Quoddy’s Run and Butedale Louis in his launch

22 July 2012

We had planned to sail by Butedale, and rush onward to the hot springs at Bishop Bay.  But as we rounded the corner into Fraser Reach, BC Ferry’s Northern Expedition headed towards us, forcing us in closer to Princess Royal Island, towards the cove where Butedale is located.  At the same moment, a man crossed our path in a ramshackle launch, dragging a few logs behind him.  We thought he came a bit close to the ferry, but he waved to the bridge, as if he and captain and crew were old friends—which, we later thought, they probably were.

Butedale, Princess Royal Island

Butedale dock

By then we could read the faded sign: “Butedale Marina–hot showers, ice cream.”  Right, we thought, that will be the day.  We edged into the bay behind a yellow sailboat that tied off at the long rough form of a dock built from rows of logs and boards tied and chained haphazardly together.  We still were not sure we wanted to stop.  We called out to the other boaters, “Is there good water?” They pointed to a wooden trough over which a stream of water gushed, then dropped into an old black hose.  Nearby, a raging falls boomed and sprayed into the sea.  “Looks like lots of fresh water,” we said to ourselves. It’s good not to miss an opportunity to fill your tanks.  So we pulled up to the ramshackle dock and tied up, just as the little launch arrived with its cargo in tow.  And that’s how we met Butedale Louis.

water gushes through a wooden trough

Butedale was once the site of extensive lumber and mining operations, as well as a booming salmon cannery, where hundreds of workers at a time had been employed between 1911 and the 1950s.  Then, as with so many canneries up and down that coast and on our own Atlantic shores, as refrigeration became commonplace, and the larger vessels began to process their own fish, the big canning plants became redundant. They reduced their operations and then closed.

Bunkhouse tumbles down

In Butedale, many of the buildings still stood, although in a state of flagrant disrepair.  A boiler shone out from one building, which was missing an entire wall.  The roof caved in on a huge rooming house, and another wall was shattered.  Large wharves were crumbling into the sea.  Yet a few houses and outbuildings still stood.

Remains of a boiler

Louis lived in one, with his cat, but his dream of running a marina, and offering rustic cabins for rent, was fading.  Still, he worked hard to keep things up.  He’d planted a garden with flowers and vegetables, and two cabins were furnished and starkly hospitable.

Butedale Louis on his porch

Butedale Louis’ cat

Butedale Louis’ flowers

He kept some trails cleared and mowed paths between the various buildings.

Foxgloves and crumbling wall

House for rent, Butedale

Louis also collected old movies and videos, and watched for Kermode bears—he’d made a video of one playing with a bucket on the beach.  And he kept the power supply going in the old power house over Butedale Creek, just above the falls.  The old wheel still turned, but the generator was now hooked up to a 12 volt alternator that powered Louis’ house and fridge and two outdoor lights, which he never turned off.

Power station, Butedale

Empty cupboard in the power station

Once a little railway had connected the factory’s buildings, transporting workers and goods to their designated stations.  Apparently Butedale had been a segregated site; workers had lived in  separated “villages,” according to the racial designations of the day: “Japanese,” “White,” or “Indian.” The forest was already reclaiming “Japanese” and “Indian” housing zones.  Now birds called wildly in the trees, and we watched for bears in the berry bushes along the paths.  The ghosts of bustle rang from so much derelict machinery, but the people were almost all gone.

Abandoned machinery, Butedale

Once it was possible to catch, clean, and freeze the fish on a boat, and rush it back to the city for sale, no one needed an island outpost in the middle of the fishing grounds, so far from roads and markets and demand. Butedale was a relic, and even water and ice cream and wilderness experience seduced few visitors. It seemed most important these days as a stopping place for kayakers or boaters like us, and as a safe mooring for fishermen in small boats racing back to Bella Bella from the Skeena River. It offered a night off of watch,  a respite from vigilance or bad weather.

Quoddy’s Run at dock, Butedale

Louis, it turns out, was Quebecois, originally from La Beauce.  He wouldn’t say why he had left home, whether love or work or a sense of adventure had taken him west. According to Louis, Butedale’s owner is a grumpy, elderly Californian man who doesn’t want to sell, but also isn’t prepared to try to preserve the place.  He had let Louis come every summer from Kitimat, to try to run a marina in Butedale.  But now that the government was demanding that the cannery wreckage be cleared from the water and shore–no small task or expense–the owner seemed to want to collect some dues from Louis, or at least oblige him to do some remedial work.

Louis at work in his launch

We should have recorded Louis; many of his stories were hilarious and full of voices—he imitated all of his interlocutors.  The stories were almost all about how le petit gars de la Beauce (the little guy from La Beauce) outwitted some stupid bigwig.  Or put him in his place.  Or else about fighting with local Haisla people—Butedale is at the southern edge of traditional Haisla territory.  In fact, the Haisla name for Butedale is C’idexs, which means “runny diarrhea,” thought by some to refer to the many berry bushes in the area, or what happens if you gorge on too much fruit.

Some of Louis’ art

Louis was clearly depressed from his solitary life in Butedale; he tried to keep himself busy by burn-etching copies of First Nations artwork on slabs of board, then painting and selling them to passersby.  Such imitations did not stop him from telling stories about how he “cussed up the Indians” every chance he got.   Still, did not want to move back to Kitimat; he seemed to like his status as the keeper of Butedale; he even relished his title, “Butedale Louis.”  And he particularly liked female visitors, so we were treated quite well. We even begged some rhubarb from his garden to make rhubarb crisp, which we shared with him and the sailors in the yellow boat docked in front of us, who were enroute from Alaska to retire in Oregon.  The world is full of such intrepid adventurers.

Butedale Louis–an address

After visiting the power house and shooting many photos, we hiked up a path through the rainforest.  The trail wound past huge trees and the remains of a large logging operation to a mountain meadow and then stopped at the lake, where we scrambled over fallen logs and by silver snags to the open water.  The day was hot and we’d hoped to swim, but the lake was so clogged with logs and bark and debris that we gave that project up.

Remnants of logging operation, Butedale

Marike walks on logs beneath silver snags

Louis asked for $50 a night for his ramshackle dockage but could be bargained down to $25.  At night, under the moon and a clear sky, the abandoned factory rattled with ghosts and wracking losses. A fascinating, but hard place to stay.

Butedale Lake choked with logs

Our tanks full of fresh water, early in the morning  we were ready to sail on to Bishop’s Bay for a bath in the hot springs.

Power supply in Butedale

And yes, the sign was honest advertising.   Louis’ Butedale Marina still does offer ice-cream and hot showers.  At your own risk.

Butedale showers

Notes

Statement about the significance of the Butedale Cannery as a heritage site in the Regional District of Kitimat-Stikine  http://www.rdks.bc.ca/content/regional-district-community-heritage-registry?q=node/58

On Kermode bears (Ursus kermodei), also known as “Spirit Bears” http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/08/kermode-bear/barcott-text

and http://www.vws.org/project/spiritbear/about_bear/index.html

For information on the Haisla Nation, see http://haisla.ca/

If you’d like to visit a still-working orchard and fruit stand, I can recommend two:

1) Giordano Farms on Snell between Chynoweth and Branham (South San Jose)

2) J & P Farms at 4977 Carter Ave.

If you’d like to see a few, sparse (some abandoned) orchards, just take a drive on Monterey Rd., south of Blossom Hill.

There’s an abandoned orchard that I’ve seen driving south on HWY 101 then getting onto 85N.  It’s on the right-hand side behind some buildings.  I’ve added a Google satellite photo here.  You can still see where all the trees should have been.  There’s still some trees struggling to live there.

Speaking of which, want to guess how Blossom Hill Rd. got its name?

“There used to be a lot of canneries in the Sacramento area, if you go back several decades,” said Rob Neenan, president of the California League of Food Processors. “There are not as many as there used to be.”

The Campbell’s plant opened in 1947, when south Sacramento still retained much of its rural quality, and helped burnish the region’s reputation as the king of the tomato business. Employment once totaled 2,200.

via  The Sacramento Bee.

I’d love to leave you with a bit about frogs but I don’t want to spoil it for you. So here’s this bit about the local whores pitching in when the community needed it:

“Dora, who was as soft as a mouse’s belly, could be hard as carborundum. She went back to the Bear Flag and organized it for service. It was bad time for her but she did it. [..excerpted..] And all the time the business at the Bear Flag was booming. The juke box never stopped playing. The men of the fishing fleet and the soldiers stood in line. And the girls did their work and then they took their pots of soup and went to sit with the Ransels, with the McCarthys, with the Ferrias. The girls slipped out the back door, and sometimes stayed with the sleeping children the girls dropped to sleep in their chairs. They didn’t use makeup for work anymore. They didn’t have to. Dora herself said she could have used the total membership of the old ladies’ home. It was the busiest time the girls at the Bear Flag could remember. Everyone was glad when it was over.”

ISBN: 0-14-200068-x

You really should start from the beginning - no really, you should.

Summer, 1990 Petersburg, AK – Mitkof island

At this point, I’m not having much fun.  No regular work, broke, hanging with others in the same situation in Tent City. Bunch of 18-30 dudes hanging out in a camp in the muskeg. Handful of women, handful of Mexican migrants.  Bears. Bugs. Cheap beer and long days, Northern lights – the sun sets behind one side of the mountain across the strait and rises on the other side. Every morning a chorus of travel alarms starts up as those who have started work wake for their day’s labor.

“July 1 1990 – Sunday – beer and a valium last night, thus my dreams and late sleep. It rained all night, too. Not much else to report. Erica is dead (ed: Erica was this HUGE spider plant I had left with Mom to care for. Mom “kinda forgot” to water it. I had just heard the news)  I’m not in a very good mood. I have a sign on the tent saying “GO AWAY” and I mean it. Queensryche will have to do, Metallica got eaten (for my younger readers, cassette tapes would sometimes get fouled in the tape deck  and ruined hence “eaten”) . Watch the news. I am finally unhappy with my lot.

<skipping the rest of this day, except to note, I did fifty push-ups and Ted showed up with beer>

July 2 – Monday -Nothing to do. slept in.  Still at Day Labor. applied at Chatham Straights today w/Ted. Fuck it. Goodnight I’m very tired.  Dammit my tablet is wet. Why? (writing is very faint – pencils on wet paper don’t do well)

July 3 (skipping – two  pages of weird dreams, but I will point out that I was upset that my alarm interrupted dreamtime)

July 4 – Wednesday Good morning you bum!

7:00 PM dined on an apple, rice, two well baked potatoes. there will probably be some  big festivities tonight down at the beach – do I join or not? Knowing myself,  I probably will.”

That night we had a bonfire on the beach, northern lights for fireworks, fresh fish and clam bake, PBR and Raineer flowed freely. A chick with a shaved head drunkenly and very boldly propositioned me.  I won’t elaborate.

Anyhow, on to the next day….

“July 5 – restrained myself ..to some extent. Got a job today.  I’m washing dishes at the Homestead Cafe – not a bad place but…forget it, I need the money.

Ted says”Today I’m some, tomorrow I’ll be more, and the next day I’ll be richer than poor.” Say WHAT? Well, that’s Ted.

July 6th- 6:00 AM gotta work at 7:00 slept like shit

(later)

Got a $15 advance at work today bought food, glory be!  ”Nothing is ever really gone, only absent for a while” – says Bruce. Once again, I’m in the Homestead Cafe, sitting down – finally with obviously bruce, Steph and Ted. Bruce says he just got God’s autograph and told me to fuck off.  Just found a cold, unopened “Lucky” in the john on the window ledge – 1st time I’ve really checked the beer up there for some possibly drug-induced reason…NO MECH BEFORE BED  Axyl has “found them” whatever that means.”

( sometimes my text trails off  into gibberish – I often finished entries in the tent as I fell asleep, pretty sure that happened here.)

July 7 Overslept and I am no longer working. Hell, still I’ve made $55 it should tide me over. Cooking rice on a campfire  promises to be time consuming process, but it should result in excellent rice.

Where’s the beef? It remains a vital part of the sacred choa, yet still the beefeaters consider it food for thought about the unreal halibut steaks. Steak? Did someone say steak? God, a fucking steak would rule of thumb  is ten minutes to hand-bail and I bailed those fuckers for almost twenty four hours in a day and has them one-thumb and that is the main, out of sight out of mind I always say when it gets dark and I can’t see, I have not brought my specs with me to Mars.

July 8 – slept – happily until after noon, is now near 8 PM, I’m having a peanut butter and jelly – did nothing all day. It’s fucking raining again.Ben’s sitting here making a hammer handle, he has used two quarts to wedge the hammer handle . Marilyn is also writing something in some sort of book, much like this one. Some stupid fuck who I have seen before is incompetently splitting word and fire building. Someone else just split a bunch of wood and did a muck better job. Joe’s smoking a cigarette. Ted’s babbling at another fire about his schizophrenia as usual – sex, drugs, D&D and schizophrenia is all he talks about. Fire’s seriously starting to burn. Joes smoking again “Whenever I feel like it” he says. “

- end

The rest of the page is a truly insane dream I had. I still have this super-vivid dreams, but I no longer write them down.  I’ve since learned I am a “lucid” dreamer and that I am partially awake when they get weird like that – sleeping in broad daylight with activity around spawned most of it while I was in Alaska that summer.  I read a little ahead, things are going to get interesting – about to meet my girlfriend-for-the-summer.

MJ

Previous Journal

You really should start from the beginning

Summer 1990 – on the pacific ocean, now off the coast of Alaska.

Things are about to get real. Three days on the ferry, sleeping in a tent on deck, eating trail mix and cafeteria food on the way to Petersburg, AK. On a freaking ISLAND.  Making friends. Already having people sign my journal with a phone and address – a thing I kept up all summer. I have $43.00 in my pocket, a French Foreign Legion surplus pocket knife, a backpack, a bunch of clothes (including the aforementioned trench coat), a d-cell dual cassette boom box and three friends. Good times. I have no idea where I’m spending my next night.

“June 24 – Sunday – at bout 4:00 AM the ferry stopped in Ketchikan and Eric and Wendy and about 200 others get off. I slept in late – awoke at  7:00 A.M. but fuck it- I don’t need to be.  Cough Cough.

June 25 – Monday. Petersburg is an interesting town. Got off the boat yesterday at 4:00. Got some “supplies” etc I’ve paid for a week here at Tent City. Went down this morning and applied for work and bought some food. I’m rather tired right now, but that isn’t dampening my optimism. There are a lot of people from Boulder here,  and the TV is piped from DENVER of all places. I think it’s going to be impossible to completely stop smoking. I was very drunk last night and had a cig. It seems I smoke when I drink a lot.

June 26 – Tuesday mailing letters today – four postcards, actually, also found Sinead O’Connor on the local radio. The radio stations – both of them – are pretty good  a few hours each day. I truly believe my handwriting is declining.

June 27 – Wednesday – WAKE  UP SHITHEAD!  IT’S 8:00 oclock in the morning! The sun fucking rizes here at nearly 4:00 so you get used to sleeping in daylight.  It’s hot in the tent. rather, it is very warm.

Had my PFI interview today – they ‘ll announce on Tuesday when the season opens up for us. Bought a new bandanna – Blue this time. Had a dream last night that I was camping in Quik-Mart and found a purple bandanna and fighting with steve Linerd (?? can’t read my own writing) . Finished Illuminatus last night….Cellophane flowers appear on the wall…

Christ I feel weird….

OK, that weird feeling is gone now, feeling normal yet out of sorts no…that’s wrong too.  Sitting in Tent City commons with people all around. gonna be OK…might there is a red-head here with very attractive legs. talking to Ted #2 and Ted #1 is splitting wood with a hand axe. People are eating shrimp.  Crab again tonite, shrimp also, just made a wooden knife. Wow. I’m so fucking thrilled.”

-(skipping two plus pages of strange dreams )

“I feel obligated to write something about today which has nothing to do with my fucked-up dreams. But what? To speak of the glories of Tent City is foolishly  hopeless, for they are few and far between. The tent is hot. I just washed my hair with a hose- that cooled me off a great deal. I also found my clicker pencil and refilled it with lead, which is why my handwriting is more fluid and dare I hope? easier to read. (yes, former me, it is easier to read)  Can I believe I will finish this book by the end of the summer?  Maybe, maybe not. If I keep writing a page and a half of bullshit like this I will..

Why are there so many bugs? There are so many bugs to keep the skins of humans red and irritated. They are here to keep our human ears busy with the sound of them. They are here to keep human hands busy brushing them off and swatting them to a flat death. To keep human eyes alert for small quick things that bite. to keep humans minds annoyed and stave off boredom.

Ted says “I’m starved! mmm What time is it?”

- end quotes

The days before the salmon season opened after I got to the island were long, but not hard. Plenty of food, just no money, very little work.  You could sign up for “day labor” and the first come, first served got some work and a bit of cash for it.  But fresh fish kept showing up, wild blueberries, good times.  Learned how to poach salmon on a campfire.  More coming soon.

MJ

You really should start from the beginning

June 1990

Bellingham, Washington. We had been driven to the ferry station in a 1964 Chevrolet Apache 10 – wooden bed, had grass growing in it..top speed 60 MPH.  Classic, full of camping gear, cab stuffed with three adults.  I’m outside, out of choice. Yeah, I know. Anyhow, we were dropped at the terminal, unload, get oriented, and wait.  And the ferry is late. Hours late.

“June 22 – 1: PM  waiting for the fucking ferry. Thought I’d lost our bouncing bozos Bruce and Steph at the same time I thought we were about to board. this resulted in a mad dash into town and back – thank god I no longer smoke.

Just got the tent anchored on the Solarium Deck.  Lots of women, some next door! Some little kid’s doll outside the door (of the tent) is  anatomically correct..

Now playing D&D w/ “Eric” and “Wendy” in the ferry cafeteria. pretty cool people. more later.

just took a couple of Benedryl. night night,”

I found it quite restful to sleep in a tent of the deck of a decently huge ship, the Columbia, flag-ship of the line.
 This ship.  From : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:MV_Columbia_Alaska_Ferry_Evening_2048px.jpg
The Solarium Deck  is the uncovered large deck aft – um, in the back.  The left in this picture.

My narrative continues…

” June 23rd – Saturday. missing AM cartoons. crap. Had cool/ok/fun last night….Water is condensing inside my pencil..and it’s too hard to reload lead also the ship keeps rocking all over fucking up my handwriting.

I’m sitting in the snack bar with four others. Bruce, ted, and Eric- he’s 21ish and pretty cool dude, and an attractive blonde named Wendy. Eric just took my book of Richard Scary Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes  away and said “Eat me!”

We hung in the cafeteria most of the night, long past closing. no one cared, just a bunch of kids. The ferry was due to stop at our first Alskan port, Ketchikan at 4:AM the next day- I could hardly wait.

Fade to black…

MJ

previous episode 

next!

First episode

Spring 1990

I was nineteen, things weren’t so great.  Moved out of mom’s soon as I graduated High School.  Rented a house in Boulder, CO with three friends, after nearly getting killed in a house fire . For that little story please see “How I Accidentally Confused a Police Officer“.

Anyhow, working multiple jobs, not getting hours, struggling to pay rent- it kinda sucked.  One fine day one of my friends says “Lets go to Alaska!”

If that seems rather odd, it isn’t. Over several years previous many of my older friends had spent summers in Alaska, working with salmon or crab, in canneries or on boats, working  long hours, nowhere to spend money – great way for an untrained kid to come home with a few grand. But, that was just too much.  Too far from home. Scary. “No way in hell.” was my response

A week later I changed my mind.  Why? A maybe 14-year-old kid approached me, was looking to buy drugs.  I wasn’t a dealer, but I kinda LOOKED like one  – the Mohawk, trench coat and safety-pin in my ear might have given the wrong impression. Turned the kid away.  But I realized I was going nowhere on this path, it just dawned on me, and the next thing I know, I have a plane ticket to Seattle, will meet my friends – let’s call him “Ted” – they guy with the bright idea- at Ted’s Mom’s place north of Seattle (call her “Jenn” ), and a couple I knew well, Bruce and Stephanie. (none are real names, or will they be), we’ll board the ferry and Alaska ho!

And as luck would have it, two days before I leave I find out this girl I went crazy for the summer before is back in town, returned from California.  Let’s call her “Red” for her then-red-hair. My mom and she are my escorts to the airport.  I have just quit smoking.  What follows and in following posts in this category will be excerpts from my hand written journal, cobbled together with hazy and sometimes crystal clear memories. It’s a view into life in 1990 from my own youthful pencil.

Hope you enjoy the trip.

“June 14, 1990 12:00 pm

I have said goodbye to Red and Mom. she’s still beautiful, smart independent and I am once again completely in love with her. Damn and blast the swirling tides of Fates.

2:00 PM  Los Angeles no time to call Jenn – had to smoke, very addictive. So’s she – the scent of her is still with me.

8:00 pm Jenn’s house! very cool. I like it here, about one full cigarette today” – end quote

Jenn had picked me up at the airport. Ted and crew are due tomorrow by car.

I fell asleep that night with my head spinning.

MJ

Don’t worry – I’ll explain the headline at some point, honest.

The next page – Episode One.1 is ready!

A great weekend treat, since it does take some time and care to prepare. The labor is more in the filling, made of fresh spinach, local tofu, nutritional yeast, and our own signature, best selling spice blend, herbal nutri-spice (loaded with protein from hemp and sesame seeds and tasty herbs & spices) The thought of taking out the pasta machine and rolling out thinly pressed sheets of dough, was rather daunting, considering the New Year’s Eve spread to come, so this is where improvisation and a store bought element comes into play.

Thanks to organic filo dough I was able to make it happen within a few hours. Filo dough is very delicate and has to be thawed before use, brushed with oil or butter, and filled.  In this case, I used organic, expeller pressed coconut oil not only for it’s health benefit, but also for a tasty and flaky outer shell. Once the filling and filo are ready, a little a assembly is required and you can choose whatever shape you prefer to fold them into. I went with triangles and baked them in a lightly greased pan until golden brown on both sides. They are great as an appetizer with a light soup and salad or as a delicious snack on their own, we went with both. So, if you have a few hours to spare, some creative energy to invest and…hungry kids, try it out for yourself!

Talcahuano this time of year is cold. Not snow cold, but still bone chilling cold. Despite my double socks, three long-sleeve shirts, jacket, scarf, and fleece-lined beanie; I was still shivering by the end of the day. After my early morning run with Lobo Blanco, I set out to visit various canneries with my jefe, aka dad. First stop was a local metal fabrication plant which makes large-scale machinery for fish canneries and processors. One of their specialties is enormous rotary dryers for fish meal. The dryers are huge metal cylinders that rotate, drying a thick fish paste into powdery meal. Each dryer is about the size a semi-truck and requires a crane to move it. In order to fabricate these huge machines they have giant equipment, including the biggest lathe I’ll probably ever see in my life. We took a quick tour of the fabrication floor from the second floor walkway before moving on to the canneries. I felt like I was watching a real life episode of ‘Build It Bigger’.

Our second stop was to a fish cannery where we would see the rotary dryers in action. The fishing season this year has been slow, to say the least, so we were lucky to catch the cannery in production. Stepping out of the truck into the brisk morning air, I was immediately greeted by the strong smell of fish. After chatting with the plant manager, we put on hair nets and white visitor smocks, that look like doctors coats, then headed to the production floor where two lines of operators were manually canning jurel (Chilean jack mackerel). The fish enters the plant whole and is cut into sections, removing the head, tail, and guts. The body of the fish then travels by belt to where the operators stuff the empty cans. The empty cans (with no lid of course) flow in from another part of the warehouse, down onto the operators’ work table. The cans themselves are manufactured elsewhere, that’s an entirely other process I’ll explain another day. The cans come flying in overhead by a belt delivering about 450 cans/min, all single file and clanking into each other as they hit a sharp turn in their path or descend down to floor level. After the cans are packed with fish they go through a cooker and on to the filler, where either tomato sauce or brine is added. The smell of fish got stronger as we walked past the cooker. Once filled with sauce or brine, the cans are sealed with lids by a seamer. Seaming machines are my dad’s specialty and our bread and butter. After being sealed, the cans are washed, dried, then held in storage for a couple of weeks, just to be sure nothing is wrong with the can. Then comes the label, boxing, and palletizing. All the machines from depalletizing the matured cans and labeling to palletizing the boxes were sold by my dad. As we looked at the palletizer in-depth and analyzed its features, my dad and I were huddled in close talking and timing how many boxes were processed in a minute. A classic father-daughter geek out moment. Naturally when I’m in a cannery, people tend to stare. Not because I have some breathtaking appearance, not at all, but usually they’re trying to size me up. Figure out what business I have being there. Why is the general manager giving this young girl a tour? Is that her boss she’s with or are they a couple? I glanced over to one of the operators organizing the boxes, catching his eye just as my dad put his arm around me to tell me about the efficiencies of the machine. The operator looked as though he was still deciding what to think of me. ‘You look to young to be this old guy’s wife. I hope he’s your dad. Why is he explaining the machine to you? Who are you?’ I looked away, focusing on the machine and the knowledge my dad was passing on to me. Then we walked out of the warehouse and into another area where the fish meal is made.

I thought I was getting accustomed to the smell of fish, up until we walked into the fish meal section of the plant. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I felt like I had just gotten slapped in the face with a week old fish. The manager giving us the tour, began explaining the process but all I could focus on was not breathing in too deeply. ‘There’s no way I can puke in front of this guy, pull it together Alfsen’. After a few minutes of shallow breathing I eased up a bit and could focus better on what I was looking at. There were four enormous rotary dryers over head processing fish meal, the same type of dryers I saw being fabricated earlier. As we approached the spinning monsters, the smell of aging fish got more intense. There was mounds of partially processed fish meal on the floor and operators shoveling the excess meal back onto the processing belt. We walked past the mounds and towards the packing end of the line, trying in vain not to step in the fish meal. Since my shoes were already covered in fishy water from then canning area, the powdery fish meal caked onto my shoes, forming a sort of lumpy paste. Once we finished with the tour, we headed back into the manager’s office for a tecito, a little cup of tea. Everywhere you go in Chile they offer you tea or coffee, except Chilenos like adding -ito to the end of words, meaning ‘little’. Un tecito, cafecito, pancito… Cupping my hot tecito with both hands, I chatted with the manager about working with my dad and the industry in general. There was still a distinct fish smell in the air, which I assumed was from the production floor. It wasn’t until we got back into the truck, en route to the next cannery, that I noticed that strong fish smell was coming from my shoes. I doubt the smell will ever come out but some how I feel like I’ve crossed some rite of passage. Next time someone asks me if I’ve seen a fish cannery in production I can tell them: “Why yes, can’t you smell my shoes?”

My nephew Patrick sent me the photo after coming across these at a grocery store (likely in NYC where he lives). Apparently this is a brand of a Dutch company, Zwanenberg, which also operates in Ohio.  Sadly, the last sardine cannery in the US closed just last year, so we won’t be seeing anything like this being locally produced anytime soon I suspect.

Some of the stilt houses are open for the public. In one of these houses, there is an ancient telephone and a Victrola gramophone. The telephone has no dial tone, but the two bells that sat on top of the box did rang when the handset was replaced. Of course, in the old days, it needed to be cranked to notify the operator and place a call. A local telephone directory list is attached to the wall.

Different areas of the house are all laid out full of furniture, housewares etc. A study room with a typewriter. A kitchen with a stove, hot irons and other household items of a by-gone era dating back to the turn of the 20th Century and earlier. Many of the houses themselves were built in the 1880s. John Murchison, the first police and fire chief and custom official of Steveston BC, purchased his home here in 1895. The Murakami family house was built in the 1880s.

Some of the buildings are off limits to the public. The large shipyard buildings are usually closed with a sign that says No Public Access. The First Nations house which somewhat resembles a traditional longhouse is actually fenced off. The Chinese Bunkhouse is largely empty, though it is sometimes used for staff meeting. There is a heritage dock on the south arm of the Fraser River where the SS Master is moored, but getting there is not easy. Since one of the main ways to the heritage dock is by way of one of the large shipyard buildings but they are usually closed or only with restricted access. On weekends in the summer, when there is enough volunteers around, certain shipyard buildings could be open to the public. The Britannia Heritage Shipyard Society is looking for more volunteers, funding and donations so they can have more exhibits for tourists and locals alike.























Britannia Heritage Shipyard 5180 Westwater Drive, Richmond, BC

Now, living quarters, stores and cannery shops are restored to retain their authentic feel. Many of the buildings are open for visitors during the warmer months. The Britannia Heritage Shipyard is also a park with planked boardwalk that nearby residents often enjoy a stroll in the evening there. Guided tours are available but simply take a leisurely walk down memory lane may prove to be just as enlightening and educational. Almost every locale has a plaque or tourist signage that explains the significance of the place or building. What makes Britannia Heritage Shipyard feels even more alive is the boat restoration work that is constantly going on in the park’s Boat Works. Right now, Iona and Mukai, two heritage boats are being restored back to their original state to be relaunched later this year.

At Richmond’s Britannia Heritage Shipyard, Iona and Mukai are Given New Lives







































Britannia Heritage Shipyard at 5180 Westwater Dr, Richmond, BC

Mukai was built in the 1988 by Steveston master boatbuilder Sejei Mukai as a retirement project in 1988. At 18″ long, the Mukai is a 50% scale model of the type he used to built throughout his long career. Iona, a much larger and older fishing vessel, was originally constructed in the 1920s as a double-ender with a pointed stern. But a decade later, the 38-footer had the stern converted as a blunt end for better net-handling which made the stern one of the weakest areas of the boat. Over the years, rot has set in and now the stern is in the process of being completely rebuilt with new planks and timber.

Jim McMillan, a former director of the Richmond Museum Society now an avid boat restoration enthusiast, hopes to have the two boats in the water again by July this year.



Britannnia Heritage Shipyard Society

Ocean fishing is also a dangerous profession. Capsizes or being thrown overboard happened often in the choppy sea where salmons thrived. Every parting at the mouth of the Fraser River could be the last. When fishermen were out at sea for days and never returned, family members on shore could only imagine the worst and mourn their loved ones.

Years later, memories were passed on from generation to generation. On May 04, 1996, a monument was erected at Garry Point Park to honour those fishermen who were lost at sea. They not only gave their lives in supporting their families but also played a critical role in building the community that made Steveston what it is today. A large fishing-net needle used to repair nets were chosen as the design element with the following words inscribed, “This memorial honours all the fishermen of our community who have lost their lives in the pursuit of their profession. Their courage, dedication and contribution to the development of our community will never be forgotten.”

A perfect day at Garry Point Park for them would be seeing their colorful kites rise up into the deep blue sky buoyed by winds that set their minds free.

As you heels click on the Steveston boardwalk on a sunny day, you will be reminded at every turn of the ‘good old days’ when salmons were meant to put into cans and local fruits and vegetables were sold in open air markets. But if you fancy some freshly-caught salmons off the ocean and pick-your-own farm strawberries, there are often local merchants that could suit your particular needs.

As you have probably gathered by this point, the people of Bristol Bay eat, drink, sleep, breath salmon. The fishery is the main economic force in this region. But “the fishery” doesn’t just refer to the catching of fish, it also includes what happens to the fish once they’re caught. That’s where canneries, and Dillingham proper, come in.

(If you’ve been keeping up with this blog, you’ve seen this map before. This time I want you to look for Kanulik, which is south of Dillingham, and just north of Nushagak.)

The first cannery in Bristol Bay was the Arctic Packing Company at Kanulik. It was first constructed as a salting station around 1883, but was converted into a full-fledged cannery by 1884. In 1885 the Alaska Packing Company opened at Snag Point, near present-day Dillingham. While it’s undergone several changes in ownership and name, this cannery remains standing today, and is now known as Peter Pan Seafoods. It boasts the title of the oldest continually operating cannery in Alaska.

For several years Peter Pan has operated a tour of their facilities that is open to the public. The guide is a woman who has been involved with the fishing industry here in Bristol Bay for many years. A few weeks ago Deb, Brittany, and I took an afternoon and went on the tour.

(So where’s Captain Hook?)

We began in the net loft. One of the agreements the cannery has with the folks who fish for them is that the cannery will take care of the repair and general maintenance of nets, a process referred to as hanging the nets. Many of the people who hang nets for Peter Pan have been doing so for years. In fact right now they have three generations of net hangers from one family: grandfather, father and son. In the net loft we got a quick introduction as well as our gray work coats and HAIRNETS. That’s right, hairnets. Since we were going to be touring a working food processing place we were required to wear hairnets whenever we were around food. Awesome.

(Rock n’ rolla…)

The tour took us through the mess hall, the office, past the restored double ender sailboat from my earlier post, and into the warehouse where the finished product is stored before being shipped off for consumer enjoyment.

(The warehouse)

We also got to peek in on Peter Pan’s newest endeavor, fresh frozen salmon fillets.

(I was surprised by all of the color inside the cannery.)

After the warehouse we were taken to the end of the dock where the fish are unloaded from tender boats. From there our journey paralleled that of the salmon. We followed along as out guide took us from boat all the way back to canned in the warehouse.

(The fish starts out on this conveyor belt where it gets washed, and skinned, and cut up…)

(Upstairs the empty cans are inspected for flaws which could interfere with the canning process. Once they’re Ok’d they fly down this chute to the lower level where they’re packed full of tasty salmon.)

(The fully packed cans come out on those conveyor belts and are placed in the big square crates on the floor. Those crates are then places in the ovens where the fish gets cooked and the cans get sealed. Depending on the size of the can there’s a really specific temperature/time combination to make sure the salmon is cooked, the can is sealed, and everything remains sanitary. For future reference, there’s a code stamped on every can of salmon you find at the grocery store. The fish in cans whose number starts with 35 came from right here in Bristol Bay and were canned right here in Dillingham, at Peter Pan.)

We regrouped back at the sailboat where we were told about improvements in safety over the years.

I’m sure most of you have heard of “The Deadliest Catch” the show on the Discovery Channel about the Alaskan crab fishery. Well, yes, that is the most dangerous fishery in the world, but all commercial fishing has its risks, and salmon fishing is no different. Even in the summer the waters are cold, and storms can come up with little warning. Add to that the constant threat of mechanical difficulties and you have the potential for one stressful job.

But the folks in the salmon fishery have largely been doing this for years, even generations, and they love it. Native and non-Native alike there is a respect for the natural resources of this area that runs deep. Sadly, between the never-ending rollercoaster of fish pricing and the growing possibility of major oil, gas, and mineral development in the region, the Bristol Bay fishing lifestyle is threatened. Fishermen (and women) are having harder and harder times making ends meet (maintaining a boat is expensive), and extractive resource development could potentially have a drastic impact on the salmon runs, making it more and more difficult to make the necessary catch to get sufficiently paid. As much as it saddens me to say it, Bristol Bay fishermen may be a dying breed. But there is resilience here and a ferocious dedication to a way of life that harkens back to the glory days of the American frontier. And of one thing you can be sure, even if they are on the way out, the folks of Bristol Bay won’t go out quietly.

The trip from Nushagak Point to Ekuk was a quick one. I’m quite glad we were delayed at Nushagak, but I probably could have stomached the remainder of the ride to Ekuk, the day before. It took us a while to figure out where to unload the boat. The tide was moving out very quickly and we were trying to unload on a part of the beach smack in the middle of several commercial set-nets. We pretty much hurled our things and ourselves out of the boat so that Gregg could get it back out into deep water and down the beach to the cannery, where we were told to anchor the skiff. Deb and I proceeded to pitch the tent and get camp set up while we waited for Gregg to return. As it turns out, our selected site was right between the “highway” and the “airport.”

(High Traffic Area)

For the following 24 hours we had trucks driving back and forth on the beach in front of our tent, and planes taking off and landing right behind our tent. Added to the flurry of vehicular activity was the fact that we were there on the fourth of July. If nothing else, it was sure buzzing with energy and activity.

(The Fourth of July is a strange affair in Alaska. People are really into their fireworks, but there isn’t enough darkness to see them… So mostly it’s just noisy.)

As it turns out we had set up our camp site in Esther Ilutsik’s front yard. Esther is a local elder who has been of particular assistance to Ann Fienup-Riordan, a prominent scholar of Yup’ik history and culture. Esther grew up fishing summers at Ekuk and so in the evening she offered to show the Burtons (who also had never been to Ekuk) and me around the beach and the cannery (Ekuk has it’s own cannery which makes it easier for the people who fish there to get their catch processed quickly).

(Patrick Chiklak repairing a net.)

As we walked down the beach we met Patrick Chiklak (above), a friend of Gregg’s and a commercial set-netter, repairing some tears in one of his nets. I’ve always been curious about net making so spent a few minutes watching his repairs as he explained the process to me. The new string is wound around the shuttle (in his right hand) which has a sort of forked end that’s used to tie off the knots. There’s another tool called teh gauge which is used to measure the distance between nets. Different gauges are used depending on what you’re trying to catch. Patrick was speculating that a king salmon probably tore up this net, the holes weren’t large enough for it to have been a beluga, who are some of the more common culprits of net-tearing.

The first thing Esther pointed out to us once we got to the cannery was an old Yup’ik home, or barabara (ba-RA-ba-RA).

(A barabara.)

What you’re looking for is the mound sort of at the center of the picture. It’s what’s left of an old earth house in the style traditionally used by some Yup’ik. When asked how she knew it was a barabara, Esther replied, “Oh it was still there when I was a litle girl.”

Esther walked us around the cannery, showing us the locations of both current buildings and buildings no longer in use. Included with the latter was the old fishermen’s bunkhouse.

(A panoramic view of the cannery)

(Esther’s mother’s smokehouse)

Esther’s mother used to spend summers on a piece of land close to the cannery. Today the cannery owns the land, but Esther’s mother’s smokehouse still stands on the property and Esther continues to use it.

(Smoking salmon strips…)

Back down by out campsite on the beach, folks were back at it, picking nets. The family with the site closest to us consented to me taking a few pictures of them at work.

(Two of the daughters slinging salmon into the back of the truck. Note the fish flying through the air. Those suckers are heavy.)

(Fisherwomen: Mom and two of the daughters paused for a picture only after the net was picked.)

Normally, I’d pause here for some detailed reflection upon the adventure. But I think this time I’ll keep it simple. What impressed me most on this trip was the history present at both fish camps we visited that weekend. Not only were both Nushagak and Ekuk cannery sites that figured into the long history of commercial salmon fishing, but both had been Native fish camps long before the canneries arrived. And the coolest part? Both sides are still active in these places today.

We arrived at Wrangell at 9:00. The chamber of Com. Rep. showed the place where a Russian fort was and three totem poles.  It must have been over 60 years old.  We danced til 2:00 A.M. —————————–. A cannery, fish freezer, lumber, hunting.

Related Links: Ketchikan,  William Duncan at Wikipedia, The Founding of Metlakatia with images, history on Wrangell