The White Waters of Juneau (a short story)
The White Waters
Of Juneau
The walkway from the hotel leads all the way down to the town-let of Juneau, Alaska, about two miles, population about 30,000. In-between, the hotel and the town, is a bridge, and there resides a stream that runs under it. It was the summer of 2000, and Chick Evens was with his new bride, on the second part of their honeymoon. He stopped on the bridge, leaned over on its railing, looking down into the stream, he saw movement.
He tried to look deeper into the shallow clear cool waters, fresh water, he walked back and forth along the bridge looking for the right place to observe, and to not be distorted by the shadows he saw in the water, over the railing again he leaned even more so, this time getting a better and clearer view, and now he could see plain all the way to its bottom, watched the salmon as they worked their way, inch by inch up the stream, keeping themselves balanced against the current, while slightly waving their fins in perpetual movements, as need be.
He watched them edging against the ebbing waters rushing down into their faces, they were the ones along the side of the rocks, loose rocks in the middle of the stream as well as against the sidewalls of the stream, holding steadfast to their enduring positions, as the white waters steadily came down at a fast pace.
He counted twenty or more of them, within a small space, one behind the other creating a long line of them, four or five in back of one another, heads popping up above the surface of the water, their noses firmly in the direction of the current as if to ward it off, as if they were working with the current, it was fast moving white water, ripples appeared around the salmon, they became distorted and glossy like, in their quest, to reach the top, ever so pushing and pushing against the surface and heavy rapids slapping them in the face, pulling along their sides, many falling back several feet, if not more, only to rest and restart their journey a few minutes later.
These were good size salmon, thought Evens; they had come up from the Stephens Passage, heading for their birth place, the hatchery in Juneau.
Some of the larger salmon were deep in the water trying to hold solid and steady in the gravel bottom, then as the water became steadier, they’d move.
It was a cool and fresh morning in summer, and the flow of the stream was tranquilizing as well as intoxicating for Chick Evens, his wife, Delilah stood by his side, marveled at all she saw, almost soundless, both now looking at the stream, her getting a little hungry, he could hear her stomach, they didn’t have any breakfast, and it was going on 11:00 a.m. but they were very satisfied with the morning and its events, and no one specifically commented on the issue of food.
“They keep fighting to go upstream,” Chick commented to his wife. Then he asked, “What happened to the big one that was there?” (Pointing.)
“It’s still there,” said his wife, “it’s just lost in its own shadows, as if it sunk lower, I think it was closer to the surface before.”
The water caught the sun, and the surface shinned, and in a way it was a little blinding.
Chick’s eyes tightly focused on a few salmon, and as they moved, so did his eyes. It was as if he could feel the feelings they could not feel—a destiny to death.
He knew that they had left saltwater for their fresh water journey home, making them mush inside, uneatable, and there was death at the end of their plight. If only they knew he thought, and there was no way to warn them.
He adjusted his glasses, so they would not fall off his head, as he peered over the edge of the railing again, at the same time, he looked down the road, from his peripheral vision, leading down into the township of Juneau, knowing his wife and himself would have to have lunch pretty soon, still watching the salmon climb steadily upstream against the current.
It was hard walking away, his muscles ached to do something, anything, he felt odd, funny, but he had to leave these feelings behind.
From the time he left the stream and got down into the heart of town, reality had come back to him. He was now reacting to his thinking, not his emotions, lest he find himself back up at that same stream.
He had noticed a ship was docked at the pier, and visitors were disembarking, and cars were zooming by, doors were being opened and closed in stores along the waterfront. The city was alive, and the stream and the salmon did not matter anymore. He pulled off his jacket, he had started sweating.
“Let’s go up on the ramp,” he asked his wife. “It’s lunch time, we can eat up there, I hear they have a restaurant, and they got pretty good food.”
“That sounds perfect,” said his wife, with a smile.
Said the waitress in the restaurant, handing Evens a menu, “We have an assortment of fish dishes, would you like one, or something else?”
“Anything but salmon,” said Evens, and he and his wife smiled at the waitress, as newly weds normally do.
3-5-2009 Dedicated to Rosa P.
Of Juneau
The walkway from the hotel leads all the way down to the town-let of Juneau, Alaska, about two miles, population about 30,000. In-between, the hotel and the town, is a bridge, and there resides a stream that runs under it. It was the summer of 2000, and Chick Evens was with his new bride, on the second part of their honeymoon. He stopped on the bridge, leaned over on its railing, looking down into the stream, he saw movement.
He tried to look deeper into the shallow clear cool waters, fresh water, he walked back and forth along the bridge looking for the right place to observe, and to not be distorted by the shadows he saw in the water, over the railing again he leaned even more so, this time getting a better and clearer view, and now he could see plain all the way to its bottom, watched the salmon as they worked their way, inch by inch up the stream, keeping themselves balanced against the current, while slightly waving their fins in perpetual movements, as need be.
He watched them edging against the ebbing waters rushing down into their faces, they were the ones along the side of the rocks, loose rocks in the middle of the stream as well as against the sidewalls of the stream, holding steadfast to their enduring positions, as the white waters steadily came down at a fast pace.
He counted twenty or more of them, within a small space, one behind the other creating a long line of them, four or five in back of one another, heads popping up above the surface of the water, their noses firmly in the direction of the current as if to ward it off, as if they were working with the current, it was fast moving white water, ripples appeared around the salmon, they became distorted and glossy like, in their quest, to reach the top, ever so pushing and pushing against the surface and heavy rapids slapping them in the face, pulling along their sides, many falling back several feet, if not more, only to rest and restart their journey a few minutes later.
These were good size salmon, thought Evens; they had come up from the Stephens Passage, heading for their birth place, the hatchery in Juneau.
Some of the larger salmon were deep in the water trying to hold solid and steady in the gravel bottom, then as the water became steadier, they’d move.
It was a cool and fresh morning in summer, and the flow of the stream was tranquilizing as well as intoxicating for Chick Evens, his wife, Delilah stood by his side, marveled at all she saw, almost soundless, both now looking at the stream, her getting a little hungry, he could hear her stomach, they didn’t have any breakfast, and it was going on 11:00 a.m. but they were very satisfied with the morning and its events, and no one specifically commented on the issue of food.
“They keep fighting to go upstream,” Chick commented to his wife. Then he asked, “What happened to the big one that was there?” (Pointing.)
“It’s still there,” said his wife, “it’s just lost in its own shadows, as if it sunk lower, I think it was closer to the surface before.”
The water caught the sun, and the surface shinned, and in a way it was a little blinding.
Chick’s eyes tightly focused on a few salmon, and as they moved, so did his eyes. It was as if he could feel the feelings they could not feel—a destiny to death.
He knew that they had left saltwater for their fresh water journey home, making them mush inside, uneatable, and there was death at the end of their plight. If only they knew he thought, and there was no way to warn them.
He adjusted his glasses, so they would not fall off his head, as he peered over the edge of the railing again, at the same time, he looked down the road, from his peripheral vision, leading down into the township of Juneau, knowing his wife and himself would have to have lunch pretty soon, still watching the salmon climb steadily upstream against the current.
It was hard walking away, his muscles ached to do something, anything, he felt odd, funny, but he had to leave these feelings behind.
From the time he left the stream and got down into the heart of town, reality had come back to him. He was now reacting to his thinking, not his emotions, lest he find himself back up at that same stream.
He had noticed a ship was docked at the pier, and visitors were disembarking, and cars were zooming by, doors were being opened and closed in stores along the waterfront. The city was alive, and the stream and the salmon did not matter anymore. He pulled off his jacket, he had started sweating.
“Let’s go up on the ramp,” he asked his wife. “It’s lunch time, we can eat up there, I hear they have a restaurant, and they got pretty good food.”
“That sounds perfect,” said his wife, with a smile.
Said the waitress in the restaurant, handing Evens a menu, “We have an assortment of fish dishes, would you like one, or something else?”
“Anything but salmon,” said Evens, and he and his wife smiled at the waitress, as newly weds normally do.
3-5-2009 Dedicated to Rosa P.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:47 PM
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