Kusko Morning: a Routine
Some chilly mornings I would
wake up and begin the day
over a styro-foam cup of coffee,
which always managed to insulate
me from the heat it contained.
Those silent adventures on
the churning Kuskokwim were
welcomed—and even lack of sleep
couldn’t keep my swollen eyes shut.
Brisk whistles of cold would siren
through the window of our
commercial truck on our way to the
loading docks.
As soon as the boat had been
prepared and the engine heated, my
skipper and I would set off against
the strength of the silt water.
Corrupting the black glass, we
would roar into the silence of fog. . .
I can smell the dampness
of the peat boughs lurching over
the muddy river.
I see the protein bubbles
dancing around each other
in the eddies.
Then in one dirt-crested wake,
our large engine would disrupt
their congregation, and the stern of
our aluminum skiff would plow
towards our fishing site.
A wake-up call we became;
stirring sleepy birds in their woven’s
along the willow banks.
Afraid to speak a word for fear of
hindering the sun from breaking on
the horizon, the crew would go
through the familiar process of
connecting the bow line to the net
and the float line to the buoy.
Timing our drifts undisturbed, the
minutes and climate is recorded.
Waiting in silence for the first
splash. . .
a salmon. Back from its oceanic
journey, it is large enough to fit in
the meshing of our gillnet. Waiting.
Then again! Soon, our abundance
begins to kink the perfect arch our
net had once been. Times up!
In less than two minutes the net full
of fish is in, and mono-filament
meshing rips into working hands
and silver fish. The warm and cold
blooded alike are blood-siblings now
and only the cold can nurture the
wound of asphyxiation.
The task is done.
The fish are caught and the mirror
of pink skies reflect on the
aluminum boat giving more
brilliance to the silver scales
that dry, fly and stick to my jacket—
a visual reminder of an epic
departure and return home;
the circular flecks of existence, a
story of survival—a battle fought,
not won.