Never Cry Halibut. Bjorn Dihle
looked at me, quietly judging, as humpies leaped out of the water in every direction. On the way back to Elfin Cove, I pointed out whales, sea otters, a derelict cannery, glaciers, and mountains, but she seemed uninterested. Bob-o, one of the most hardcore fisherman in the Cross Sound fleet, tried to make me feel better.
“Ah, I can’t catch anything with a fishing pole either,” he said, which I appreciated even though I highly doubted it.
“Look, MC, commercial fishing and sport fishing are two different arts,” I tried to explain.
“Maybe someone else could help me catch my first salmon?” she teased.
A wild Southeast Alaskan king salmon.
The next year for her birthday, she wanted a salmon pole and to go fishing and kayaking. I paddled a double kayak out to an island as she trolled a Flying-C with a focus so intense I was at first amused and then frightened. After three hours of paddling and no fish, she continued casting while I set up the tent and gathered beach wood for a fire. Finally she caught a small Dolly Varden, and was satiated enough to enjoy some birthday cake. We went fishing a few more times, catching sea slugs, sculpins, and small Dolly Varden before I knew had to go to my dad and ask a favor.
“I think MC might leave me if she doesn’t catch a salmon soon. Do you think you could take her the next time you go out?” I asked. He happily agreed, and of course they went out and caught a pile. When she came home that night, we cooked a salmon dinner and put the rest of her catch in a brine.
“I caught a smoker load!” She beamed. “I can take you fishing your next day off, if you want.”
I began to steal out in the predawn hours, borrowing her rod and then sneaking it back before she woke. These forays were partially inspired by wounded pride, but I soon found myself enjoying standing on the ocean’s edge, casting in the morning solitude, and quietly chanting, “I am not a Jonah. I am not a Jonah.”
I rarely caught much, but folks seemed more at ease around me now that I’d picked the rod back up. My dad and brothers started inviting me out on their skiff to go to their secret halibut holes; old friends called wanting to know if I wanted to go try for some cohos.
In late July of 2012, with my brothers and MC, we tried for halibut in Lynn Canal. The ocean stretched blue and undulated gently, mountains rose to nearly seven thousand feet in a couple miles, and glaciers cut through rainforest like giant frozen rivers. A pod of Dall’s porpoises played with our skiff, bumping lines as we jigged. Humpback whales plied the waters with gargantuan baleen-plaited mouths spread wide. Bald eagles, gulls, sea ducks, and a host of other birds revolved in and out of vision.
“We don’t know how lucky we are.” My dad’s words escaped me as I quelled the sudden urge to tangle my line and throw my pole overboard. MC and my brothers didn’t reply. They were too busy waiting for a fish to strike.
MEAT HUNTER’S CREED
I’M LARGELY GOVERNED BY my nobility paunch—the new and politically correct term for a belly—so naturally I’m a meat hunter. Given the opportunity, I shoot the tastiest-looking animal available, often the smaller buck or bull in the mix. My brothers like to say my lack of trophies has something to do with my skills as a hunter, which is 100 percent bullarky. The skill and wit of a man with as much nobility as I have should never be questioned. If Boone and Crockett had a record for the most passed-up trophies, I’m sure I’d be a contender. Take the 2014 opener for Sitka blacktails. I passed on a massive four-by-three buck to take a chunky fork-horn instead. A few moments later, my older brother, Luke, shot the mammoth.
“I could have shot the big deer, but he didn’t look as tasty,” I said after we gutted and propped the deer to cool.
“You didn’t even see him! He was off to your side,” Luke said, still ecstatic for some reason.
Contrary to many folks’ beliefs, meat hunters are neither dimwitted nor lazy, nor do we shoot anything that moves. In fact, meat hunting is one of the most ancient forms of art. Someday soon, highbrow museums will devote large exhibits to the subject. Ironically dressed intellectuals smoking cigarettes and drinking kombucha will browse the displays.
“Hmm, yes, the caribou hunting painting is so post-archaic garde.”
“Hmm, yes, primitive but bold.”
“I only see a bunch of colors and squiggly lines.”
“You’re not looking deep enough.”
As a meat hunter concerned with my nobility paunch and the paunches of those I care for, I have great respect for the animals I harvest. My dad, in raising three half-feral sons, reiterated certain lessons over and over.
“Know where your gun is shooting before you go into the woods. When you see the right animal, take a good rest. Don’t rush. Make a clean shot. It’s better to watch an animal run off healthy than to miss and wound it,” he told us as we learned to handle the responsibility of being hunters. I soon found that killing as swiftly and humanely as possible was only part of becoming a good hunter.
The next step, one my family claims took me a while to master, was proper care of meat. “Beasting” is a form of intelligence yet to be recognized by modern-day psychology that I possess a great deal of. Its application is best suited for making messes, lifting heavy objects, and involuntarily emitting animal sounds during social engagements. While beasting can help you in many situations, it works in your disfavor if applied to gutting and butchering an animal.
“You’ve got to keep the salad and the meat separate,” Luke said when I kept bringing home meat seasoned with vegetation, hair, and dirt. Not being much of a salad guy anyway, I quickly learned what a big difference correctly field dressing meant for the quality of the meat. I began treating game like red gold, taking great care to quickly and neatly gut, butcher, and cool an animal. I learned tricks from my dad, brothers, and friends to make it easier, such as sawing open the brisket to easily remove the guts, which minimizes the chance of spilling the acidic contents of the stomach into the viscera and spoiling meat. Meticulously cutting away any blood-shot meat and avoiding scent glands. Keeping the heart—and the quarter with evidence of sex attached if the law requires it—in separate game bags. Always setting a quarter down on a garbage or game bag rather than the ground. Using pillowcases or some sort of game bags with fabric impenetrable to fly eggs during warmer months. Keeping meat dry, aerated, and cool. I learned that every ounce of flesh on an animal, if cared for properly, has a use and can be delicious; even sinewy scraps are great for canning, burger, or sausage.
A late-season Sitka blacktail.
For many folks, me included, hunting is easier and more enjoyable than cooking. During a lot of my teens and early twenties, I’d kill an animal, bring it home, and go to town on chunks of meat much like a bear or wolf. Thinking about those times makes me nostalgic and brings back the memory of one November when I subsisted almost entirely on caribou and coffee (it seemed to make sense at the time, but in retrospect, I do not recommend this diet). A girl, perhaps feeling sorry for me, agreed to have dinner. Seeing only a dirty mug of coffee and a big piece of meat on her plate, she started acting nervous. I tried to calm her by offering more meat. She mentioned something about a forgotten engagement she needed to attend at that moment.
“These are civilized times,” a friend advised after. “Girls like things like recipes, marinades, and tenderized meat. As a meat hunter, you need to evolve.”
Change scared me. One day you’re perfectly content with caribou, coffee, and an outhouse, then you start doing weird things like using marinades and tenderizing meat. Before you know it, you’re fretting over which set of floral towels best compliments your bathroom’s wallpaper. Yet I couldn’t deny how much