alot of waiting by the right patch of timber. Usualy there is swamp involved near by and we sit and watch the waterfowl, beaver, and other wildlife. We sit there until a moose steps out of the thick timber to graze or get a drink from the nearby swamp.
When a moose is finally down, we take great care to keep the meat clean and dry. We use tarps to lay our winters food on as we load it up in the boat. It is then brought home and hung in the smoke house to age, then cut up and packaged for the freezer by our own hands in the kitchen (no processing plants here).
The freezer is filled by late September fall. And we are lucky if we can find space in the freezer to stuff in a few more ducks. This will be our larder for the long winter months, supplimented with fresh fish from our under ice nets, and perhaps fresh caribou if they migrate close enough.
We can never count on the planes to be flying us in our store bought groceries. We are much like farmers that have crops and animals that need no tending, and have learned to be able to count on ourselves for our daily bread.
A Bounty Of Berries
As we go into late summer many of the wildflowers on the tundra turn into berries. All kinds of berries. They become so plentyful that you cannot take a step on the spongy moss and lichen encrusted tundra without stepping on them.
The berries start in late July with the cloudberry, known locally as salmonberries. They are nice and sweet and full of juice. Buckets are picked and frozen in the freezer for winter use.
Then comes the lowbush blueberry that grows into plump little blue tart berries, perfect for jams and in pancakes or just in a bowl with a little cream and sugar.
After that comes the black or crow berry. It's thicker skinned than a blue, but is sweet and full of juice. It makes for a flavorful jam that stains your toungue and teeth dark blue for a short time.
And then there is the lowbush cranberry. It's tart flaver is at its peak after the first frost. We use it to go with a wild goose dinner or as a jam.
And of course all these berries are combined and mixed with flaked fish, suger, and whipped shortning to make 'agutuk' or Eskimo ice cream. It's quite good. It's a favorite of the locals here and eaten anytime for desert, but especially on holidays and special occassions.
And of course all these berries are combined and mixed with flaked fish, suger, and whipped shortning to make 'agutuk' or Eskimo ice cream. It's quite good. It's a favorite of the locals here and eaten anytime for desert, but especially on holidays and special occassions.
The berries were and still are a main food staple here. Since quality fresh fruit is hard to come by, the berries are stored. They are savored for their sweet taste and more importantly they are rich in important vitimins. It is said that a small serving of salmonberries have 300% of our daily need of vitimin C. We can't get that from an apple.
Tundra In Bloom
Our small mountain is nothing more than a big hill that rises upward from behind the village. It's an important marker for travelers, as it can be seen from many miles out. Since we have no roads or signs to guide us, we use landmarks as our road signs to tell us where we are at and how much further we have to travel to get home.
The hill is a mere 559 feet in elevation and is the first hill encounterd for people traveling upriver from the Bering Sea. It juts directly up from the shore of the Yukon River as a steep incline.
It's where ravens do barrel rolls and eagles soar on the updrafts. From the top you get the most spectacular view of the Yukon River and surrounding hills that roll to the north all the way to Unalaklete and beyond.
I never thought to climb our hill until one day after living here for several years. I did one bright warm sunny day. I climbed up past the water tower and on up the hill, until it turned into a muddy trail with thick willow on either side. Natural springs trickled down the path and mixed with the snowmelt water. The last few melting snow drifts that cling on till mid june keep the ground saturated on the path leading up.
My lungs are starting to burn as I come out of the willow. The scene before me has me awstruck. I look at my feet. The ground is literally covered with thousands of wildflowers. Some, just tiny pink flowers that will become cranberries. Others are taller and more majestic like the Arctic Lupin. Never before have I seen such a display of color. I could not even take a step off the path for fear of walking over many of them with just one step.
The amount of flowers in their natural wild state is almost unbelievable. One has to really see with there own eyes and taste the fragrant breeze. Compound that with the most spectacular view of the Yukon River channels and sandbars and Kusilvak Mountain in the distance. I found myself standing there in awe, taking all the flowers in while watching the ravens soar on the winds.
I had to remind myself that I had a camera and could capture this scene forever. It is one of my favorites.
Summer Salmon
As spring gives way to summer, we find ourselves drifting down the Yukon River tied to our salmon net. It is stretched out in a great arc beside the boat. We have bouys attatched to both ends, so we can let go and switch sides to gently tow it in towards the shore or out into the deeper channel, depending on where you think the salmon are migrating upstream.
Salmon are about the most important resourse we have out here. They are dried and smoked and packed in barrels for winter food. Some are split in half and dried just for sled dog feed. And they are also sold for much needed cash for our everyday needs. It supports families still in this day and age.
We have four species that thrive here in the Yukon River. One is the Chinook, or localy known as King Salmon. They are the highest quality of any salmon in the world. The prices reach five dollers a pound for the fisherman, and over thirty a pound for the markets in the big city seafood shops.
Here it's a food staple. Everyone eats smoked king strips and king salmon is also packed in salt in barrels for winter use. When stored like that it, needs no refridgeration. It is resoaked in fresh water for a day and made into Russian pie or boiled and eaten like sasuage with pancakes for breakfast. I find it makes great pickled fish as well.
Fish of all kinds are important food items here. I would say it's worth as much as beef or pork is to a midwestern family. Or maybe even more so here, since the families share in the work of catching and prepairing fish for winter use. Most families will move to a camp located somewhere along the river and live in tents and small cabins. They will stay there for a month during the summer while they catch, smoke, and salt fish to supplement there diet through the long winter months.
Easter On The Tundra
The boat slid up to the shore and we jumped out and set the anchor in the soft Yukon mud. We grabbed our packs and threw in a water bottle, some dry fish, crackers, and candy bars from the the blue grub box that we had to store our food in in the boat.
We had brought some ground moose burgers in tinfoil and started a fire so we could cook and eat before our long march to look for eggs. The tundra is where the waterfowl nest. Geese, swans, cranes, and ducks. Seagulls and loons set out on tiny tundra islands and points and hope to successfully rear their young.
After a filling meal, we head out for our long tundra march. The spongey ground is still frozen under foot but the surface is moist and wet much like a soaked mattress of moss. The birds will gather up some of the lichens and moss into a nest and line it with down plucked from there own breast.
We are not the only egg hunters on the tundra this day. We have fox and otters and even bears to contend with. And of course muscle cramps from the long exasperating walk on the tundra (that is more swamp than land).
We walk for hours checking each little lump. We watch for pieces of down caught on a low blueberry bushes as a tell-tale sign that a nest might be near. Then a loud rush of wings take off, a mere few steps away. A sandhill crane that was lying flat and camoflaged perfectly, takes flight. There, two camoflauged eggs sit on a tudra lump haphazerdly with just a few sticks and grasses for a nest.
We take the eggs; they will be the freshest eggs we have had all year.
It's still early in the nesting season, the cranes will go and renest, much like when you take a chicken's eggs. We pack our precious cargo in canvas sacks lined with the damp soft moss and resume our search. For it's Easter time in the tundra.
Crying For Mama
It's a week after the ice went out on the Yukon River. A buddy and I loaded up in the boat and went on our annual egg gathering trip down river. It would be our first major trip of the season. We were in search of waterfowl eggs to be savored as our spring ritual.
We traveld in the boat down the river, that had for the last 8 months been locked under 4 feet of ice. It was good to see and smell the murky water that was laden with silt and looked much like chocolate milk that Willy Wonka himself would be proud of.
As we entered a small slough, we went down the outside passage of a small willow-choked island that had been underwater in the spring floods just a few days before. I spied a cow moose on the island with two small minitures of herself, that had just been born a a day or two ago.
I instructed that the boat be slowed, as to not spook them, and as we idled past I snapped two quick photographs. One calf slipped in the soft mud and after standing, bawled for its Mama who was standing in the willows just a few steps away.
It was a moment I wish never to forget, and have captured in time forever.
An Introduction
Western Alaska is where my story begins, along the banks of the Yukon River in a Yup'k Eskimo village. Its like many small towns in the US where kids play on the roads and ride bicycles. The differance is, here, sometimes they are doing it at two o'clock in the morning and the sun is still out.
I will be up at those hours myself sometimes doing what needs to be done. To make my living here I spend my time commercial fishing salmon or catching, cutting, and smoking fish for winter food. It's just one of the many chores that we must finish in the short summers we have this far north. It seems our summer is spent, in the most part, just prepairing for the winter that leaves snow on the ground for seven months out of the year.
The summers are filled with the sounds of birds singing. Millions of waterfowl inhabit this Yukon River Delta, along with moose, bears, and the occassional muskox. They fill the land along with the smaller creatures like mink, otter, fox, lynx, wolf, and wolverine.
It's truly a wilderness area with no roads leading in or out. So it remains untouched and in its natural state. To this day the only impact is from the occassional trapper and subsitance native hunters who inhabit the region in small villages. The villages sit beside the Yukon River banks and along the coast where it spills into the Bering sea.
This is where I call home and have for many years. I have been a commercial fisherman and fish buyer, as well as currently a hunter, trapper, and fur buyer. I'm also a jack of all trades. We have to be out here, or we will soon be faced with challenges that we can't overcome. Here there are no shops and garages that fix broken equipment. There are no hardware stores where you can just run down to and pick up a certain sized bolt that you desperatly need to fix your transportation. In most cases that will be a Honda four wheeler ATV, snowmobile (called snow machine), or boat. A few locals do have trucks here to drive on our short gravel inter-village road systems that dont really go anywhere but the neigboring village. The City of Anchorage is still 450 miles away and we can't get there except by flying in and out.
There are no tourists here. It's just too far out of the way and there is no real spectacular mountain scenerey or glaciers. It has the look of low-lieing tundra swamps to the south and rolling tundra mountains to the north. At first glance the country looks uninhabited and desolate. In fact it can be. But on closer examination you will see a bounty of life and much going on. All you have to do is slow down and watch and you shall be rewarded.
I like to capture these small images to be saved forever and shared with the people that have the same interest, but can not be here in person. Here are my pictures for all to enjoy, along with a brief story that goes with each image to be updated weekly for as long as I can.
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