How to Catch Salmon in the Beautiful, Complicated Alaskan Waters
How to Catch Salmon in the Beautiful, Complicated Alaskan Waters
Going along for the ride as a master reels in what might be the best-tasting sustainable seafood there is
Paid subscribers to The Bittman Project can use the code at the top of today’s newsletter to get five percent off any order at Yakobi Fisheries, which you’ll read about below. (The code expires August 7, so if you subscribe in the next week, you’re good.) Maybe five percent doesn’t seem like a lot … but we’re not talking about Cheez-Its here. We’re talking about real wild fish that takes a lot to catch, process, sell, and ship, as we’ve documented (we hope). And FWIW, The Bittman Project’s cut is … zero. We just want you to enjoy this best-in-class fish (and to become a paid subscriber, natch). We — Mark and Kathleen — put our Yakobi order in last week.
On a small fishing boat, rocking from side to side in a cloudy spray under a low, overcast sky, we weren’t scared, exactly (well, perhaps one of us – Mark – was) but we certainly didn’t feel secure. Salmon blood and water were splashing everywhere, the footing would’ve been bad even had the boat been stable, and everywhere the two of us went we were in the way.
It was easy to think about the bucolic animal farming scene at Glynwood, which, except for the final day that the animals are either taken off property or processed on-site, is (for us observers at least) virtually stress free. But in what’s called the Taku River Inlet, south and east of Juneau, Alaska, long before you see a fish you get the feeling that this is risky business.
We were in Alaska on a Regent Seven Seas cruise, as talking and cooking heads. Once we knew that we’d be docking in Juneau, we reached out to our friend Tyson Fick, who almost immediately offered to take us out on his boat, the Heather Anne, to see the salmon gill-netting process first-hand. That was an irresistible offer from an expert – Tyson is more than a fisherman; he’s also the advisor on fish for Mary Peltola, who’s Alaska’s member in the House of Representatives. For us, he’s not only a friend and reliable fisherman, but among the most knowledgeable people we know regarding the special and complex world of Alaska salmon. We were excited about joining him.
We’ve both been cooking and enjoying seafood since we were young. Kathleen is an ocean-loving Bermudian and her daughter Hannah, no doubt influenced by her early knowledge of conventional meat production, has been a pescatarian since she was 12 (16 years and counting); Mark started eating fish as a child in New York, and wrote his first cookbook on the subject. So, both of us crave and love seafood, and have made it an important part of our diet for many years.
We’ve also worked on sustainable seafood issues for decades, with the thoughtful and hardworking folks from Oceana, Audubon, Monterey Bay Aquarium, and others, who provide resources to consumers who want to choose seafood from healthy stocks. Often, our advice is to eat (and advocate for the eating of) seafood with the trifecta of desirable attributes: beneficial nutrients like omega-3s, low levels of contaminants and, of course, high, sustainable populations. Small, oily fish are often the easiest route to take, but wild-caught Pacific salmon also ranks high in those categories – it's generally well-managed, but that doesn't mean there aren't problems — and of course it’s among the best-tasting fish there is.
There are five species of Pacific salmon: King (Chinook), Sockeye (Red), Coho (Silver), Chum, and Pink. (There’s also one species of Atlantic salmon, nearly extinct in the wild but dominant in the world of aquaculture; we’re not talking about that here.) We listed these in their order of reputation and value, but even Pink salmon, which is often canned, is better fresh than most farmed salmon. Alaska is the best source for salmon, and Tyson — among the owners of Yakobi Fisheries, named after the northernmost island of the Alexander Archipelago — is our favorite supplier. Despite the regulations now in place, there is still the big question of sustainability. You can argue either way (especially about King) but, says Tyson, “I don’t believe we’re in the scenario where we’re only going to eat pink and chum, or that we’re on the verge of making King extinct. It’s undeniable that there are stresses on Kings, and that’s why there are major restrictions on fishing them.”
(As for fishing’s impact on orcas, the subject of an impressive piece in last week’s Times, there has long been question about the disparity in the apparent health of the southern and northern populations of those mammals. In any case, the regulated catch of Kings is relatively small – probably about three percent, says Fick – compared to the potential diet of orcas. “The whole thing is nuanced,” according to Fick, who adds “protecting salmon habitats is a full-time job up here, because it is a resource extraction state.”)
We saw the impact of regulations even before we got on the boat: If we’d wanted to go out the day before we scheduled, or even an hour before Tyson took us, it would not have been legal. As it happened, we joined him on the first day of the season’s third week, which meant that the fishing grounds would be open for something like 30 out of the following 48 hours. The area itself is well-defined, and the boats that have licenses there must stay within the boundaries and fish only in the stated hours. (All of this is determined, regulated, and monitored by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game.)
Tyson’s permit is good for all of southeastern Alaska, but he has stuck with the Taku River because, as he says, “there are already too many decisions to make, so I’ve just decided to try to get good at fishing the Taku. Some guys have been fishing there for 30, even 40 years and are clearly better than me, but I’m learning.”
On our day, opening was slated for noon; we got to the area around 11 and tooled around with about 30 other boats, each jockeying for a favorite spot, obeying both regulation and tradition. The spots have names: We were at Waterfall. Tyson chose it because he wanted to be far enough from the legal line to not have to worry about the net crossing it — tales of ninja-like regulators lurking in the woods with high def cameras were being bandied about. We settled in to our nook and dug into very good/bad grocery store fried chicken, which Mark found astonishing. (“Wait, you can buy this at a supermarket?!”)
With us on board the Heather Anne were Beau Schooler, who owns a couple of restaurants in Juneau, but likes to go out when he can (mostly for the money, he said, but clearly, he was enjoying himself), and Tyson’s son Nate, who is a freshman in high school. The three of them were going to stay out for the entire 48 hours, eating and sleeping on board, mostly in the hours when fishing was prohibited. We were just hanging out for a couple hours.
At the stroke of 12, the crew lays out the net, using a winch to crank it off the huge spool on the back of the boat. Made of super-strong filament and costing around $5000, the net, held afloat by (mostly) yellow corks, is a quarter of a mile long and 30 feet deep. (The depth, length, and mesh size are also regulated. These, along with the timing, are set in order to allow King salmon to get to their spawning rivers and reproduce.) Tyson continues to maneuver the boat to get the net in a favorable position, an arc that work wells with the currents and the swell, both of which are evident, especially to us. And then we wait again. And eat more chicken.
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