| Salmon
on my Mind
Francis E. Caldwell
 |
I feel so lucky that Francis has chosen
to share his book with us, here!
Watch for a new chapter, the 15th of each month!
If you can't wait, or like a book in hand, (like I do!) Ifish members
can have their copy signed and he'll offer free shipping!
is available from Lighthouse Press, 1-800-481-6277.
Ifish members! Free shipping and autographed copies
are available direct from the author! Just call 1-360-457-3009 or
e mail Francis at fcaldwel27@msn.com.
I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did!
Jen |
Chapter Fifteen
Another Shore Job
After getting my tent back up, and drying things out, I shoved dry
paper between the
pages of my daily journal, in hopes it could be preserved enough to
read. fortunately it was
written in pencil, which does not make a mess when wet, like ink. I
spent the day puttering
around camp and going to the store. Everyone I met congratulated me
on my recovery.
The wind was blowing when I got up. Neely’s skiff was tied up
at the float. I wrote a
letter home, saying I hadn’t been able to fish for nearly two
weeks because of bad weather.
I didn’t mention the storm because it was too late for anyone
to worry.
I put my long underwear back on, as the weather was still rainy, and
I still suffered from
the cold. I didn’t feel like fishing, so took the skiff and cruised
up the river at high tide,
hoping to see bears. The torrential rains, that had made life so miserable
for me in Surprise
Harbor, had been good for the salmon runs. The river was brimming full
of brown water.
Hundreds of pink salmon leaped frantically. Buddy sniffed and whined,
but we saw no
bears.
Buddy was excited when we got into the boat the next morning and went
fishing. It
was a nice day. A light mist settled on a calm ocean. Neely was not
fishing. I stopped at his
hot spot and soon discovered why. Pink salmon gobbled my bait as soon
as I tossed it overboard.
I moved to Point Gardner. As I cruised across Surprise Harbor it was
deceptively
calm and peaceful. I shuddered as I looked at the island that had offered
me protection.
Everywhere I fished, pink or chum salmon took my bait as fast as I could
put them out.
Since they were not worth keeping, I released them. By nine o’clock
I was back in camp. I
ate some oatmeal, then took a long nap.
At the cannery office, Mike was on the radio phone talking to his trap
tenders. When
he finished, he looked me over carefully, then said, “Well? Are
you back to normal?”
“Just about. Get tired easily. Went fishing this morning. Pinks
and chums everywhere.
I’m heading for home.”
“That’s probably wise. Our traps are plugged with fish.
Looks like it’s going to be a
big run. When are you leaving?’
“Tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“I heard the forecast. Sounded okay. If I don’t see you
again, good luck.”
I returned to camp and began to pack. When the girls arrived home I
walked over to
say good bye.
“Linda, how did we let this one slip through our fingers?”
Mary said.
“Should never have brought his clothes. Next time we capture
a man we’ll keep him
naked and in leg irons,” Linda said, looking at me thoughtfully
with the corners of her
mouth turned up in that provocative smile, her large, dark eyes brooding.
“I want to pay you for the trouble I’ve been.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “Let’s see. That will be a
dollar a day for rent. Fifty cents for food.
Five dollars for day care. Anything else you can think of, Linda?”
Linda stared at me coldly. “He shouldn’t get off that cheap.
Mental anguish. We should
charge something, say a dollar a day for mental anguish.”
Mary looked at Linda thoughtfully. “Mental anguish? How about
mental cruelty?”
“Yeah. That too. Two dollars a day for mental anguish and cruelty?”
“Are you two through? It’s me that was suffering, remember?’
“We should charge him a warming fee too. An dollar an hour overtime
for warming
his icy butt,” Linda said.
“I refuse to pay for something that never happened.”
“Ought to be worth one hundred bucks to crawl into bed with an
icicle, hadn’t it
Linda”
“You two are scandalous. Warming fee, indeed.” I pulled
four twenties from my billfold
and handed it to Mary.
“How dare you,” she broke out laughing. “We were
only kidding.” She refused the
money. I stuck it in the sugar bowl.
“I’ll never forget your kindness. Thanks for everything.”
“We were only hoping to make you our slave,” Linda quipped.
“You nearly succeeded, and you’ve ruined Buddy. He’s
spoiled forever.” I countered.
Mary knelt down and put her arms around Buddy’s neck. “You
take care of this dumb
cluck, you hear? He gives you any trouble, you come running to Mary.”
Buddy smothered
her with kisses.
“You’ll both be slaving away in the morning before I get
up, “ I said, so I’ll say goodbye.
I gave them both big hugs, and turned away. Buddy was undecided whether
to go with
me or stay with them.
By nine o’clock the next morning I was packed up and ready to
go. I walked to the post
office and mailed a letter telling my wife I would stop at Point Baker,
but if the fishing was
not good, would soon be home, then bid Mike good bye.
The Jackson family were living in their tent again. The dogs were in
the attack mode,
as usual. Not to be outdone, Buddy began barking madly. I picked up
the shot gun, promising
to mail it to Tyee if it was repaired before the end of the season,
then headed across
Frederick Sound for Rocky Pass. I kept one eye on the weather.
By the time I reached Point Baker, I was in no mood to fish. I refilled
my gas supply
and ran on up Sumner Straits and turned into Kashevarof Passage. I stopped
on Exchange
Island where a small gravel beach provided a landing place, built a
fire, roasted a hot dog
and made a cup of cocoa. My mattress and sleeping bag were spread beneath
the aromatic
limbs of a red cedar. Buddy curled up on my sweatshirt by my shoulder.
As dusk settled over the cove, I looked out at the boat. “Buddy,”
I said. “What that boat
needs is an enclosed cabin. We’ll never have to go through that
again.” We went to sleep to
the sound of Canada geese honking and the slap of tide chop on the beach.
The next evening Buddy was introduced to his new home and family at
Mountain
Point. I was skinny as a rail, and my feet still hurt.
I went to work at Hugo Schmolck’s Plumbing and Heating, and worked
there for the
next year. I constructed a dock in front of the house four feet above
the high tide line out
of 3 X 12 planks discarded by the city street department With a mast
and boom I could
lift, or launch the boat with a winch during calm weather.
On weekends I sometimes fished in front of the house at Mountain Point.
If, for some
reason, I didn’t take Buddy along, when he discovered I was out
in the boat, he went
berserk. He’d run along the brushy, steep, rocky shores adjacent
to where my boat was, until
I finally felt sorry for him and picked him up.
If I drove off in my old Chevrolet panel truck without Buddy, he pouted
and acted terribly
hurt. He’d follow the truck until I’d stop and threaten
him, then he’d sneak off towards
home with his tail between his legs.
My Chevrolet panel truck had full length running boards on both sides.
One morning
I drove into town to go to work and parked at the Federal Building,
the nearest parking
place to the plumbing shop where I could leave the truck. When I stepped
out, Buddy
came around the front, tail wagging, proud as could be. He’d rode
all the way to town on
the opposite running board.
That winter I hauled the Reinell into the garage and built a good windshield
and plywood
cabin with sliding side windows. The sides of the cabin dropped down
and continued aft,
four inches high, so any spray ran off, instead of into the boat
I removing the front seat and build a narrow bunk, with storage bins
for food underneath,
on the starboard side. The foot of the bunk was under the bow deck.
On the other
side I built a comfortable seat with a back. A steering wheel and remote
throttle system was
installed inside the cabin so I could stay out of the wind and rain
while running. A hand-
operated windshield wiper completed the job. For heat, I had a double-mantle
Coleman gas
lantern.
During the day, or if I wanted to cook, I shoved the sleeping bag forward
under the
bow, placed the Coleman stove on the bunk and sat on the port seat.
A strong nylon canvas,
with stainless steel snaps to hold it closed, covered the rear of the
cabin.
The cabin was small, but it sure beat setting up a tent and camping
on the beach.
Work at Schmolcks was going okay. Bill Goodale and Bob Tucker worked
there. I suffered
terribly from allergies after working in basements, or under houses,
where sewage had
spilled, or where rats and cats had been. My skin itched and my flesh
crawled for days afterwards.
I knew I could never save enough money to buy a troller working five
days a week in
Ketchikan. How was I ever going to buy my dream boat?
One day a package postmarked Hoohah arrived. Inside was the unborn
seal hat Mary
had promised. Fondling that fur hat brought back a flood of memories,
and I realized how
fortunate I’d been to survive. The hat is almost fifty years old,
is like new, and is one of my
most treasured possessions.
 .
Bill and Kay Hollywood lived a few houses west of us on South Tongass
Highway.
Their house was built on a rock bluff and the kitchen windows overlooked
the South
Tongass Highway.
One day Kay called the shop and left a message that I should come home
immediately,
that Buddy had been involved in an accident. I hurried home. A short
distance before
reaching our driveway, I saw Buddy lying in the ditch on the left side
of the road. He was
dead!
Numb with grief, I place him in the truck and drove to Kay’s.
She had seen what happened.
A speeding car was headed east, on the south side, clear across the
road from where
Buddy was walking on the shoulder. The car purposely veered across the
highway to run
over my dog. He died instantly of head injuries.
Kay claimed she didn’t get a good enough description of the car
to make a positive
identification. It had turned up Roosevelt Drive at a high rate of speed
only seconds after
hitting Buddy, and disappeared. I begged her to describe the car as
best she could, but all
she knew was it appeared to have been a dark-colored sedan.
I was so angry to think that someone would do that to a dog, for no
reason, I went
home, got my rifle, then drove around Roosevelt Drive looking for any
vehicle that fit the
description. If I found one that did, I looked for blood or hair on
the bumper and tires.
I’ve always thought Kay knew who the car belonged to and refused
to tell me, which
probably prevented me from going to prison for murder. I undoubtedly
would have shot
the person if I’d have found who it was. Kay still lives in Ketchikan
and insists she didn’t
know who the driver was.
I kept watch around town for a car with a dent in the grill, broken
headlight, or blood
on the front bumper. Burying Buddy only caused my anger to grow worse.
He’d kept me
company during that terrible storm, and had probably saved my life after
I lost my hat, by
keeping my head slightly warm, and by waking Mary and Linda, while I
was lying unconscious
on the beach with the tide coming in.
I swore I’d never own another Labrador. I get too attached to
dogs. I’ve been tempted
many times.
During the spring of 1956, Bill McComber, superintendent for Northern
Mechanical,
stopped in his cruiser and tied up at the Ryus float in front of Tongass
Marine Supply. I’d
met Bill during construction of the Ketchikan Pulp Mill. He was the
superintendent for
Northern Mechanical Company, who had the piping and plumbing contract
during construction
of the mill.
I’d explained to him that I had some plumbing experience, but
still lacked enough time
to join the union as a journeyman. He couldn’t hire me, as the
union refused to allow
apprentices on this job.
Bill remembered me, and that I was working for Schmolck. He’d
purchased a large
cruiser in Bellingham and was running it to Sitka, where Northern Mechanical
had been
awarded the contract for all plumbing and pipe work at the new mill
being constructed by
the Japanese.
I’d worked on many oil-fired boat stoves. Bill’s had been
driving him nuts all the way
up through Canada. I took a look and told him one problem was the top
needed resealing,
that it was leaking air and ruining the natural draft. Plus the stove
pipe needed a different
kind of cap to withstand Alaskan weather. He told me to fix it, and
went to town to do
some shopping.
When he returned, I was covered with soot, but the stove was burning
brightly. I told
him I’d recently qualified for a journeyman and planned to come
to Sitka as soon as he
began hiring. He said okay, he’d see me there.
I bought a 40-foot trailer and shipped it to Sitka by Alaska Steamship
Company. Jerry
Wright, a family friend, wanted to rent it until I arrived sometime
later that summer.
Sebastian Stewart announced they were closing the cannery at Tyee.
While this came
as a shock to me, it actually affected very few trollers, most of who
had already started fishing
other areas.
Buckshot Woolery came into the shop while I was having lunch and told
me he was
buying fish at Port Alexander with the Atlas, and that he thought I
could do well there. I
told him about my experience while trapped by the storm in Surprise
Harbor the summer
before, and that I’d built a cabin on my boat so I didn’t
have to camp in a tent.
He offered to tow my boat if I decided to go. I told him I’d
think about it, because I
wanted to be in Sitka some time that summer to go to work at the pulp
mill, and would let
him know the following week.
When Buckshot arrived a week later I was ready. We had found a renter
for the house
at Mountain Point, who would move in as soon as my family came to Sitka.
I tied my boat behind and boarded the Atlas. As we cruised west down
Revilla Channel,
I looked back at Ketchikan. I looked forward to moving to Sitka. With
Buddy dead, I welcomed
a change.
Watch for the next chapter!
New chapters around the 15th of each month!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Other books by Francis and Donna Caldwell
Pacific Troller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis
E. Caldwell, 1976
The Ebb ' the Flood . . . . . . . . . . . Francis ' Donna Caldwell,
1980
Land of the Ocean Mists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis
E. Caldwell,
1986, reprinted 2002
Beyond the Trails . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis
E. Caldwell, 1998
Cassiar's Elusive Gold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis
E. Caldwell, 2000
The Search for the Amigo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis E. Caldwell,
2000
At Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Francis '
Donna Caldwell, 2002
©' 2004 by Francis Caldwell. All rights reserved.
Except for use in a review, no part of this
book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and
retrieval system, without
written permission from the publisher. |
