The “season” was the annual commercial sockeye salmon fishery of Bristol Bay, a manic, all-out grind by 2,400 small-boat crews to intercept as many fish as possible during their month-long spawning migration from ocean to river. “Just trying to coast into our best season ever.” “But we’re trying to be a bit more chill now, for this next last push,” he said. Shredded and swollen, one finger’s digit bulged so red around a wedding band it looked about to burst. ![]() “None of our hands work right now,” he said, holding them out as evidence of the toll taken from picking thousands of fish from gill nets. Steen grimaced as he peeled off tight rubber gloves. ![]() ![]() They had been working 24 hours a day in 12-hour shifts for two weeks. His three-person crew of salmon fishermen had just hopped out of a skiff, slogged to shore through 200 hundred yards of ankle-deep tidal mud, and were milling around in a daze at their camp at Nushagak Point, Alaska. Sammy Steen’s hands hung claw-like beside dirty orange rain slicks.
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