Читать книгу Never Cry Halibut. and Other Alaska Hunting and Fishing Tales онлайн

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“I can’t believe I’m eating meat for breakfast again and liking it.”

“Wait till dinner—the steaks will be even better!” I say as I cut away little bits of sinew and filament, pound each steak with a fork, and put them in a bowl to marinate.

In closing, if any art curators are interested in launching a meat-hunting exhibit, feel free to contact me. I have a few ideas, as well as a couple of noble buddies excited about the potential of modeling for artists. They’ll work for a few beers and venison if you prepare it right.

NEVER CRY HALIBUT

WHEN I WAS A KID, I was forced to go fishing in a similar way other youngsters are made to go to church or eat vegetables. There were many types of fish to froth, drag, and otherwise disturb the water after—Dolly Varden, pink, coho, chum, and king salmon, to name a few—but none of them made my imagination run wild like halibut.

“How big can they get?” I’d ask my dad.

“Bigger than me,” he’d say. It was mythical to consider there were fish bigger than my dad swimming in the ocean’s murk.