Weasel's Half-assed Guide to Improper Canning

Today I spent the day canning Coho.  They start out life looking kind of like this:

This is actually a Chinook smolt.  Shhhh...don't tell anyone.

And eventually grow up into this:

These may also be kings...what I've never taken a picture of a silver.  Don't judge me.

Once you get them all filleted and vacuum packed you throw them into your freezer until you forget they are in there.  At some point you will clean out your freezer and find two years worth of frozen fish that you don't want to throw away and also don't want to eat anytime soon, so you start to can them.
After some fish has been lost in the freezer for a few years, there will be casualties:

Ewww.

First you cut them into little chunks:

So, I'm lazy and never mark my packages, but some of this is also chum and pink.

Then you get your cans all ready to go:

Next, you shove all the fish in a can:

It makes a very interesting squeltching noise.

Once you get all the fish in the cans and lids on the cans you put them in the pressure cooker:

And then stare at said pressure cooker for about an hour and a half:

Seriously.

Once the pressure is back to normal you can pull out the cans and let them cool for the next 12 hours or so.  Why do you ask?  Because they are boiling and sometimes that can be kind of creepy.

The Tell-Tale Salmon?

So there is your (in)complete guide to piss poor canning technique (for the love of whatever, please do not follow these instructions to actually can, you will either blow yourself up or end up with botulism).

A Day in the Life...

As everyone knows, I'm off having adventures tagging fish in Neets Bay.  What you might not know, is exactly what that means.  Allow me to explain:

We wake up early in the morning a walk down to the docks.

See,  docks.

This is where our super awesome boss lady picks us up in a skiff.

This is my early morning excited face.  It should not be confused for my FML face.

We take a short skiff ride to the saltwater tagging shed.

This is the tagging station where I clip adipose fins off salmon all day.

This is a king salmon smolt.

These are a bunch of drugged king salmon smolt.  Drugs make them less likely to attempt to swim through air.

We have a bucket brigade that brings salmon in from the raceways....

And they get dumped into a holding tank.

It's a lot easier to get them back to their raceways.  We just dump them into the hopper and water pressure takes them back to their raceway.

This is the tagging machine.  It puts a millimeter long coded wire tag into the nose of the salmon.

We also go outside to seine up fish that need to be tagged.

This occasionally requires a d dingy

This is our lunch break.

Some of us are more relaxed then others.

We also may or may not have a crab pot set out.

Ok, we totally do.

After clean up and a short boat ride back to the dock, we make the short trek home.

TL;DR: We listen to a lot of music and take a lot of ibuprofen.

Questionable Yoga Poses in Inappropriate Locations (Neets Bay Edition Part 1)

So I'm sure everyone has seen those pictures of people doing yoga in strange locations.  Here is my two cents on the matter.

Disclaimer: I don't really do yoga.

On freshwater coho raceways

Where the Bears are.

Where people don't belong.

And thus concludes this edition of doing yoga and questionable locations.  Please stay tuned for yoga in boats and on saltwater raceways.  Or anywhere else that strikes my fancy.

Neets Bay Day #1

This weeks adventure started as any new Alaskan adventure would: with fog delays.  But only for a few hours.  We did eventually board our flight and managed to cram all of us into a little sardine can with wings and floats.  After a harrowing (ok, it wasn't harrowing, the flight was smooth and the view was incredible, I just really, really, really don't like little planes) half in hour on this delightful peace of float plane material, we arrived in Neets Bay.


When I said that I would help tag fish at remote hatcheries,  I was expecting this:

Not this:

The view is also kind of to die for:

Although I guess some of it is still what I expected:

Exactly what I expected:

It's not me it's you

Dear Place of Employment:
We reach this point in our abusive relationship every year. We have just had enough of each other.  We usually end on rough terms, with both of us completely mentally and physically exhausted and us swearing up and down that we no longer want anything to do with each other.  Alas, like all abusive relationships, after some time to cool down, we inevitably crawl back to one another.  I to you, for your super sexy paychecks and you big bursting benefits.  And you to me, for my snarky fish jokes and advanced knowledge of rockfish life histories.
When we first get back together it is like a match made in Heaven. I sample more fish then Doctor Who has saved lives.  And you pretend to be appreciative. But as time wears on I remember what an abusive asshole you are.  You are completely unsupportive, like an old bra that the underwire has fallen out of. Remember that one time this summer when,  I called you crying and you told me to man up? And you always accuse me of being a liar. Like that one time when you told me a story about that one tech who made up there data, but totally came clean after they were approached about it?  It's no good for either of us.  Usually when we reach this point we can pull off a clean break, but not this time.
This year, you keep dragging out the inevitable.  It's not that I don't appreciate the paycheck, but seriously it's time to let go.  I want to see other jobs for a few months.  In fact I already have an amazing two month long fling planned, but still you won't let go.  You keep finding menial tasks for me to do that lessen both of us.  I want to go and move on for a bit (you know I'll be back, I love the abuse.  I'm worse then Rihanna).  Please stop dragging it out.
I love you job, but let go.
Til Next Year,
An exhausted Fish Tech

One Day in July (Fuck you ALL!!)

This town cannot handle it's sunshine.  I have seen some weird ass shit today.  And talked to some rude ass people.  These following three events all occurred on the same day in the same place: Hillbilly (Mountain) Point.
WTF!? Exhibit 1:  Why yes, that is a large native man subsistence trolling on a jet ski.  Thanks for asking.  (If your curious he caught a halibut and 2 silvers).

WTF!? Exhibit 2:  So, what do we have here?  I believe its a 1/4 ton pickup trying to haul a 32ft boat on a trailer with a broken winch attached to a tow hitch that is two small for the truck hitch it's attached too.  And before you ask the only reason this boat hasn't done a belly slide back into the ocean yet is because it is resting precariously on its brand new kicker.  Was alcohol involved?  Of course it was!  Was this the busiest I've seen it this year at Mountain Point? Of course it was!

WTF!?  Exhibit 3:  Ok, this one doesn't have a picture, but it goes as follows:
You stupid, arrogant, overfishing, douchebag!  I dare you to call me "Darling" again in that condescending fucking tone.  Oh you think your all cool with your big shiny new boat.  Your not.  I put up with a lot of shit for this job.  I didn't even fucking bat an eye when you made a comment about my ass while I was measuring your halibut.  I was only mildly irritated when you wouldn't tell me what area you were fishing in...after I had already measured your fucking fish.  Nope, what pushed me over the edge is when you said, "How 'bout you just point to the map and circle an area, cause I'm not going to tell you where I was fishing, darlin'.  Have a nice day, darlin'.
I dare you to say darlin' again.  I know damn well that you had about 12 other fish in your fish hold, I watched you pull them all out to clean them, I'm neither blind, nor stupid.  I also happen to know you were fishing in Annette waters.  How do I know this?  Dude trolling on a jet ski told me.
Let me explain to you what will happen the next time you try this little trick.  First, I don't know if you know this but I'm both incredibly clumsy and play roller derby.  These two skills will tragically combine themselves and you will find yourself swimming in the waters of the Bog of Eternal Stench...I mean Mountain Point.  And if that isn't bad enough, I also have the troopers on speed dial.


So yep, that was one day in July...just one...fuck this month...fuck the sunshine...and just fuck.

Ego Stroking...

There are days that I love tourists.  They occasionally make me feel like a total bad ass.  "Do you fish?"  Yes.  "Do you hunt?" Yes.  That's awesome that a girl does that.  Oh I know.  "What do you do in the winter?"  "I drive cab...at night!"  Oh my god your totally ballsy!  Oh I know. "You are the most interesting person we've met since we've been here!"  Yeah, you better believe it!

Yeah gotta love it!  But these feelings of awesomeness only last for so long before I go and do something that reminds me that I am in fact a total dork.  Like telling a dog that he doesn't really want me to throw the ball because I'll probably end up throwing off the dock...then accidentally   throwing it off the dock.