One cat is curled on my hip. The other has decided my head is his preferred mattress. But when the alarm goes off, they both shoot off the bed like they were blasted by a cannon. It’s dark. I don’t want to. I let my eyes slam shut again and savor the warmth, the feeling made all the cozier by the patter of rain on the metal roof.

Feet out of the bed, wool socks. Crummy Carhartts, ragged Smartwool. Bartlett River Day. Salmon day. By mid-September millions of bright, silver, coiled balls of muscle are pulsing up countless southeast Alaska rivers. The region runs on them. The lifeblood of man, animal, forest, and the ecosystems they inhabit.

How many salmon does one person need to sustain them for a year? It’s a new question, but I know the answer is more than the twelve currently sitting in mason jars or the freezer. It was Zach and Laura’s idea to start before the sun had risen. Before even civil twilight we planned to hit the trail, letting our headlamps and the muscle memory of dozens of previous walks guide us to the river we know so well.

The Bartlett River mouth

We’ve come a long way from our first foray up this river together in 2017. There had been four of us that day too. Me, Zach, Laura, our buddy Patrick. Now Patrick lives in Anchorage. And the three of us feel like the last ones standing in a manner of speaking. Zach and Laura weren’t even engaged on that first hike up the river, their non-profit programs more theories than the vehicles for change they’ve become.

Now, they’re married. And four-month-old Salix has been left with Grandma for the morning in the hopes that we can recreate our Bartlett River Miracle. The fourth spot is Tal, young and wide-eyed. 26, a filmmaker making his second trip to Gustavus this summer to shoot footage for Zach and Laura’s Tideline Institute.

I pull in front of the house where he’s staying to find him waiting by the porch, backpack and fishing pole in hand. For 5:00 in the morning, he’s a ball of energy. A ray of innocent sunlight set on fire by this wild little hamlet clinging to the edge of glaciers and the outer coast.

“Where’s your sweetie?” He casts around the Honda Pilot as if expecting her to leap out of the backseat and yell surprise.

I put the car and gear and bump along the dirt road. “She’s not my sweetie anymore.”

***

This trail gets longer every year. 30 minutes to the mouth of the river. 50 minutes to the first good fishing hole. An exercise in patience. I came up yesterday and grinded my way to two fish. They’re in there. I watched them jump and rocket from one hole to the next. But no matter what I tossed in the water, nothing grabbed their attention. I’m more anxious than usual to get back up there, bring home the legal six, and feel their weight fill my pack.

Few things light Laura up like the prospect of coho. And the two of us practically sprint up the trail. When Salix was born, she and Zach had vowed that it wasn’t going to stop them from living, exploring and doing the things they loved. They hadn’t. With Salix in tow we’d explored the Mud Bay river valley, camped overnight on the Porpoise Islands, and delved into the Point Carolus watershed. But it’s hard to land a ten-pound coho and hold a baby at the same time.

The muddy trail along the river is strewn with the remnants of spawned-out pink salmon. Their sad little bodies turning mushy and rotten as they disappear into the soil. More than three-quarters of the nitrogen the Tongass Forest requires comes from the ocean. It comes from salmon struggling back up their streams only to spawn or be caught. Their bodies are dragged through the woods or consumed and deposited later deep in the trees. In this case, it’s important that a bear does indeed shit in the woods.

For a couple of weeks in July, I wondered if I could continue to live here. I feared the memories would be too sharp with every trail, beach, and bend in the shoreline containing memories of a love and life gone. But no. These streams and shores have been woven as deep into my heart and life as any love. I could no sooner walk away from the bounty of salmon, berries, deer, and garden veggies than remove my left hand. Hunt, catch, gather, and grow. A pressure canner rattling into the late night after a long day on the river.

We reach the first fishing hole at 6:15. The four of us, some bear scat, and a scattering of canine tracks. I free the hook from the pole and let it sing across the water. A sense of place. The intimate and hard-earned knowledge of this river.

Six years ago, I couldn’t tell you where to go on the Bartlett to find salmon. What was too high up. What was too close to salt water. Now? When I meditate, when I need a happy place, I float above this river, tracing its bends and shorelines like the lines in my hand. If the coho aren’t here, there many other places to check.

The line dances. The pole bends, pops, and bends again. There’s the flash of silver. Addicting. The head violently shakes back and forth and the coho bursts from the water, my pink lure hooked tightly in its mouth.

“First cast!” I yelp. Zach and Tal are still walking up the trail. The look on Tal’s face speaks of wonder and amazement. That places like this can still exist. That a bounty of food and magic are just an early alarm and hour hike away. I bring the fish to shore and guide it on the bank. I unsheathe my knife and look into its face. They are such beautiful animals. Brilliant sterling silver on the bottom and sides, an alluring emerald green on top.

I slide the knife beneath the gill plate and say in just above a whisper, “Thank you fish. For your gift. For sustaining me, my friends, and family through the winter. Please go peacefully into the next life.” There’s a spurt of blood and the fish quivers.

I don’t whisper my benediction because I’m afraid someone will hear me. But because what has happened is just between us. Only death can pay for life. I can choose to say that this fish “chose” this, that he offered himself to me. But he didn’t. He saw something pink and flashy, and instinct told him to bite it. His own DNA betrayed him. Now he’s food. Gratitude and joy mix with guilt.

It’s a bonanza. How many coho are in this little hole? Hundreds? Thousands? Lines whir, drags are adjusted, and fish go sprinting up and down the river with pink lures trailing from open mouths. We’re in them. The sort of day we dream about all winter. It’s Christmas morning and we can’t unwrap our presents fast enough.

I catch number six at 7:15. Six fish in an hour. We have a name for that, “The Lentfer,” in honor of our neighbor Hank Lentfer who routinely outfishes, hunts, and gardens us. With the other three still fishing, I start gutting and processing the catch. By the time it’s done, we have all hit our limit. 24 coho line the bank. How humbling. A reminder of the power we can yield, the food… and the destruction we can wreak in such little time.

We permit ourselves a couple of photos for posterity, for these days don’t come along very often. I keep glancing at Tal’s face. God, he’s really nine years younger than me. When did 35 feel old? When did 35 happen? I swear I’m still 23. I feel my position in life shift. I can no longer have that look of wide-eyed innocence and glee at the sight of 24 fish in 90 minutes.

But I can have a profound sense of joy and comfort, a grounding sense of place and home. There are precious few places left that afford this privilege. I have found one. It has wrapped me in its foggy and moisture-laden arms and held me tight. Told me to never let go. To trust it and I will never go hungry. Will never be cold. Will never be alone.

We load our packs and begin the slow walk home, talking of filleting and smoker loads and Lord of the Rings on in the background. It isn’t 2017. I will never again experience the Bartlett River Miracle for the first time. But I can share it. I can revel in it. And through Tal’s eyes, I can celebrate the sensation again.