Closer to the Ground

by Dylan Tomine

  I throw the last of our precious “cold weather” madrona on the fire and try to get to sleep early, but I’m filled with the same night-before-fishing anticipation I’ve felt since I was four years old. I lie in bed listening to the soft cadence of Stacy breathing, and stare out the window at the night sky. It’s rare to see the brilliance of winter stars from beneath our usual blanket of clouds. Tonight, though, they sparkle with clarity, as cold and hard as diamonds. I watch Orion’s three belt stars trace their shallow arc across treetops to the south. Each year, the trees at the edge of our woods grow ever closer to obscuring Orion’s winter passage, and I wonder: When I can no longer see these stars, will I remember to miss them? One day, I will wake to find Skyla all grown up and hurtling out the door into the wider world. Shortly after, Weston will follow. I finally fall asleep reminding myself to hold on to the minutes and days, even as they slip by faster with every passing year.

  Two minutes before my alarm goes off, I wake and check the treetops outlined against a starry sky. Not a hint of movement; the calm weather has held. I was half hoping the wind would give me an excuse to curl back under the covers and avoid the bitter cold. No such luck. As I climb the creaking stairs in the dark, I see light from Weston’s partially opened door. When I peek in, he’s sitting in the recliner, legs crossed and the big dinosaur book open on his lap. He’s so engrossed in Jurassic life he doesn’t even know I’m there. Skyla’s room is cool and dark, her breathing deep and rhythmic. I hate to wake her. When I shake her shoulder, she frowns in her sleep, then stretches and opens her eyes.

  “Hi Daddy,” she says, “Are we going fishing today?”

  “No,” I say, feeling sudden regret, “you’re going to school.”

  “Then why are you wearing your fishing clothes?” she asks.

  “Because after I take you to school, I’m going to fish.”

  “I wish I could go with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Weston comes in dragging Blue-Blue, his beloved blanket. He’s clearly wide awake in spite of the dark hour. “Are we going fishing today?” he asks.

  Over hot oatmeal I try to convince them (and myself) that it’s too cold for little kids to go fishing. It’s 16 degrees out. When I drop Skyla off at school, she hesitates outside in the dark and whispers, “I really wish I could go fishing with you today.” “I know,” I say. “We’ll go soon.” Then she lets go of my hand and disappears into the brightly lit crowd of first-graders, calling happy greetings to her friends.

  At the boat ramp, I back the trailer down to the water’s edge, hop out, and remove the transom straps. Two bundled-up old salts working on various projects around the dock wave, and we exchange the obligatory “Cold enough for ya?” and “Frickin’ freezing.” They appear surprised to see someone going fishing, and their questioning stares fill me with doubt. Maybe it is crazy to be trying to fish in this weather.

  I back the trailer into the water and stand on the tongue to push the boat free. It won’t budge. I push harder. Nothing. I try a different angle. I strain and heave until veins bulge in my forehead and the chronic pinched nerve in my shoulder starts sending my back into spasm. When I peer over the bow to see if anyone’s witnessing this pathetic struggle, the old guys are looking right at me, puzzled by my predicament. “Boat’s frozen to the trailer,” I shout and return to my efforts. “You might try unhooking the winch strap on the bow there,” one of them says. That thing two inches in front of my nose that holds the boat on the trailer? Right.

  Once the boat’s free and in the water, things get a little better. But only a little. The bowline is frozen into a solid block and I have to rummage around and find another line. Then the motor won’t start. The battery seems okay, but I’m worried about running it down with too many attempts. I pump the fuel line and try again. It turns over, chugs a few times and quits. I turn the key yet again, with the same results. Over my shoulder, I can feel my audience watching, and I have a powerful urge to put the boat back on the trailer and skulk home. I twist the throttle wide open and return it to the start position. One more shot. The motor coughs, pops, sputters…and a chunk of ice shoots out of the cooling indicator tube, followed by a steady stream of water and a smooth, purring idle.

  I cast off and a sudden, remarkable sense of freedom sweeps over me. What’s that Thoreau quote about leaving your troubles behind? I’m there. I’m also strangely…warm. In the summer, it can be 90 degrees on land and the minute you’re in a boat on the Sound, you need a jacket. This must be the opposite side of the same phenomenon: The stable temperature of this huge body of water mitigates the cold, making it warmer in the boat than on land. I think I’ve stumbled onto some kind of important truth here. Either that, or the humiliation I just experienced raised my body temperature along with my blood pressure.

  Ten feet from the dock, I lower a dodger and plastic squid into the water and I’m fishing. Even better, I’m downright toasty. I take off my gloves and outer jacket and start looking for diving birds. This time of year, when you find the big Western grebes, with their graceful, curving necks and stylishly raked black caps, you usually find bait; when you find bait, you find salmon. Sometimes, anyway. I have no idea how these birds can paddle along the surface and stay directly above a school of herring 50 feet down, but they do. And I’m more than happy to use them as markers. It gives me something to look for during what would otherwise be random trolling.

  Out by the first channel buoy, I spot a dozen grebes alternately diving and sitting, so I know they’re on bait. When I reach them, the depth-finder screen lights up with a huge bait ball on the bottom in 56 feet of water. But I have to be careful out here; the big Seattle car ferry is due any time now and not paying attention could be disastrous. I turn the boat and make a slow pass through the birds, my eyes glued to the fishing rod, stomach tingling with anticipation. Somewhere in the depths, hordes of frantic baitfish bounce off my line. I’m ready to leap out of my seat, but nothing happens. When I clear the far side of the bait, I can’t believe I haven’t hooked a fish.

  I make a sharp turn and come back through the bait again, and this time, the rod tip dips, then bounces down. Fish on! I grab the rod out of the holder, set the hook, and reel up slack in a frenzy, finally getting tight to…a little less resistance than I want. A lot less, actually. In fact, the slow trolling speed (about 2½ miles per hour) planes the fish up to the surface, where I see it’s a king salmon all right – about nine inches long. Shaker. Kings less than the legal 22-inch size limit are referred to as “shakers” for their high-frequency movement when hooked. I lean over the side and release the tiny fish with a sharp twist of the hook. Within minutes, I’m fishing again, but a startling horn blast warns me that the ferry is bearing down, and I have to reel up fast to get out of the ship’s way. When it’s passed, I return to where I was fishing, but the bait is gone.

  The day is flat-out gorgeous. No wind, and the mirrored surface of the Sound reflects a cloudless, silver-blue sky in every direction. An old-timer I know would call it a hundred dollar day, an expression that, having been outpaced by inflation, is now frequently misinterpreted as sarcasm.

  I troll out of the harbor and down the shoreline to the south, adjusting my fishing gear to stay near the bottom as the shoal falls away into deep water. When I clear the point where the old creosote plant once stood, my eyes are drawn east across the open Sound and up, past the Seattle skyline, past the dark, fir-shrouded foothills, up and up to the staggering sight of Mount Rainier towering above the landscape. It’s always a surprise seeing Rainier. Most of the time our local volcano remains hidden by clouds and you forget it’s there. When the skies clear, it seems too tall and impossibly close to be real. The brain struggles to accept the massive shape, the glaciated flanks, the flying-saucer lenticular cloud cap hovering above the summit.

  Seeing Rainier reminds me to turn and look back to the west, where the black, forested ridges of the Island and, beyond them, the Kitsap Peninsula provide a foundati
on for the snowy, shark-tooth alpine peaks of the Olympics. Like Rainier, they seem much too close and steep to be real. You have to consciously adjust the angle of your neck to see their tops.

  No sign of grebes or bait or fish, but it hardly matters. It’s such a rare pleasure to be outside and fishing in comfort – in a December cold snap, no less – that at least for the moment, I am content. I take off my heavy puff jacket and enjoy the soft breeze created by the walking-speed pace of the boat.

  A young, terrier-sized harbor seal appears, swimming along in the prop wash, matching my speed with very little effort. He’s close enough that I can see his whiskers against dappled gray fur and the long eyelashes framing liquid black eyes. I fight the impulse to anthropomorphize. He is not “keeping me company” or being “friendly.” I know better. No matter how cute, this is the enemy. And I know what he’s up to…he’s waiting for me to hook a fish so he can steal it off my line, an increasingly common occurrence on the Sound. If it were summer, when my sole focus is to put salmon in the freezer, I would be throwing sinkers, hex nuts, and anything else I could grab to scare him away. But this is winter, and for now, I can live with his presence. As long he’s there, I won’t land a fish. Not that I’m hooking any anyway. What the heck, it’s kind of nice having a little “company.” After an extended time following along at a leisurely pace, the seal runs out of patience, and with a “disdainful” snort swims off for more productive hunting grounds.

  Hours pass, and as usual, time warps. One minute I’m struggling to launch the boat, and the next I look up to see the sun dipping into the southwestern horizon. My day has evaporated into cold, dry air. It’s been a good one, calm and relaxing, and though fishless, I feel refreshed. I stow my gear and run for the harbor, anxious now to get home, clean the boat, play with the kids, and slide back into the routines of home.

  Just outside the harbor I enter into a familiar debate with myself. Should I put the gear back down and fish my way in? I’ve caught a lot of fish here on tides like this one. But it would be smart to get home early enough to back the boat down the driveway and wash it in daylight. On the other hand, I’m already here…

  Without much conviction, I put the gear back in the water and begin a slow troll toward the ramp. I look to make sure the ferry is still at the dock loading cars, and when I glance back at the rod, it bounces, and then pulls down in a deep bend. Line peels off the reel. I pull back and feel solid resistance. The fish arcs across the narrow channel, then powers to the top, shooting along the surface with its back half out of the water like a torpedo. Remembering my “friend” the seal, I scan the water nervously and apply maximum pressure. When the fish slows, I put the motor in neutral and drift. Now I just need to make sure it’s a hatchery fish, marked by a missing adipose fin, before putting it in the boat. If it’s a wild fish, with fin intact, I will release it, but I’m having a hell of a time determining which it is through the glare. The fish rolls and veers under the boat. When it surfaces again, it’s downlight, and I can see the empty place on the wrist of the tail where an adipose fin should be. I scoop the fish into the net and bring it aboard.

  And what a fish it is: 12 pounds of luminous chrome king salmon, thick through the belly and shoulders, a deep purple sheen along the back. The metallic, grassy scent of king salmon fills the air. The fish thrashes, and I fumble around for the old hammer handle and deliver a sharp, clean blow to its head. It shakes once and relaxes, lying still. Quickly now, while its heart still beats with residual impulse, I put the fish in the fish box, tilted head down, and cut the gills to bleed it.

  I wipe down the floorboards and fill out my salmon tag with shaking hands. Because it’s calm and pleasant on the water, I shut off the motor and clean the fish in the boat. I make a shallow cut up the center of the belly to a point just below the gills, being careful not to puncture the entrails (digestive juices and bile can taint the meat) or cut myself. Next I run the knife inside the gill plates, severing the gills at the base of the tongue. When I pull, it all comes out in one long, dripping mass, which goes into a bucket for future crab bait. I pause to examine the stomach contents and find seven finger-sized herring in various states of digestion. A long slice on either side of the dark kidney, which runs along the backbone, a quick scrape with a spoon, and I’m done. I rinse the fish quickly over the side, keeping a sharp eye out for the seal, and put it back in the box. This fish, with its exceptionally thick belly walls and firm, icy flesh, will be magnificent eating, a winter meal the whole family craves.

  After it has spent the requisite day or two in the fridge to develop optimum flavor and texture, I will cut inch-thick steaks vertically from the center of one fillet and salt them shioyaki style. Although there’s enough of this fish to provide several dinners, we’ll allow ourselves only one. The fact is, these resident kings, which live their whole lives within the confines of Puget Sound, are polluted. A century of heavy industry has sent PCBs, mercury, and various other chemicals up the food chain, collecting most prominently in the fat and flesh of apex predators from king salmon to orcas to…us. The health department says the benefits of eating fish (protein, omega-3 fatty acids, etc.) outweigh the hazards, but adds that resident Chinook salmon should not be consumed more than once a month.

  So…we’ll err on the safe side and celebrate with one perfect meal of fresh winter blackmouth. The rest will be stripped of fat, skin, and dark meat (where a majority of the chemicals end up), and then brined, lightly smoked, and pressure canned for a special treat in the months to come. The shelf-stable canned salmon is healthier for us and frees up valuable freezer space. Still, the whole chemical issue tarnishes some of our pleasure, and forces us to consider the effects of human activities on the food chain. Health department consumption advisories do cause some anxiety in our household, but I wonder whether the antibiotics, growth hormones, and pesticides found in commercial meat and produce are any better for us? How about the chemical preservatives and artificial colorings in processed food?

  Back at the ramp, I wave to the puttering old salts with a renewed confidence, based, I admit, on the pure luck of having a fish in the boat. I am now a fisherman, a provider of food, a skilled boatman. That I load the boat on the trailer without incident enhances my feeling of competence. It’s been a perfect day. The water was calm, I’ve been warm for hours, and there’s a fat winter king in the fish box.

  It’s surprising how little time it takes for that sense of perfection to vanish. Thirty minutes, to be exact. Or the time it takes, in the process of washing the boat, to encase the entire boat, trailer, and driveway in a sheet of clear ice, and then slip on said ice, bark my shin on the trailer tongue, and fall to the ground in a slow-motion, wildly flailing descent. From this new, ground-level perspective, I notice that it has suddenly gotten very dark and I am, once again, freezing.

  The porch light flickers on. Skyla comes barreling out into the dusk, shouting “Dad! What are you doing down there? Did you catch anyth…is that ice?” Weston follows her and they slide across the driveway, laughing and chasing each other. Weston puts his hands on the hull of the boat, and for reasons known only to him licks the frozen metal. “It’th a boat popthicle,” he announces before peeling his tongue from the ice. My day edges back toward perfect.

  Skyla spots the fish box on the ground and they run to it. “Dad, did you get a blackmouth?” Weston asks. Skyla pries the lid open. “You did!” she says. I crouch down with them to examine the fish. They feel its teeth, extend the fins and study the pearlescent scales that come off onto their hands. “Can we eat it tonight for dinner?” Skyla asks. I know it will taste better tomorrow or the next day, that patience will be rewarded if we can wait. But looking at her now, I understand that she doesn’t want to wait. Actually, neither do I. “Sure,” I say, “let’s eat it tonight.”

  CONVERSATION WITH STACY

  Me: Aaaaaaaaaahhh! We’re going to run out of wood by February!

  Stacy: Calm down. You say that every year.
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  Me: But this year I mean it.

  Stacy: You say that every year too.

  Me: Yeah, and what happens?

  Stacy: You end up finding some dry logs somewhere and we’re fine.

  Me: And what if I don’t?

  Stacy: I’m not worried about it. (Throws two more logs into the woodstove)

  Me: Hey, hey…take it easy. Didn’t you hear what I said?

  Stacy: I heard you, but I’m still not worried. Something’ll turn up when we need it.

  Me: Yeah, only through a lot of effort and anxiety on my part.

  Stacy: See? Nothing to worry about.

  FIREWOOD IV: PRODUCTION

  The stove is eating through our woodpile like a starving beaver. My distress grows with each trip to the shed as I watch formerly towering stacks of dry wood dwindle away. After weeks of bitterly cold rain, a severe snowstorm blanketed the region, followed by a cold snap with temperatures into the teens. We’ve been burning the stove around the clock. According to the weather service, the future holds more of the same. “The good news,” I report to Stacy, with forced optimism, “is that we’ve only burned half our wood.” Then, under my breath, “The bad news is, we’re less than a third of the way through winter.”

  Our current wood production, which we won’t burn until next winter, is off to a promising start. Piles of rounds from a big fall cutting season line the yard, and each morning, I grab the maul and split a few before starting work. On weekends, the kids and I stack the split wood in crisscross patterns to dry. If it gets windy and more trees come down, I’ll still go out and cut, but for the most part, wintertime is splitting season.