|Smokehouse at Mickey's Fishcamp|
Smoke rises from my father's smokehouse, curls up through hemlocks, drifts down the road.
|King Salmon in the brine|
Salt brine coats the King Salmon, slick and shiny. I look into the bucket and think I would rather have slices of salmon than jewels. I feel rich.
Fat drips from the salmon, sizzles on the fire, smoke rises through the salmon slices.
We are interdependent on fire and ocean and good fat.
|My father and his smokehouse|
My hands and hair and clothing reek of smokescent. I hold a slice of hot smoked salmon in my hands. I tear a small piece of flesh and taste sea and smoke. At the fishcamp, my scent follows me, room to room.
We slice and brine and smoke and cook and eat and reek.
Sometimes, after a good smoke is finished, maybe days later,
I will wander to the back of the camp just to stand
by the smokehouse and breathe in its scent.