Next week we go to Alaska. This whole exercise–going to each state to catch a fish–is really a desperate ruse to get Kris to Alaska. For a girl who got all the way through law school inside the Houston loop, Kris has a peculiarly well-developed terror of bears. “Kris, do you want to go to Alaska?” I’ve asked that question for nigh on 40 years, and she’s consistently answered no, nope, not on a bet. “There are bears.”
That Werner Herzog movie, Grizzly Man, didn’t help any. I highly recommend it though.
She must be terrified of bears because they infested Poe Elementary and the Rice campus. She must have lost a dozen of her Lamar High School graduating class to grizzlies, and watched horrified as University of Houston law professors were snatched from the lecture hall and dragged to a polar bear’s lair. For a long time I thought it was a joke, and then I thought that maybe it was real but vague, and that she’d get over it. Nope. For as long as I’ve known her she has only been afraid of one thing: bears–Alaskan bears in particular.
Bean, Tarleton H., King Salmon (Oncorhynchus chouicha), 1889, Report on the salmon and salmon rivers of Alaska, with notes on the conditions, methods, and needs of the salmon fisheries, Washington, DC : Government Printing Office, University of Washington Freshwater and Marine Image Bank
Ok, two things. My driving and bears. My driving isn’t horrible, and I swear, outside of the zoo, there are no bears in Houston.
Fishing finally got to her. She fishes, and if you fish, Alaska is the very thing. If I listed places I’d like to fly fish, New Zealand, Scotland, Cuba, Mongolia, Montana, Christmas Island, Norway, Chile, Iceland, the Seychelles, British Columbia, Nebraska, the Amazon . . . Ok, maybe not Nebraska. Anyway, it would be a long list, but Alaska would be at the very top. Unlike the lower 48, there are still good salmon runs in Alaska. There are still large numbers of steelhead. We haven’t yet blown it in Alaska, though that’s not without trying. The trout are not dinky little 14-inchers daintily sipping mayflies from a mountain stream. The trout are 28-inch monsters gorging on the rotting flesh of dying salmon.
There are five species of salmon in Alaska, plus sea-run steelhead trout. To plan our trip, we started from when a species of salmon would be in a river. Ok, we started from restaurant quality and when a species of salmon would be in a river. We picked a river, the Kanektok, where all five salmon species have a summer run from the Bering Sea. First, beginning in June and running through mid-July, are king salmon. King’s are the largest Pacific salmon, weighing up to 40 pounds (though they’re protected in some rivers, and can’t be killed in the Kanektok). Sockeye and chum salmon overlap the king season. Pinks have the shortest run, for a couple of weeks in late July. Silvers begin in August and run through September.
Milton Love, male sockeye salmon in spawning shape and colors, Marine Science Institute, University of California, Santa Barbara.
We’ll be on the Kanektok for king season, and also the sockeye and chum. There will also be rainbow trout, arctic char, and dolly varden. Dolly Varden, by the way, are the only fish named after a Dickens character.
When salmon enter the river from the sea they are bright and silver, and then as they move into freshwater their colors change for spawning. They spawn and die, and don’t return to the sea, and they don’t feed as they move upriver. They strike flies out of annoyance, or habit, or maybe curiosity, but not for food. By the time they spawn they are dying, deteriorating, and in the short summer feeding season the trout grow huge on eggs washed out of the spawning gravel and the flesh of decaying salmon. Everything feeds on the salmon, both live salmon and dead. Birds, other fish, bears, Alaskans. . . . There are bears in Alaska, but the usual wisdom is that the bears are too intent on fish to be interested in Texans, even plump, well-fed Texans. That’s the usual wisdom, anyway. I’m kinda counting on it.
The State of Alaska warns of two hazards on the Kanektok River: bears and bugs. Don’t tell Kris about the bears.
Five Species of Pacific Salmon Showing Relative Size and Appearance, 1921, Pacific Fisherman Year Book 1921, University of Washington Freshwater and Marine Image Bank
We took 7 wt and 8/9 wt. Beulah Spey rods.. We took skagit lines for both, and a variety of tips. We fished T-17 tips, whatever that means. The smaller rod was matched to a Hardy Marquis Salmon No. 2 reel, and for the larger I stripped a 12 wt floating tarpon line off of a Galvan Tournament Series Reel. They’re both pretty things. I’m a sucker for reels.
We put 8 wt Rio InTouch Salmon/Steelhead floating lines on two saltwater reels, both Tibor Everglades, and fished them on 9 foot 8 wt rods–Kris’s rods, a Helios 3 and a Helios 2. I got the Helios 2.
The Olympic Peninsula may be the last stronghold of boot-footed waders, the kind of waders with attached rubber boots instead of neoprene stockings worn under separate wading boots. Ryan the guide said that boot foot waders are warmer, and I believe it: my feet were always cold once I’d waded, notwithstanding the Darn Tough expedition socks and liners. Plus our boots never dried after we finished fishing, kicking my luggage over the 50 pound limit. “Happy Valentines” the nice lady at the Southwest Counter said when she didn’t charge me for overweight luggage.
I wore everything I had. Everything. The temperatures were warm enough, it was sunny and there was no wind, but I’m from Houston. I wore everything I had.
Victoria, B.C.
The Black Ball Ferry Line ferry, The Coho, runs from Port Angeles to Victoria. I hadn’t been on The Coho since 1962, when I was five, and my memory of it was somewhat spotty. Mostly I remember my sister being seasick, really, really seasick. So does she. We texted about it on the ferry, and I though she was going throw up by text.
We ate in one memorable restaurant, OLO, which is Chinook for hungry, and one less memorable restaurant, Little Jumbo, where I had fish in a sauce that reminded me of cream gravy. I like cream gravy. Loaded up with pepper and served on either biscuits or chicken fried steak it is the very thing, but cream gravy on grilled ling isn’t particularly successful. It was described on the menu as sunchoke cream, but cream gravy is cream gravy and you can’t fool me. It would have been better with some bacon grease.
We had afternoon tea at the Butchart Gardens, which even midwinter are beautiful, and midwinter have the advantage of no crowds. Afternoon tea is a thing in Victoria, and not having tea is punishable with heavy fines. They even ask at the border if you’ve had your tea. I suspect it magnifies their separation from the weird coffee concoctions on the other side of the border, but it also made me feel good. This was my kind of crowd. Afternoon tea is apparently a thing for the post-60s set.
In a bar, Bard and Banker, we ordered a dozen oysters that never came. Management should tell its servers that even raw oysters can’t walk from the kitchen. I watched ice hockey on the bar tv, so I knew I was in Canada. The Lightning won in overtime. I don’t know where the Lightning are from, or who they were playing.
The Royal B.C. Museum is spectacular, mostly because of the First Nation exhibits, both the past–these were pretty sophisticated people with pretty interesting stuff–and the present. Everywhere there are signs explaining that some of the objects are exhibited by treaty.
We had two very strange encounters.
I don’t smoke many cigars, but, when one can buy Cuban cigars one should buy a few, just in case any Cubans come to visit. When we were leaving the Cuban Cigar Shop the other customer was wearing an Astros cap. He was from Conroe, about 50 miles from Houston, and he was in Victoria building its first sewage treatment plant. This is a city of 350,000, and it’s never had a sewage treatment plant. It fine screens the sewage that otherwise goes straight to the ocean, trusting on currents and cold water to clean things up. I was kinda glad those oysters never got served.
Cohibas, the cigar that Castro smoked, are very good.
Victoria has its street life, it’s a walkable city with its best restaurants and shops and bars tightly packed around the port, so we walked. It’s grungier than I had expected, with a rough edge to its street life. Lots o’ street folk. Walking to OLO the first night a young guy on the street lunged at us . . .
And coughed, hacked, coughed hard, uncovered, clearly at us. It was a 21st century, post-coronavirus assault. Kris was shaken, I was angry, but if you just wanted to hassle people it was brilliant. Lunge and cough. Terrifying.
We stayed at the Best Western Plus Carlton Plaza. Nice enough, and central, but they didn’t have morning coffee in the lobby, which is unforgivable. We should have sprung for The Fairmont Empress.
Seattle, Wa.
In Seattle we had an early flight so we stayed near the airport. We walked around the Ballard neighborhood on the first day, trying to find oysters, and on our last evening ate at Matt’s in the Market, in the Pike Place Market, mostly because there were pictures of it all over the internet and it looked pretty. We wanted to see the Market, but by the time we got there from Victoria almost everything was\closed. Someday we’ll go back to Seattle for a baseball game. They did have coffee in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Express.
What We Didn’t Do
We didn’t eat at our acquaintance Jack’s barbecue place in Seattle. We didn’t spend much time in Seattle, and none in Vancouver. We didn’t see any baseball or catch a sea-run cutthroat trout. We didn’t do any yoga. We smoked no marijuana, though I started to ask the cluster of accountants outside the Pike Place Market for a toke. Really? Accountants? They had to be accountants. They looked like either accountants or lawyers, but tax lawyers.
What I Lost
I lost an Apple Air Pod, which left me with a case and a single Air Pod. Did you know that you can buy a single Air Pod from Apple? It’s not cheap, about $70, but cheaper than a new set.
I lost my Nikon waterproof point and shoot, with all the best pictures of our fishing trip. I’d decided to replace it with a new iPhone, but last night Jack Mitchell of the Evening Hatch texted that they’d found my camera. That’s a pretty good trip for me. Only one Air Pod lost. Only one fly rod broken.
Donuts
Empire Donuts in Victoria had good coffee, and a Star Wars theme. There was nothing wrong with the donuts. We went out of our way to go to Sidney Bakery, about 20 miles from Victoria but close enough to the Butchart Gardens to make it easy. It was an old-fashioned bakery, doing a great Wednesday morning business. I ordered a pecan roll so I could hear them mispronounce pee-can.
Playlist
There were 247 songs on my Seattle playlist. That’s a lot. There is a tremendous amount of great music from Seattle.
Songs titled “Seattle”: Sam Kim, Perry Como, Mary Mary, Felly, Public Image Ltd., Jackson Walker, Bobby Sherman. The Perry Como is a great example of bad choices. The Bobby Sherman is the same song, from a late-60s television series, Here Comes the Brides. The Public Image is the best of the lot, though I’m not sure what it has to do with Seattle. I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with any television series.
Bands That Live in the Part of Seattle That’s Actually Greater Brooklyn: Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes, The Head and the Heart, Laura Love, Nieko Case, Death Cab for Cutie, the Highwomen, Brandi Carlile, Chastity Belt, Perfume Genius, Tacocat. I’m very fond of Fleet Foxes, who remind me of Bon Iver. Death Cab for Cutie is better than they should be. I thought Brandi Carlile was off of one of those tv talent competitions, but she’s not, and I was pleased to find her. Tacocat is the greatest name ever, and there need to be more bands like Perfume Genius.
Grunge and Post-Grunge. Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam. I had never listened to Pearl Jam, which seems very odd, and I may be the only person who thinks Eddie Vedder sounds exactly like Darius Rucker. I understand that the Mariners play Smells Like Teen Spirit instead of Take Me Out to the Ballgame during the seventh inning stretch.
Rock. Jimy Hendrix, Heart, Queensryche, the Ventures. I’ve never really liked Hendrix. At his best he’s a good blues guitarist, but usually I find him cloying. I downloaded Rod Stewart’s cover of Angel, and Derek & the Dominoes cover of Little Wing, and they’re still better than Hendrix’s originals. As for Heart, hadn’t heard them since the 70s, and listening to them 50 years later was great fun. I always thought the Ventures did Wipeout, but that was the Surfaris. The Ventures did do The Theme from Hawaii Five-0, which I’ve added to my Hawaii playlist, and Pipeline. I wish I could play that first hook in Pipeline.
Hip-Hop, Rap. Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, Mary Lambert (only because of her ties to Maklemore, she keeps me warm is lovely), and some song by Kanye West. We watched the Taylor Swift documentary, Miss Americana, after we got back, so I’m not talking to Kanye right now.
Jazz. Bill Frisell, Kenny G, Ernestine Anderson, Quincy Jones. That’s too broad a list to mean anything. I never made it through a full Kenny G. song, but I’m a fan of Bill Frisell because I’m a guitar fan. Ernestine Anderson grew up in Houston, but I’d never listened to her. It’s music that goes well with martinis.
Classical. John Cage, Mark O’Conner. I liked the Cage I listened to. Mark O’Conner is from Seattle, and bluegrass, but his Appalachia Waltz with Yo-Yo Ma and Edgar Meyer is wonderful.
Bing Crosby. I can always listen to White Christmas.
I didn’t catch a steelhead on the Olympic Peninsula. I caught fish. I foul-hooked a couple of whitefish, landed two or three small rainbow—I remember a par and a smolt—and caught one nice 18” rainbow. I also caught a Dolly Varden. I didn’t know that Dolly Varden are named after a Charles Dickens character from the novel Barnaby Rudge, 1841. Dolly Varden are a pretty fish, with bright silver and pastel yellow jewels along their back and sides. Naming a pretty fish after a pretty Dickens’ character is such a 19th century sort of thing, you gotta like it. There was also a style of women’s dresses called Dolly Varden, which I suspect was named after the Dickens’ character and not the fish. The dress doesn’t much resemble the fish.
William Powell Frith, Dolly Varden, 1842, oil on canvass, The Victoria and Albert Museum. This is not the fish.
Kris had worse luck than me. She foul-hooked a whitefish, and her waders leaked. She was cold and wet and miserable the first day. It looks like a manufacturer’s defect, so back to Patagonia they go.
We fished with Ryan Steen of The Evening Hatch, and stayed at The Evening Hatch’s lodge on Lake Quinault. We don’t stay at a lot of lodges, but they are fun, and when we have, in Argentina and Belize, it’s been pretty luxurious, for us pretty glamorous. The Evening Hatch lodge wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was very nice and the food was great and the coffee was excellent. It was less like a glamorous destination than when as a kid we visited my aunts’ house in Texarkana. The food was great at my aunts’ house too, though both aunts being Church of Christ there was nothing to drink but ice tea. Jeff and Jan Cotrell ran the lodge, and filled in well for relatives. If they weren’t younger than us they’d have made a great uncle and aunt. If we’d just played a bunch of dominoes it would have been my childhood all over again.
I caught the Dolly Varden on the Quinault River, above Lake Quinault. We floated from early to late, I’d guess six or seven miles, alternating between wading and swinging streamers with Spey rods, and nymphing with artificial salmon eggs, either plastic beads or yarn. The eggs were seven or eight feet under a bobber, and the point was to let the egg drift deep while we rafted downriver. We were fishing 9 foot 8 weights, with the bead drifting below a swivel and lead pencil weight crimped to the leader. Some folk would say that’s not fly fishing at all, but it takes some care to throw that monstrous rig without damaging your guide or yourself. I mostly managed.
Dolly Varden trout, Salvelinus malma malma, adult female, The Fishes of Alaska, 1906, Bulletin of the Bureau of Fisheries, Vol. XXVI, P. 360, Plate XL. Wikimedia Commons.
On the single hand rods we fished floating lines with a 30 lb nylon mono butt to 20 lb mono and finally to 15 lb tippet. When the bobber bobbed Ryan yelled SET! SET! SET!, and if I wasn’t watching the scenery I usually did. The set was sidearm, upstream, not a straight up trout set and not a strip set. The idea was to pull the bead out of the mouth and pull the hook trailing the bead into the mouth. The rig is supposed to result in fewer foul or deep hook sets for trout and steelhead, though because of their small mouths the poor white fish that went after the eggs were always foul-hooked, outside the mouth and in its skin. Maybe that’s why Western anglers don’t really like whitefish. It’s all that foul-hooking guilt.
In the river we drifted the egg along the seams and in the softer water just beyond the seams, and we caught a lot of trees, both drifting and casting. Poor Ryan lost a fortune in plastic beads and octopus hooks.
The Olympic Peninsula is a beautiful place, and the rain forest reminded me oddly of New York City back in the 80s, where if you stood still too long you’d get graffitied. Instead of spray paint the rain forest covers everything with moss. It’s lush, with each nook and cranny covered with something green and growing: ferns, moss, the largest red cedar in the world, the largest Sitka spruce in the world, the largest . . . Oh hell, I don’t know. Just about the largest every kind of tree except mesquite and mangrove, and they were probably there too until somebody logged them.
This is northern spotted owl country, which from its photos is a lovely little owl that doesn’t really deserve its notoriety, but it’s not an easy place for people to live either. There’s tension between the wildness of the place and its human inhabitants. Ryan tells good stories about the area, insightful stories, about backwoods North Carolinians who moved there a century before for logging, and who still live in isolated backwoods pockets; about Theodore Roosevelt creating the national park to save the elk wintering ground for hunters and how he incidentally saved the rivers for salmon and steelhead; about tribal netting of salmon and steelhead; about boom and bust logging and the minimal old growth forests preserved for the spotted owl.
It can’t be an easy place to live, either for the remaining tribal nations or the loggers, the commercial fishers, or the small business owners. The population is estimated to be a bit more than 100,000, or about 28 people per square mile, which is 15 more people per square mile than my hometown county in Texas, but still . . . It feels more remote, especially on the west side, and especially in the midst of all that isolating forest. Plus in West Texas we had oil and cotton and wheat and cattle, they’ve got trees and fish and tourism, tourism and fish and trees, and balancing wild places with making a living can’t be easy. It’s probably better now. At least for loggers and millworkers forest land is probably better managed, but it will never be perfect, and there’s always spotted owls to blame.
The flip side of all that fecundity is the rivers. The rivers aren’t rich with all the good things trout love, insects, baitfish, crawfish, there are few of them. The rainfall scours the rivers too often, much of the flow is glacial melt or spring water or rainfall, without a lot of organic stuff taking hold, and there’s not the richness in the water that grows concentrations of trout. There is some stuff, but the wealth in the rivers on the Olympic Peninsula is its access to saltwater. It’s salmon in the fall and steelhead in the winter that make the rivers great fishing, but it’s ultimately access to the Pacific, to baitfish and glass shrimp, that make the coastal rivers a destination fishery.
Kris didn’t have all the bad luck. I failed a cast—this is an important life lesson. You have to end the snap of the snap-T with the rod tip in or near the water or the weighted fly will slam into your rod tip and snap it. Notwithstanding its name, that’s not what the snap-T is all about, it’s not the snap-tip. It was operator error, but operator error that Beulah the rod maker will repair with a small contribution from the operator. Thank heavens for no-fault rod warranties.
The second day fishing we didn’t swing flies. I don’t know if it was because Ryan wanted to cover more water (we covered a lot of water), or because he was worried about Kris’s wader leak and wanted her to stay dry and warm (relatively warm anyway—we are, after all, from Houston), or maybe because he was sick of watching us flail around with Spey rods and wanted to watch us flail around with single handed rods (I don’t blame him, variety is the spice and all that). We were on a different river, the Clearwater, above where it joins the Queets. Fishing with Ryan was a bit like taking a river tour, only the sights to see were usually just the other side of that seam, closer to the bank, alongside that rock, and this is shallow. Every now and again he’d yell SET!
The Quinault ran through a broader bed with more channels and, as I recall, more riffles and rapids than the Clearwater. There was more rock in the river and on the banks, and more room between the river and the trees. The Clearwater ran in more of a channel, through heavier forest.
On the Clearwater I came as close as we got to a steelhead. There was a set, a thrash, a feel that this 8 weight may be too small for this fish, a streak of silver at the surface . . . It was enough to know that this is a big fish, to wonder if I could handle this big of a fish, and then it was gone. Just that moment, it lasted no more than that, but then again that’s the kind of lost fish that lasts a lifetime.
We had two days of sun while on the river, and it was amusing that Ryan had no sunscreen in his kit. “The next ten days,” he told us, “it’s rain.” Of course for all I know he was just telling us a tall tale. It may never rain on the Olympic Peninsula, and may always be sunny. I do know there are steelhead though. For a few seconds I hooked a steelhead.
One night last week I woke up in the middle of the night and checked the Washington weather. There were flood warnings again on the Queets and Hoh Rivers. The next morning the Queets was over 13.5 feet, and running at over 15,000 cubic feet per second. I gather that flows below 4,000 cfs are considered safe for wading, so flows of 15,000 . . . Probably not. We were supposed to fish the next day, but we went sightseeing instead.
Meantime that day it was 46° in Quinault, Washington, and 37° in Houston. I didn’t run that morning in Houston; I might have in Quinault.
On social media I viewed a succession of snow pictures from friends in the Texas Panhandle and Vernon and Dallas, which all-in-all were more interesting than the news about the failed Iowa caucuses and the impeachment vote. On a lark I checked the temperatures through the Great Plains. That morning it was 16° in Vernon, Texas, 19° in Wichita, Kansas, 16° in Omaha, and 16° in Fargo, North Dakota. I hope my friends in Vernon were warm. It’s been 45 years since I left there, and I can still remember both the bitter Plains winds and the excitement of a cold, still morning when the earth was covered with snow.
Tra Cardwell, Vernon, Texas, February 5, 2020.
That night Jack called from The Evening Hatch to warn us about what we already knew, that the rivers were blown out for Saturday, but Sunday and Monday might be better. I told him I could get in plenty of guitar practice on Saturday. He said good attitude. I didn’t tell him that attitude was fine but that what he should really wish for was a better guitarist.
Getting ready for our trip to Washington I read some stuff by Washington State writers. I didn’t rereadTrout Fishing in America, but Richard Brautigan was from Spokane. It’s the only Washington State book I ran across that was arguably about fly fishing, but I’d just re-read it two years ago when I started this exercise. I googled its genre because I figured Tom Robbins, a Seattle writer, was similar, and it might give me some insight into their mix of 60s sexual adventurism, improbable plots, and moral superiority. Magical realism came to mind, but I figured magical realism had to be South American, then I saw Robbins and Brautigan described as magical realists. As far as I can tell Washington State is decidedly not in South America, so maybe I was wrong.
But I also found their work described as Fabulism, which description I really liked, mostly because I initially mispronounced it “fab” as in “Fab Four,” and for me every good impulse in the 60s is summed up in the Beatles. Even if I didn’t exactly like Brautigan or Robbins or even the 60s. On reflection though I figured out it was Fabulism as in fable not Fabulism as in Fab Four, and that made more sense: these books are fables, adult fairy tales with lots of sex but still a moral. I suspect though that the moral is that having sex with the author is a good thing. Honestly, if all young male achievement is driven by the desire for sexual partners (and any male who doesn’t at least suspect that isn’t being entirely honest), Brautigan and Robbins may be the most honest writers ever, even if reading them’s a mixed bag, and if honesty by a fiction writer isn’t quite the point.
I remember pretty vividly the last time I read Tom Robbins, in 1976. The book was Another Roadside Attraction, and I remember the couch I was on and the room I was in when I read it, but I don’t remember anything about the novel itself. This time I tried to read Robbins’ memoir, Tibetan Peach Pie, which made me think of Robbins as the enfant terrible who I might have envied a long time ago; I tried to read the book about the sexual adventuress hitchhiker with the big thumb, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (which happily set off a several-month long binge of Emmylou Harris singing in my head), but I got bored; and I started his last novel, Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, but I gave up after four pages, when he said a moth resembled a clitoris with wings. Sometimes a moth is just a moth.
I only got very far with one novel, his second, StillLife with Woodpecker. It’s about a red-headed terrorist bomber nicknamed the Woodpecker having sex with a red-headed princess from a deposed East European royal family. The usual stuff. Sometimes Robbins can be an interesting observer: “That is why virtually every revolution in history has failed: the oppressed, as soon as they seize power, turn into the oppressors, resorting to totalitarian tactics to ‘protect the revolution.’ That is why minorities seeking the abolition of prejudice become intolerant, minorities seeking peace become militant, minorities seeking equality become self-righteous, and minorities seeking liberation become hostile . . .” Mostly though he’s only the enfant terrible: “And, of course, Bernard, as all men, carried around in his trousers the most renowned redhead of all—characteristically funny and dangerous.”
I don’t know whether I’ll finish “Still Life,” but I will recognize that woodpecker is certainly a double entendre, which is a lot of what you need to know about Tom Robbins.
The first 100 pages of Maria Semple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette, may be the best travel guide to a city, Seattle, I’ve read. Early in the book Bernadette rants off-and-on about Seattle, and her rants describe the architecture, restaurants, rain, private schools, behavior, blackberry bushes . . . all the things that a good description would tell about a city. Bernadette is a bit of a Fabulist as well, and maybe that’s characteristic of a lot of post-WW II literature. But if Robbins’ characters achieve fulfillment through sex, Bernadette is surprisingly chaste: she only achieves fulfillment when she hitchhikes to Palmer Station in Antarctica and signs on to design the new South Pole station. Does that make it a women’s book? It does make me suspect that Maria Semple is built differently than Tom Robbins, and one is certain that Bernadette doesn’t have abnormally large thumbs, nor does she need them.
“They were young and scruffy, like they could all have worked at REI . . .” Was there ever a more Seattle-ish description of anything.
Gunderson’s Snow Falling on Cedars is as far from Fabulism as it gets. It’s a lovely book, with a flaw, but still lovely, slow and descriptive, evocative of a place and unforgettable. It is a story about a death that might be a murder, an accused the reader suspects is wrongly accused, and a moral dilemma for a damaged man. It is a story about a moment in time, post-World War II, when pride in the community mixes with guilt over the treatment of neighbors and friends: the Japanese internment, and the place of the Japanese Americans in the post-war community. It’s a book about a small town, an island in Puget Sound, and people who at their best are careful, deliberate. Their island demands it. The flaw—the accused’s silence—is explainable if not entirely convincing, but then the novel would have been profoundly different if he’d told his story early, like how you can’t have The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn if there were a realistic ending.
There’s a good movie version, that looks just like the book reads.
If I recommended a single book about the Pacific Northwest it would probably be Timothy Egan’s TheGood Rain, and if I were to recommend a single book about the Texas and Oklahoma plains it would probably be Egan’s The Worst Hard Time. The Good Rain is an older book now, published in 1990, but Egan told me that I was going to a place where the best descriptions might be green, rivers, Pacific, mountains, logging booms and busts, and drip, drip, drip. For Oregon and Washington Egan talks about the right stuff, the history of the place, the natural world, and the people who could only come from there. The book holds up well.
Post script: there was an moment when we were driving through the Olympic Peninsula, re-listening to The Good Rain in the car, and Egan was describing the road we were on. Good timing.
