![]() ![]() ![]() I not only want to know how to filet a salmon, I want to know why a winter king tastes so good and why a bright silver salmon makes me think of my grandfather, Grandpa Pressy. They’re part of the knowledge I’m learning and sharing. He fished for three days and got 80 kings a day, so he kept 40 Kings for himself each day. They put a tank on the back deck and they went to Bradfield Canal. He could keep half of the salmon and the others they’d measure, tag, and release. The Alaska Department of Fish and Game once came to my father in the 1950s and asked him if they could charter him and his boat for a winter king survey. Another story flows out into the warm cabin, circling around father and daughter, and I know someday, a grandchild will hear this story too. My dad takes the wheel and we continue trolling. The poles are rebaited and go back into the water again. My dad reels in the fish, but it let’s loose, spitting the hook. I scoot over to the Captain’s chair and steer. Our boat rocks, and my husband yells, “Mickey, you’ve got a fish!” and my dad heads out onto the back deck. I see his boat, the Mercedes, iced over and listing. I was 13 years old when he died from a stroke. I imagine my Grandpa Pressy as I knew him. When the winter winds came up, the boat would ice over and list, so he only fished two hours in the morning. He told me he loaded the boat down with fish. My father, your Grandpa Pressy, was out winter fishing in his usual spots and he started catching kings. I ask my dad to tell me a story about fishing for winter kings. Time is like an endless sea as we troll along slowly. My children’s and grandchildren’s ancestors have been fishing for salmon in this area for thousands of years and salmon school up in our family’s Sámi, Finnish and Irish mythologies. Grandson Jonah loves to go fishing, but we haven’t been able to take him due to COVID-19. Salmon have always been a part of our lives, with the sixth generation of salmon fishermen coming up. We bait up, and then my dad resumes his captain’s seat at the wheel, ready again for the next pass. The fish is bonked, unhooked and put into the fish cooler. It’s a cloudy winter day, and we’ve been out a couple hours now trolling back-and-forth in front of the island. My dad works the pole and fights the winter king toward the boat where my husband nets the fish and heaves it over the gunwale. ![]()
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