by David Giblin
“Isn’t that a magnificent creature?”
Herbert marvelled at the sight of the bird. Its form evoked his feelings toward his country in a way he could never explain. Eagles were America for him. He felt good every time he saw one, which around Seattle was extremely rarely. He was glad to see that they were a common sight around his resort.
The fir log lay on the rocks below the generator shed where the walkway began. It was a massive piece of wood, about four feet through at the butt and over thirty feet long. It was supported at either end by large boulders. One round cut from this log would split up into several days’ firewood for the whole resort. It seemed to Herbert that the tide still had quite a way to come before it posed a problem. He carried with him a brand new STIHL chainsaw. Nelson had just bought it for the resort, and Herbert had talked him into letting him use it. With a saw like this a man could do some work! He could whip a couple of rounds off that log in the time it took to think about it.
Herbert’s son had his misgivings but was quickly overruled, and additionally received a lecture on the importance of seizing the moment and making tough, executive decisions on one’s own initiative. Herbert started the chainsaw. He walked up to the middle of the log and, looking the picture of executive confidence, started his first cut.
“But Dad”—Herbert’s son had to make himself heard over the noise of the generator as well as the chainsaw—“shouldn’t you at least start at one end of the log?”
Herbert had disappeared in a blizzard of wood chips as the new saw blade ripped easily into the log. His son’s concerns were drowned out by the noise. The smell of freshly cut fir filled the air and Herbert breathed it in happily. This was what it was all about.
“Hey, Dad.”
The son tried again, but Herbert was enjoying himself too much to pay attention, even if he could hear him.
Now, as most people that do much woodcutting are aware, Herbert was ignoring not only his son but a certain law of physics as well. A log suspended in the middle sags, from the force of gravity, and as the log is sawn, the cut closes up on itself. A log this big closes so tightly about whatever is in there that it becomes a part of the log. Herbert was almost a third of the way into the log when it happened.
The engine stalled and Herbert tried to remove the chainsaw from the log to see what was the matter, but the saw wouldn’t budge. He tried to wriggle it free, but he may as well have been wriggling a tree branch with the name STIHL painted on the side.
Herbert was red faced and breathing hard when he finally faced the futility of trying to free the blade. The tide was also becoming a problem.
A huge volume of water, moving through a maze of channels and around so many small islands, doesn’t flow in a steady stream. Sometimes it hangs back and then comes in with a rush. It fills the channels in a series of surges and can rise two or three feet in a matter of minutes. Herbert was so intent on the jammed saw that he forgot about the tide. It was his son who brought it up.
“Ummm . . . Dad.” Now that he only had to compete against the sound of the generator it was easier for him to make himself heard. “Hey . . . Dad, I think the tide’s coming in faster than you expected.”
The water was already starting to lap at Herbert’s feet. It would soon be high enough to float the log. The chainsaw was in danger of being soaked in the salt water, and even Herbert knew what salt water could do to an engine.
Nelson was on the roof of the lodge repairing some shingles that had loosened in a winter storm. He heard an embarrassed clearing of the throat below him.
“Ummm . . . my dad sent me to find you. He’s got a little problem.”
Nelson peered over the edge of the roof; Herbert’s son smiled awkwardly back up at him. By the time Nelson had climbed down off the roof, walked out along the boardwalk to the workshop, collected another chainsaw, and walked back, the tide had gained on them even more.
The only way to save the trapped saw was to cut down at an angle and remove wedge-shaped pieces of wood from around the trapped blade. Once you expose the saw you must open the cut with carefully placed faller’s wedges, specially made from nylon, so as not to damage the blade. It would be slow, tiring work made even worse by the water.
The tide continued to rise, and before long Nelson was splashing around up to his waist in the icy water. Herbert offered encouragement from a dry vantage point. The job became more difficult as the log began to float. It rocked and twisted around as he worked. Nelson thrashed about in the water, swearing to himself, trying to ignore the numbing cold. The saw eventually came loose and escaped any serious damage, but Nelson was completely soaked and chilled to the bone. He headed back to the lodge to warm up and change into some dry clothing.
Herbert and his son stayed with the chainsaws and other equipment piled on the walkway. Herbert felt bad for all the trouble he had caused Nelson, and for taking him away from his work. He wanted to make it up to him. Besides, Herbert hadn’t got where he was in the world by being a quitter—if anything, a little adversity only made him more determined to succeed. He remembered there was still that alder farther up the hillside.
Herbert grabbed the STIHL and told his son to follow. The trail to the wood started behind the generator shed. It led to a small clearing not more than fifty yards up the hill. Herbert marched into the clearing with determination. The alder lay amid a tangle of salal bushes, tree roots, and ferns. It was cut into lengths of ten or twelve feet, all no more than a foot thick. After a massive chunk like the fir this stuff resembled so many matchsticks. Herbert started up the chainsaw with renewed confidence.
Nelson had just finished changing and was finally starting to get warm. Even in the middle of summer the water was still ice cold. Twenty minutes immersed in the water was enough to cause death from hypothermia; Nelson was sure he had been wrestling with the saw for more than half an hour. Wrapped up in a thick wool blanket, he stood in the sunshine that streamed in the front windows and sipped some hot, fortified coffee. He looked down the trail to the lodge and saw Herbert’s son approaching. Nelson was already putting his boots on when the boy opened the door.
“Ummm . . . Nelson, Dad hit something with the chainsaw up there on the hill and there’s water spraying all over the place.”
Herbert’s first cut had not only sawn clean through a small alder log but kept on going through a three-inch-thick black hose he hadn’t noticed lying beside the log. It was the water supply line, carrying the entire water supply for all the systems at the resort. The reservoir above was rapidly emptying itself onto the ground in the clearing. It had been a dry spring and water was a precious commodity. Nelson waded into the spraying water and was soaked once more. He took a moment to examine the extent of the damage. The line was sawn almost in two, and water was squirting out of the cut like a fountain. Nelson went off on another hike out to the workshop to gather the tools and fittings he would need.
He had to leave the two visitors alone while he did so. He made Herbert promise solemnly that he would not start another chainsaw. He made him look him in the eye and repeat the promise.
Herbert was really upset with himself. No matter how hard he tried, he only made more work for Nelson. He also wasn’t making much of an impression on his son. He had no intention of starting a chainsaw, but perhaps there was something else he could do that would move things along. As he looked around the clearing an idea came to him. If he and his son could move the logs out of Nelson’s way, he would have more room to work on the waterline. It was only a matter of flipping the logs end over end. They were so small Herbert and his son could manage quite easily to flip them down the hill toward the walkway. The logs would end up out of the way and closer to the woodshed.
He had his son help with the first log. They lifted it with ease and let go. The log fell down the hill and made a satisfying crash into the salal bushes. This might be fun. They picked up another and pushed it down the hill. This time it went farther and made a louder and even more satisf
ying crash. They set to the task with enthusiasm. Herbert and his son were enjoying themselves. They were finally doing something together, laughing and whooping each time another log crashed to the ground. They moved the logs end over end down the hill until they were in sight of the generator shed. A few more flips and the logs would be right next to the walkway.
On his way back from the workshop, Nelson was just rounding the last curve of the walkway when something made him look up. Herbert and his son were standing hip deep in the salal bushes just behind the generator shed. Red faced and smiling, they were balancing an alder log on its end. It looked as if they were about to let go of the log. Nelson saw what was about to happen.
It was as if time slowed for Nelson. He waved his hands, full of hose clamps and hose fittings, over his head. His mouth worked but his brain was too stunned to form words properly. The two on the hillside saw him waving. At that moment they had found a new joy in being together and wanted to share it with everyone. They waved back. Herbert was calling his son by his first name, Gary. They had formed a new father-and-son bond through the hard work and team effort of moving the logs. Nelson’s waving just made them feel that much better about what they had accomplished. It was like an affirmation of their worthwhile achievements. They let the log fall.
It moved slowly at first, and then the law of gravity asserted itself. The log picked up speed, arching gracefully through the air. Nelson stood witness, his hands raised stupidly over his head. The log came crashing down. It landed on top of the main power line that carried electricity from the generator to the lodge and the rest of the cabins, as well as the workshop and the boatshed. There was a bright blue flash. The emergency shut-off switch stopped the generator and, as the diesel engine whined to a stop, a profound silence settled over the scene.
People always assume that being out in the country means being out in pure silence, but this is seldom the case. There are always the sounds of motors—chainsaw motors, outboard motors, airplane motors as they take off and land; and always there is the ever-present throb of generators. Either diesel- or gasoline-powered, they are always working anywhere you find people. The sounds are so common that you begin to take them for granted. You tune them out and they become part of the background.
When the generator shut down, it was as though Nelson was hearing silence for the first time.
Nelson very slowly brought his hands back down from their position over his head. They were filled with objects—hose clamps, fittings—and for a few seconds he stared at them. He had forgotten why he had them clutched in both hands.
He looked up to the hillside above him. Two people stood in the salal, smiling down at him. He nodded numbly as one of them spoke. The man’s voice boomed out unnaturally in the silence. “Oh jeez,” he said, so friendly. “Hey, don’t worry about that, Gary and I will help you fix it.”
seven THE FAMILIAR
HAVING A BOAT in the water at Stuart Island is not like having a car on the road in the city. There is a complex and subtle relationship between the boat and the owner that goes far beyond transportation or even status.
Seen from a distance, the guide boat is instantly recognizable. An experienced observer can watch a fishing hole from a mile or more away and, from the size, shape, and colour of the boats, know exactly who’s there and even how good the fishing might be. The presence or absence of certain people and their boats speaks volumes about the kind of fishing taking place.
The interior of a boat takes on the personality of the owner and expresses the way they fish, their habits, and their outlook on life. Even to the uninitiated, certain things are obvious. Some guides are extremely efficient and organized, while others are unbelievably sloppy. A guide can take one look inside a boat and tell where the person was fishing, what kind of bait they were using, and other useful information just as easily as reading a newspaper.
The hours spent fishing in the back eddies, where you must be sensitive to the slightest nuance of the water as it surges around the boat, attunes a guide so closely to his boat that it becomes an extension of the body. Like a sea-faring centaur, a guide becomes half man, half boat. He turns and manoeuvres his craft as you might move your hand or your foot, seemingly without thinking or making a conscious decision. If you have to think about where your boat should be when you are in the rapids, then you have already lost control.
As Vop and I eased our boats into the water after the work of painting them and replacing the seats and motors, we weren’t just gaining access to the fishing holes; we were regaining a part of our identity.
Once my boat is back in the water, the first thing I usually do is visit the resort run by my friend Nelson. He and his wife also run the only post office in the area. A visit to Nelson’s place is a ritual played out by all the guides in the area, where they can change their address for the summer and say hello.
I found Nelson at the side of his generator shed, perched on the top of a ladder. The generator was shut down and he was absorbed in the task of splicing wires together.
“I thought you rewired the generator at the end of last season,” I said.
Like most of the guides, Nelson didn’t really enjoy shore work and he was a little sullen.
“I did, but Herbert and his son, Gary, are up for a visit. You can probably figure out the rest for yourself.”
“What did he do this time?”
Nelson let out a deep sigh. He came down from the ladder and told me the whole story. He seemed relieved to be able to talk about it. Then he added, “This might even be funny except I got a call this morning.” Nelson’s life was seldom very simple. “There’s a yacht on its way, due in by noon tomorrow. They want to go fishing as soon as they arrive. There’s no way I’m going to finish all the stuff I’ve got to do. Do you think you could take them out for me?”
“Well, yeah, my boat is ready to go right now.” A little extra work this time of year was always welcome.
“There’s only one small catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“Yeah, it’s your old friend Morris Goldfarb.”
eight MORRIS GOLDFARB
I HAD TAKEN Morris Goldfarb fishing before. Last summer Morris arrived during a particularly hot period of fishing. People were catching fish on every tide, and a number of big spring salmon over thirty pounds were already weighed in at the lodge. Fish that big are called tyee, a word used by the local Indigenous people that means “a damn big fish,” or something to that effect. You could feel the excitement in the air; everyone, guides included, wanted to catch the next tyee. Along with the thrill of playing and landing such a large and powerful salmon on the light tackle we used, there was a certain status involved. Some people spent years and thousands of dollars without ever coming close to catching one. Having the experience put you in a select club. The resorts awarded prizes, special sweatshirts, and commemorative pins. Bottles of expensive champagne got popped open, and the guide responsible might be tipped hundreds of dollars. Over the course of the whole summer, during hundreds of hours of fishing, a guide might experience a tyee celebration only two or three times. Each time a guide dropped a piece of bait in the water he did it with great care; it might be the one that caught the next tyee.
Morris, however, couldn’t have cared less. I don’t think he even knew what a tyee was. A speech he had to give at a business meeting the following week commanded all of his attention. He had come to Stuart Island to relax and memorize his presentation. Somehow he found being out in the rapids in the middle of a busy fishing hole helped his concentration. He sat in the boat, rod jammed between his knees, the speech open on his lap, mumbling to himself as he memorized his lines. If I wanted him to let some more line out or reel in to check his bait, first I had to get his attention. Each time he turned to his speech he was transported out of my boat to a podium somewhere, holding an audience of his business peers enthralled with his insight and wit. For Morris this prospect was an experience far above any mere
fishing action.
To make matters worse for me, every time a fish was caught near us I had to watch the lucky fisherman play his catch around the hole or out into the tide. There was no point trying to fish seriously; that took a certain amount of teamwork and co-operation. We were fishing a spot known as the Second Hole, a large back eddy that moved the boats around it as though they were on a giant carousel. The main current flowed down the centre of the channel. The water it displaced pushed up against the shores of Stuart Island in a sweeping, circular fashion. The guides would line up at the top of the circle, ride the faster water down the outside edge, head the bow of their boats in to the shore, and ride the slower moving back currents to the top of the hole again. We would have to watch the depth as we circled in order to avoid the rocks and reefs on the bottom. The salmon hid among these rocky places and waited for their food to come to them.
Morris, lost in his speech, couldn’t be interrupted. I hung around near the top of the back eddy so as not to interfere with any of the more serious fishermen. The part of the hole we were at collected a great deal of driftwood and debris. It kept bumping into the line where it entered the water. At one point my line touched a small piece of bark. At the same time, the rod tip twitched, then dipped toward the water. Morris paid no attention and continued to mumble to himself. I asked him to reel in his line.
“Why?” he asked. “Do you think I need to?”
“Well, I think you might have a fish on. If you reel up, we’ll find out.”
“I don’t feel anything there. Wasn’t it just the line bumping into that piece of wood?”
Morris didn’t want to bother with the interruption.
“Morris, as a favour to me, just reel up and see what happens.”
“Are you sure? There’s nothing there. I can’t feel a thing. If a fish was there, I’d be able to feel it, wouldn’t I? It was only that piece of wood.”
