Russian River
- John Eickert
In south central Alaska, a place near the western tip of North America, there is a small river born of jagged granite and blue glacial ice. The river melts away
from its mountain home, flows down into a black spruce forest, and then straightens for it’s run to the sea. In the fall, pink salmon, a fish which lives in salt water and spawns in fresh water, make their way from the sea to the headwaters of that river,
the Russian River, to lay their eggs and then die. This dramatic ritual has taken place each fall for thousands of years. On their way upstream to their spawning grounds; the spawning nest for each female fish, a hen, is called a redd, each pink salmon must
pass a gauntlet of predators. Seagulls, eagles, wolves, foxes, ravens, bears, and fishermen all test their ability to catch salmon. Pink salmon flesh is considered one of the finest of all fishes for eating. Being tasty only serves to make the spawning quest
that much more difficult.
One fall day, under leaden skies, I walked the bank of the Russian looking for a pool filled with pinks. On the other bank walked my fishing partner, an old college chum named Bob. Bob considered himself a serious fisherman.
I just liked to be in the forested mountains with a clear rushing stream. The path along my side of the stream led up a short hill through low-bush blueberry and moss-covered rock. The moss was ripe and pungent in the moist morning air. The blueberry leaves
were in their fall color, now a sharp orange-red. It would not be long before snow fell and blanketed the landscape.
When I reached the top of the hill I looked down and across the river. Bob was just wading into the river at the foot of a large pool. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but then I could see the object of Bob’s attention.
In the pool, ahead of the now wading fisherman, was an enormous school of pink salmon. The river looked black and the fisherman carefully waded to a casting spot. Bob’s arm arched as he began his attempts to entice a fish to the hook. I enjoyed the scene.
Movement in the willow near the river caught my attention and I focused there. In the brush along the river was a large brown bear. The bear was not ten meters from the fisherman and the pool full of salmon. I thought to call to Bob, but wind and river noise
would not allow my voice to reach his ear. I watched, as did the bear. The bear sat down. The fisherman fished. Eventually, the fish moved upstream to a new pool. The bear quietly disappeared. The sky opened and rain began to fall. We caught no salmon that
day, but there was a story for the ages. Not all fishing expeditions need to end with fish in hand. Cheers.
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Watch a one minute video on Salmon by clicking here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GxJVb1es9SY
-Susan Sharma