Shooting Salmon

There is an excellent book that I read called The Tracker by Tom Brown, in an effort to research a book idea I had about a boy who learns to track from an old Indian. Coincidentally, Tom Brown had nearly that same experience with an old Apache. A particularly interesting passage was about a wild pack of dogs the old Apache called the Guardians, who attacked and killed intruders that happened into their space. As a boy, Brown would occasionally see a tame dog running amongst the wild pack, acting just as vicious as the rest. But that same dog would go home again for a scratch behind the ear, a warm meal and a soft bed.

I don't like fishing, hunting or camping. And let's face it; I don't enjoy getting dirty either. That's not to say I won't do it, but I certainly won't suggest a plan that puts me in a situation where I have to do any of the above. You could say then, that growing up in Juneau was completely wasted on me.

My dad always had a small arsenal of guns--shotguns, handguns and rifles of various calibers. And if I do say so, I'm not a bad shot. Dad (also see, nightmare tenant) once set up targets in our duplex basement. The landlord was apparently out of town that weekend. The backdrop was a stack of plywood several sheets deep, such that a .22 couldn't penetrate. My brother and I dug the lead out and kept the slugs in a bucket.

When I was in high school, Mike Marlin and Chris Clarke talked me into hiking with our guns deep into the woods, where the salmon came to die in a stagnant pool at the end of the river. For those who don't already know, salmon swim upstream from the oceans to lay their eggs and die. Each has a biological program that drives them with eerie ferocity to travel to the end of their known world. And once they've performed that imprinted duty, the light turns out and they simply die in what can be described as a mass grave with a smell to match. We found such a place that day, littered with salmon in various states of repose--floaters in beds of foam, stragglers on the shore like shipwreck survivors, others biding their time below decks, awaiting the inevitable.

Chris had a semi-automatic .22 rifle, most likely illegal at the time. Probably still is. His target was still alive near the opposite shore, just below the surface. I can still see the smile on his face and the gleam in his eyes. I can hear the repeating pop of the gun; see the tiny sprays of water like that of a handful of thrown pebbles. The big fish fled in such a panic that it literally swam up the beach and into the woods while Chris kept pumping the lead into its body, laughing with the glee of a television mad scientist.

The others had shotguns and high caliber rifles, which joined the volley. Fish heads and fish tails flew every which way.

The roar was deafening.

We were killers of the gangland variety--bored kids gone temporarily insane, in the grips of our basest instincts. I'd like to report that I walked away, put my own rifle away, and walked home alone. But I didn't. I'd also like to tell you that I was mortified, that it wasn't in the slightest bit fun. But I have to admit that it was.