Robbi got home last night, which makes us all happy. The kids and I endured the week without her as gracefully as could be expected, which is to say, we did not eat square meals and bathed seldom. Which, come to think of it, sounds a lot like how things go when she is home. But we’re all just a bit more cheerful this morning.

But I’m thinking back to a week or so ago, when Robbi and the other fisherman woke early to fish the morning tide. They returned to the compound midmorning with 15 fish for us to smoke.

The first step is to take them to the table out behind the water tower for some good old fashioned filleting.

Robbi and her sister Maiko work in tandem. Robbi, the lefty, fillets one side of the fish.

Maiko does the other. My job throughout this process is to bring cool drinks and swat the mosquitos away.

Eventually, we end up with one bucket full of fillets.

And another full of heads, spines, and guts.

The next step is to cut the fillets into strips and then to brine them for a short time. I neglected to photograph that step. I think I was busy making macaroni.

Once the fish is brined, we hang it on metal hooks and leave it out in the breeze to glaze. Basically, this means the outside layer of the fish dries and hardens just a bit, to protect the fish from the heat of the smokehouse.

Being a lover of sashimi, I am always tempted to eat the fish right then and there.

But someone always seems to be there to keep me from doing so.

Once the glazing is done, that same someone and I moved the fish from the laundry line to the smokehouse.

Our compound is surrounded by alders. We collect downed branches and start a fire.

But as soon as the fire is started, we smother it.

…by putting sheets of corrugated aluminum over the top of the fire pit. The point is keeping the interior from getting too hot. The point is not to cook the fish but to cure it slowly with smoke.

The process takes a few days. So my job was continually feeding the fire, just a bit at a time so that the flame would stay low and the smoke would be thick.

Because bears like smoked fish almost as much as we do, part of the daily ritual was bringing the fish in from the smokehouse to one of the outbuildings every night. Not that any self-respecting bear would have had much trouble breaking into the outbuilding if properly motivated.

Every morning, it was my job to go fetch the fish and put it back into the smoke house.

Kato, my early riser, would often come along and help me carry the box of kindling from the garage.

After three days of smoking, we started wondering if the fish was done. Really, there’s only one way to find out.

Active chewing followed by active contemplation.

Not content to be a spectator, Kato demanded to partake.

The verdict was affirmative, even if his expression was not.

True men of the tundra know never to smile when expressing enthusiasm.

Once the fish was done. Robbi carried it off  for final processing, by which I mean removing it from the hooks and chopping off the nubs to make nice, clean-looking strips of salmon jerky.

Which we bring home and use throughout the year to make a special smoked salmon cream cheese dip perfected by Robbi’s mom Seiko. It has been delighting party goers for more than three decades now.

Of course, in addition to the smoked fish, we bring home plenty of fillets as well.

They are filleted within hours of being caught and are immediately vacuum-sealed to preserve freshness.

We may not make much money from the fishing, but we do get to bring home little pieces of gold. The same fish we sell up on the tundra would sell for ten times that much back in the states.

And there’s no finer fish to be found on the planet.

Which makes me suddenly start thinking about lunch.