SUBSISTENCE HALIBUT FISHING

Living off the land, preserving culture day-to-day

Story and photos by Denise Silfee

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Ashley Fox loves her job.

 

Four out five days in the workweek she is out on the water in Prince William Sound on organized subsistence fishing trips, far from the confines of an office. Fox, 32, is the subsistence director for the Native Village of Eyak (NVE), the tribal government in Cordova, Alaska. A native Aleut Eyak – she is a member of the Eyak tribe of Aleut peoples indigenous to the present-day Aleutian Islands/coastal regions of Alaska – Fox grew up in Cordova but moved away as a young adult. She came back to Cordova two years ago when the subsistence director position was created, and now she spends her days working with tribal members to provide access to traditional food sources.

 

On Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, Fox organizes subsistence salmon fishing trips. Subsistence means living off the land, much the way indigenous peoples all over the world did before the modern era of mass food production, hunting and gathering everything needed to survive and thrive. All Alaskan residents can obtain subsistence permits owing to the state’s enormity, relatively small population, and the fact that many Alaskans live off the grid or far from towns with services.

 

For native communities, subsistence living provides both a means of providing for oneself in secluded areas and also a way to preserve culture. Fox organizes trips to collect traditional foods in and around the sound, including fish, berries and seagull eggs. By early July of this year, she had organized 10 subsistence salmon trips and received mostly positive feedback from participating tribal members. On the last trip, they caught 66 salmon

 

On Wednesdays, Fox organizes trips for tribal elders like Margaret Olson. On the first overcast day in July after a string of unseasonably hot and dry ones, Olson, her son Sean O’Brien, 28, and tribal elder and boat driver Mark J. King board a small fishing boat owned by NVE along with Fox and head out to open water for some halibut fishing.

 

Fox caught her first halibut in early June of this year, while Olson, who grew up fishing with her father as a young girl, has never caught one.

 

“They know how much I love them, and they go the other way,” Olson laughs. She hopes this will be the day.

 

For some tribal elders and members, these organized trips are the only way they can reliably access traditional food sources. Many members do not own their own boat or have access to one for fishing, and elderly members, of which there are around 100, may have mobility considerations. Fox can provide both through her position. For those who cannot be accommodated, 25 percent of any harvest goes back to the tribe to share with those who cannot get out there themselves.

 

“We’re fair-weather fishermen,” Fox jokes. “If the weather is bad or if seas are rough, we don’t need to go out that day, and that’s ok.”

 

On this day the seas are calm. Despite the occasional stop to let the boat engine cool down when it overheats, the ride out to the designated fishing area is smooth. Sea otters floating on their backs watch the boat zoom by with a relaxed attentiveness. King slows the boat a couple times to watch pods of orca glide by, Fox, O’Brien and Olson counting the dorsal fins and using their size to determine the number of adults and babies in each group.

 

When they know they’re close to the fishing area, Fox and O’Brien, who works as the public works project manager for NVE, begin baiting hooks for the long line with chopped up pieces of octopus and herring. Long line fishing involves using weights and buoys to suspend a single line in the ocean. From that line, baited hooks hang in the water waiting for a bite. The line is left in the water for a few hours and then when fishermen return, they hope to reel the line in with fish dangling from those hooks.

 

Under the regulations for subsistence fishing, each person on board can have 30 hooks in the water. King decides he is not fishing this day, so Fox and O’Brien bait 90 hooks total, 30 each for themselves and Olson.

 

Once they reach the spot where they have chosen to fish, Fox and O’Brien work together to drop the weight and then, as the winch assists with spooling the line out into the water, they attach the baited hooks at regular intervals, roughly two to three feet apart. The winch will assist in reeling the line back in a few hours later.

 

Olson, who turns 60 this year, remembers when they had to pull the lines in by hand as she watches. “I’m too old now,” she says of those techniques, then she gestures towards her son as he helps Fox set the line and says with a laugh, “I just get my kid to do the work for me.”

 

After the line has been set, King motors the boat a little ways off and Fox, Olson and O’Brien bait hooks for some rod and reel fishing while they give the long line time to attract some fish.

 

O’Brien, who says he rarely gets a break from work like this, settles himself into a relaxed position on the bow of the boat and closes his eyes. King is content to relax in the cabin of the boat, and Olson and Fox stand or sit on the deck. It’s a quiet day, with hardly any other boats on the water nearby, and everyone appears relaxed as the boat rocks gently in the water. Even the sealions lounging on a red buoy in the distance are still and quiet.

 

King uses the break in boat driving to describe his experience growing up in small-town Cordova. “I was born on 2nd Street and spent the rest of my life on 4th Street,” he says. “Same house. Still there.”

 

He worked in the commercial fishing industry until the oil spill in 1989 destroyed the herring fishery (his wife doesn’t like to talk about that time period – “It’s discouraging,” King explains. “It changed our lives”), and he’s seen the town and the sound change over the decades in other ways, from “the land rising up 20 feet” after the 1964 earthquake to the collapse of the Dungeness crab fishery, which King blames on a return of sea otter populations in the 80s. Regulations on salmon fishing have grown more conservative, King says, which in turn has made fishermen more competitive with each other.

 

“It’s dog eat dog now,” he says, and laments the days when a fisherman knew they’d be fishing five days a week. “Now it’s two openers, two days a week.”

 

Technology has changed, too. Now, fishermen use sonar to locate fish in the water to choose a good fishing spot. In the past, a fisherman had to understand the behavior of the fish; they had to read the environment.

 

King notices environmental changes, too: The glaciers are receding, the lake doesn’t stay frozen all winter anymore, berries aren’t producing like they used to and bears are starving, and storms are becoming more regular and more powerful. “It used to be rare to get a couple 100 mph storms,” King says. “Now they’re more frequent. They’re blowing down 300-year-old trees.”

 

Tribal elders like King and Olson are witnesses to history and to change. Fox appreciates that her job gives her a chance to build relationships with them and other elders: “I love it,” she says. “It’s fun because you get a one-on-one experience with people you grew up with and this gives you the atmosphere to get to know them.”

 

Subsistence is a way of preserving an important aspect of culture despite modernization, and it’s a way of passing culture down to younger generations by teaching them traditional foods and traditional ways of gathering and preparing those foods. Fox smokes her own salmon, and her family eats it all year. They also give it away, for trade with other community members and as gifts. It’s a commodity that way.

 

“We all live off the land and water,” Fox says. “We love it. We do it for fun, but it’s also for survival.”

 

Environmental changes may begin to impact subsistence practices one day, the way they have impacted the commercial fishing industry as fish populations fluctuate (both boom and bust) due to warming water temperatures, water levels in the watersheds, and availability of food sources for fish, among other concerns that scientists are still investigating.

 

Studies by numerous organizations, including the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the United Nations, confirm, however, that climate change is impacting and will continue to impact native communities disproportionately. Coastal communities, in particular, are becoming unlivable due to rising sea levels and erosion, and disruptions to the prevalence of and access to traditional food sources threaten the subsistence lifestyle, and also sever connections to cultural ties going back thousands of years.

 

As it grows later in the afternoon, Olson, O’Brien and Fox start to talk about returning to the long line. Unfortunately, even the fish seem to be relaxing today, and though there have been a few bites and bait has disappeared from hooks, no one on board has hooked anything with their rods.

 

While reeling in the long line, there is more disappointment: empty hooks. Fox is a little surprised that they didn’t catch anything – that’s rare – but the day is not a waste. This is fishing, she says, and sometimes the fish aren’t there. Aside from the maxim, O’Brien got a day off of work, finally; King had another day out on the water; Fox spent the day with members of her community instead of inside of an office; and Olson got to try for that elusive halibut she is determined to catch someday.

 

“Next time,” Olson says as everyone climbs out of the boat onto the dock and heads to their cars. Because of the NVE subsistence program, she’ll get to try again.

 

"For native communities, subsistence living provides both a means of providing for oneself in secluded areas and also a way to preserve culture"

"Regulations on salmon fishing have grown more conservative, King says, which in turn has made fishermen more competitive with each other. "

"Studies by numerous organizations, including the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the United Nations, confirm, however, that climate change is impacting and will continue to impact native communities disproportionately."

 

Ashley Fox loves her job.

 

Four out five days in the workweek she is out on the water in Prince William Sound on organized subsistence fishing trips, far from the confines of an office. Fox, 32, is the subsistence director for the Native Village of Eyak (NVE), the tribal government in Cordova, Alaska. A native Aleut Eyak – she is a member of the Eyak tribe of Aleut peoples indigenous to the present-day Aleutian Islands/coastal regions of Alaska – Fox grew up in Cordova but moved away as a young adult. She came back to Cordova two years ago when the subsistence director position was created, and now she spends her days working with tribal members to provide access to traditional food sources.

 

On Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, Fox organizes subsistence salmon fishing trips. Subsistence means living off the land, much the way indigenous peoples all over the world did before the modern era of mass food production, hunting and gathering everything needed to survive and thrive. All Alaskan residents can obtain subsistence permits owing to the state’s enormity, relatively small population, and the fact that many Alaskans live off the grid or far from towns with services.

 

For native communities, subsistence living provides both a means of providing for oneself in secluded areas and also a way to preserve culture. Fox organizes trips to collect traditional foods in and around the sound, including fish, berries and seagull eggs. By early July of this year, she had organized 10 subsistence salmon trips and received mostly positive feedback from participating tribal members. On the last trip, they caught 66 salmon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Wednesdays, Fox organizes trips for tribal elders like Margaret Olson. On the first overcast day in July after a string of unseasonably hot and dry ones, Olson, her son Sean O’Brien, 28, and tribal elder and boat driver Mark J. King board a small fishing boat owned by NVE along with Fox and head out to open water for some halibut fishing.

 

Fox caught her first halibut in early June of this year, while Olson, who grew up fishing with her father as a young girl, has never caught one.

 

“They know how much I love them, and they go the other way,” Olson laughs. She hopes this will be the day.

 

For some tribal elders and members, these organized trips are the only way they can reliably access traditional food sources. Many members do not own their own boat or have access to one for fishing, and elderly members, of which there are around 100, may have mobility considerations. Fox can provide both through her position. For those who cannot be accommodated, 25 percent of any harvest goes back to the tribe to share with those who cannot get out there themselves.

 

“We’re fair-weather fishermen,” Fox jokes. “If the weather is bad or if seas are rough, we don’t need to go out that day, and that’s ok.”

 

On this day the seas are calm. Despite the occasional stop to let the boat engine cool down when it overheats, the ride out to the designated fishing area is smooth. Sea otters floating on their backs watch the boat zoom by with a relaxed attentiveness. King slows the boat a couple times to watch pods of orca glide by, Fox, O’Brien and Olson counting the dorsal fins and using their size to determine the number of adults and babies in each group.

 

When they know they’re close to the fishing area, Fox and O’Brien, who works as the public works project manager for NVE, begin baiting hooks for the long line with chopped up pieces of octopus and herring. Long line fishing involves using weights and buoys to suspend a single line in the ocean. From that line, baited hooks hang in the water waiting for a bite. The line is left in the water for a few hours and then when fishermen return, they hope to reel the line in with fish dangling from those hooks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Under the regulations for subsistence fishing, each person on board can have 30 hooks in the water. King decides he is not fishing this day, so Fox and O’Brien bait 90 hooks total, 30 each for themselves and Olson.

 

Once they reach the spot where they have chosen to fish, Fox and O’Brien work together to drop the weight and then, as the winch assists with spooling the line out into the water, they attach the baited hooks at regular intervals, roughly two to three feet apart. The winch will assist in reeling the line back in a few hours later.

 

Olson, who turns 60 this year, remembers when they had to pull the lines in by hand as she watches. “I’m too old now,” she says of those techniques, then she gestures towards her son as he helps Fox set the line and says with a laugh, “I just get my kid to do the work for me.”

 

After the line has been set, King motors the boat a little ways off and Fox, Olson and O’Brien bait hooks for some rod and reel fishing while they give the long line time to attract some fish.

 

O’Brien, who says he rarely gets a break from work like this, settles himself into a relaxed position on the bow of the boat and closes his eyes. King is content to relax in the cabin of the boat, and Olson and Fox stand or sit on the deck. It’s a quiet day, with hardly any other boats on the water nearby, and everyone appears relaxed as the boat rocks gently in the water. Even the sealions lounging on a red buoy in the distance are still and quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

King uses the break in boat driving to describe his experience growing up in small-town Cordova. “I was born on 2nd Street and spent the rest of my life on 4th Street,” he says. “Same house. Still there.”

 

He worked in the commercial fishing industry until the oil spill in 1989 destroyed the herring fishery (his wife doesn’t like to talk about that time period – “It’s discouraging,” King explains. “It changed our lives”), and he’s seen the town and the sound change over the decades in other ways, from “the land rising up 20 feet” after the 1964 earthquake to the collapse of the Dungeness crab fishery, which King blames on a return of sea otter populations in the 80s. Regulations on salmon fishing have grown more conservative, King says, which in turn has made fishermen more competitive with each other.

 

“It’s dog eat dog now,” he says, and laments the days when a fisherman knew they’d be fishing five days a week. “Now it’s two openers, two days a week.”

 

Technology has changed, too. Now, fishermen use sonar to locate fish in the water to choose a good fishing spot. In the past, a fisherman had to understand the behavior of the fish; they had to read the environment.

 

King notices environmental changes, too: The glaciers are receding, the lake doesn’t stay frozen all winter anymore, berries aren’t producing like they used to and bears are starving, and storms are becoming more regular and more powerful. “It used to be rare to get a couple 100 mph storms,” King says. “Now they’re more frequent. They’re blowing down 300-year-old trees.”

 

Tribal elders like King and Olson are witnesses to history and to change. Fox appreciates that her job gives her a chance to build relationships with them and other elders: “I love it,” she says. “It’s fun because you get a one-on-one experience with people you grew up with and this gives you the atmosphere to get to know them.”

 

Subsistence is a way of preserving an important aspect of culture despite modernization, and it’s a way of passing culture down to younger generations by teaching them traditional foods and traditional ways of gathering and preparing those foods. Fox smokes her own salmon, and her family eats it all year. They also give it away, for trade with other community members and as gifts. It’s a commodity that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“We all live off the land and water,” Fox says. “We love it. We do it for fun, but it’s also for survival.”

 

Environmental changes may begin to impact subsistence practices one day, the way they have impacted the commercial fishing industry as fish populations fluctuate (both boom and bust) due to warming water temperatures, water levels in the watersheds, and availability of food sources for fish, among other concerns that scientists are still investigating.

 

Studies by numerous organizations, including the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the United Nations, confirm, however, that climate change is impacting and will continue to impact native communities disproportionately. Coastal communities, in particular, are becoming unlivable due to rising sea levels and erosion, and disruptions to the prevalence of and access to traditional food sources threaten the subsistence lifestyle, and also sever connections to cultural ties going back thousands of years.

 

As it grows later in the afternoon, Olson, O’Brien and Fox start to talk about returning to the long line. Unfortunately, even the fish seem to be relaxing today, and though there have been a few bites and bait has disappeared from hooks, no one on board has hooked anything with their rods.

 

While reeling in the long line, there is more disappointment: empty hooks. Fox is a little surprised that they didn’t catch anything – that’s rare – but the day is not a waste. This is fishing, she says, and sometimes the fish aren’t there. Aside from the maxim, O’Brien got a day off of work, finally; King had another day out on the water; Fox spent the day with members of her community instead of inside of an office; and Olson got to try for that elusive halibut she is determined to catch someday.

 

“Next time,” Olson says as everyone climbs out of the boat onto the dock and heads to their cars. Because of the NVE subsistence program, she’ll get to try again.