After enjoying a cup of coffee on our island above Ft. Yukon we packed up the gear and aimed for town. Once there we pulled up to a steep rocky bank next to the public boat ramp - a good spot to tie off and stay a bit out of sight from what we came to know as WineO Park, the area directly across from the lone liquor store. 

Jackson then headed off on the mile and a half walk into town to the post office. I stayed back with the gear and relaxed while making a couple phone calls with Jacksons cellphone, which surprisingly picked up service from Ft. Yukon. Some time later Jack returned with a backpack full of food. A lot of it. 

With our new resupply we likely had enough food to reach the Bering Sea, which may mean that we tell Stu (Jackson’s Dad, who is mailing our resupplys to AK from his home in Hamilton, MT) to hold off on some our resupply boxes originally planned to meet us in Galena, Alaska. We’ll have to wait and see. 

We pushed off from town and began our paddle down river. After 10 or so miles we pulled up to a running fish wheel attached to the bank to check out the massive structure. As we got close to the fish wheel, an older gentlemen waved us in with a “come here” motion, so we decided to swing by and take a short stop. 

“Welcome to fish camp!” The man we came to know as Bruce shouted. 

He sat cross legged in an old lawn chair wearing a thin flannel, blue jeans and cotton socks. Behind him, a tarped structure with pounds and pounds of fresh salmon strips hung from the stick framed rafters, in the midst of being smoked. A white cloud continuously bathed the meat, most of which was cut into strips. Salmon eggs sat on wire made grill above the coals, while the gutted and cleaned fish carcasus hung just outside the shack, being dried to feed Gino's dog team. 

Bruce explained to Jackson and I that this was Fish Camp, a place and time where all the salmon for the year would be caught, cleaned, smoked and eventually jarred to be consumed throughout the winter and year. It was an amazing and wild sight. 

After offering us a cold one, Jackson and I took a seat and settled in by learning as much about fish camp and Athabaskan life as possible. 

The name of the man who ran the operation was Gino. He welcomed us in with open arms as his kids and nephews ran around camp, enjoying the free regin that fish camp and time in the woods brought. Gino was a true man of the woods. He grew up in the bush and during one stretch spent three years alone in the wild, just himself, a small cabin and dog team. He hunts and fishes to eat in the summer and fall, and traps for a living in the winter. He claimed to have cashed $40,000 in his best winter on the trapline.

As we sat around the fire telling stories and learning more of the culture and fish camp life, Bruce worked on a large pot of moose stew that was absolutely delicious. The meat was unbelievably tender.

We spent the evening watching the fish wheel and bs-ing with our new friends. At one point one of Gino’s sons took me out to the wheel. To get there you had to walk 15 yard down two thin logs while the river below rushed, swaying the logs at every moment. 

Once at the wheel he broke it down and explained to me first hand how it works. Two large baskets similar in size and shape to a skid loader bucket, are pushed by the rivers current, rotating on one another. When salmon swim upstream it scoops them up and funels them into a holding box, where they then let the fish die before walking it back across the rickety longs, then cleaning and smoking the meat. 

We all stayed up late, watching the fish wheel spin while telling stories and drinking beer. 

Around 1am our first fish hit. It ended up being a long, late night at fish camp. A truly unique, wild and amazing experience