Salmon

Bill, who'd taken over Frank's rod, let out a shout.

"Got one!"

He'd already hauled up another solid salmon, but we decided that getting people out of the cold came first — the fishing could wait. I pulled a heavy tarp and a roll of plastic sheeting from the trailer and handed them off to Jed and Mike. The two of them set to work as if they'd been waiting for it, cobbling together dry brushwood, wire, and duct tape, and before long a respectable A-frame tent had taken shape over the ice hole, enough to break the wind.

Around then, a radio call came in from Frank, who was still at the market.

Well after the market had closed, Frank and Dave came back. Frank pointed at the bed of the pickup with a look of pure satisfaction.

"I cleaned out everything they had at the market today — ice augers, rods, jigging lures, the works!"

Just as he said, the truck bed was packed with a motorized ice auger, dozens of fishing rods, and every kind of tackle imaginable.

"How'd you buy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all that?"

Frank answered with a swagger.

"The guy selling the fishing gear looked like he wanted to dump it fast, so I made him a deal — I'd take the whole lot."

"All of it?"

"Haha. I put down ten thousand cash to take this load now. Tomorrow I throw in thirty gallons of diesel and three dozen eggs, and we get the rest."

"Haha. There's no stopping this guy."

"Chan!"

"Yeah."

Frank's expression turned meaningful.

"With this, we can basically monopolize Tahoe's salmon. The ones showing up at the market, I mean."

"Huh?"

"Apparently the guy who borrowed that auger already punched the holes, and then he said he couldn't keep at it because of the cold. Hahaha."

Frank laid out his ambitions like a general fresh off a victory, pointing at each piece of newly acquired gear as he held forth.

"But we're different. Camp's right on the lake, and we've already built fishing tents."

"That's true. Perfect timing."

"Plus I swept up most of the fishing gear at the market. Especially those ice augers — the motorized unit, the screw blades, the auger bits, all of it."

I didn't say anything. Frank pressed on.

"Five of the largest-diameter ones, plus every small and medium bit they had in stock. From now on, we're basically the only people around here who can punch a hole in the ice."

He lowered his voice and stepped in close.

"So, Chan."

"What else?"

"If you ever decide we're leaving this place, just give me a few days' heads-up."

"So you can resell the gear?"

Frank grinned slyly.

"Just the gear? We could sell the honey-hole fishing spots we've been pulling fish from every day. At a premium."

I could only shake my head at Frank's endless hustle. A world where the law had gone a little slack was the water he swam in best.

Under Frank's direction, the little ice of ice along the lakeshore transformed into our private fishing grounds in no time. Including two newly drilled holes, we had three fishing points in all, each with a snug windbreak tent that Mike and Jed had built.

Once the grounds were starting to look like the real thing, Frank came over again, grinning from ear to ear.

"I leased one of the fishing points to Anderson's group."

"Leased? What do you mean?"

"Chan, salmon fishing isn't an equipment problem anymore — it's a manpower problem. So I lent Anderson a fishing point, a tent, and rods. In return, we take thirty percent of whatever they catch as rent."

Frank looked as pleased with himself as if he owned Lake Tahoe.

Looking at the three newly finished fishing tents, a question occurred to me. They were spaced quite far apart.

"Frank, why are the tents so far from each other?"

Frank grinned.

"Chan, we didn't just punch those holes anywhere."

"Meaning?"

"That first fish we caught yesterday was pure luck. We didn't get a single bite for an hour. So when I cleaned out the fishing shop at the market today, I grabbed a fish finder too."

He pulled a palm-sized handheld unit from his pocket. Garmin Striker 4 was printed on the face.

"Garmin?"

I held up my wrist without thinking.

"My watch is a Garmin Tactix Delta."

"That's the one. Haha. These folks don't just make good watches — they make a hell of a portable fish finder too."

I looked at the little unit in his hand.

"All three of those holes are honey spots I found with this thing, right on the fish highways. Time the feeding windows right, and pulling more than ten a day won't be a problem."

No sooner had he finished than an excited shout carried from the tent Bill was manning in the distance.

"Got another one! Hahaha!"

"See that?"

Frank looked at me, proud. We ran together to Bill's fishing point. On the ice lay a hefty salmon, silver scales still thrashing, as if it had just been hauled up.

"Good lord, that's way bigger than yesterday's!"

Bill held up the salmon, grinning like a kid.

"Look at that — twenty-five inches easy. Heavy enough that I'd bet five pounds, no problem."

The stout salmon in his hands seemed to promise a prosperous future, a gift from this frozen lake.

Frank organized fishing crews to rotate through the three points in two-hour shifts. He taught Jed's two sons, Luke and Owen, along with Damon and Carlos — even Frank's own son Liam and Raven's boy Adam — so that everyone would take part in our salmon project.

From that day on, salmon fishing grew from a simple food-gathering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠activity into a new industry for the community.

A few days later, Mike came to tell me the second chicken trailer was finished. Almost at the same time, Dave returned from the market with excited news.

"Chan, it's a madhouse out there."

"Haha. Sounds like the good kind."

"It is. Our salmon's getting the same treatment as the eggs — no, better. People are lining up ahead of time!"

He held up the bags filling both his hands.

"We made a pile of money, and I scored a bunch of herbs for the salmon — dill, rosemary, the works."

"Good work, Dave."

While Dave shrugged, grinning, a familiar county sheriff's patrol car pulled onto the rest-stop shoulder. It stopped in front of our camp. A uniformed sheriff's deputy climbed out, and Frank got out of the passenger seat.

Frank clapped the deputy on the shoulder, pointed toward the lakeside fishing grounds, and cracked some joke that set both of them laughing out loud.

"What's that about?"

Dave clicked his tongue.

"That's Frank for you. 'Grease her up before you turn the key, or you'll have trouble later.'"

He shook his head.

"He probably visits that sheriff's office more than he hangs around us. Anyway, that guy's the real deal. The genuine article."

No sooner had he said it than Frank personally loaded a few salmon and a hefty sack of nuts into the deputy's trunk. As the patrol car pulled away smoothly, Frank sent it off with a somewhat theatrical wave. The deputy rolled down his window and called back toward us.

"Always appreciate the cooperation, Frank."

Watching it all unfold, I realized we'd never been this busy. In the sight of everyone sweating over their own work, there was no trace of the despair that the world was ending. What overflowed instead was the vitality of being alive.

Salmon was a resource with nothing to waste.

Bill dressed the freshly caught fish with practiced hands, cutting away the fillets. We spread them on wide boards and left them in the cold to freeze naturally, stockpiling them for long-term storage. Some we salt-cured with the herbs Dave had brought and stored in the motorhome and my trailer refrigerators.

The skins we fried crisp or baked in the oven, making excellent snacks for everyone. Whatever was left we rendered slowly for salmon oil, then used as chicken feed. The heads and bones that remained went to Eleanor, who turned them into rich salmon soup and stew — a real help against the brutal cold.

A few more frantic days passed like that. I called the key people into my trailer.

"As you all know, Tahoe's as good a place as any to stay for a while. But we never know when or how things might change, so I think we need a clear picture of where we stand."

I looked around at everyone and went on.

"We're outsiders here. How are the locals reacting? What's the attitude?"

Dave went first with the market atmosphere.

"At first everyone was a little wary, since we always go around armed. But once we started selling eggs and salmon, we've even picked up regulars who ask when we're coming."

Then Cody pointed at his laptop screen.

"Nothing particularly negative about us on the Tahoe subreddit. Although... I don't know how the rumor spread, but people have started mentioning Polar Bear — saying the Polar Bear brothers are out hunting salmon."

Mike gave a hearty laugh at that.

"Wasn't a name we could hide forever. An Asian guy driving a giant truck with Polar Bear plates, traveling with a wolf..."

He stroked his beard, still smiling.

"Who wouldn't put that together? If anything, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I think that's why they dropped their guard around us faster."

"Even so, if word gets out that I'm here, the Road Warriors might get ideas about hitting us..."

"Road Warriors? Even if they somehow got through Carson City, the state capital of Nevada — they'd still have to punch through a canyon checkpoint that's the only way in, then fight an entire city? If they want to crawl in here on their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own, I'd almost thank them. Hahaha."

I worried for a moment, but Mike's take was sound, and I knew the TSP — the Tahoe militia — packed serious firepower. I let it go and looked at Dave.

"Dave, how's the stockpile looking?"

"Biggest change is the produce. We've already sold more than four tons of the seven we brought from the farm. Food-wise, we barely touched our existing stores — between the salmon and the other goods, we're actually up. Nothing to worry about."

He flipped through a small notebook.

"Fuel's fine — we haven't touched the reserves. Everything's coming from the designated stations. And we've split the grown chicks and hens into the new chicken trailer. At this rate, daily egg production should break sixty in about three weeks."

He turned another page.

"We've bought enough MREs and emergency rations at the market to cover more than a year, and the regular stuff — flour, frozen meat — is over a year's worth too. Not counting salmon and eggs, we've got about two years of food stockpiled."

Gunner picked up from there.

"Live ammo stocks are the same as before. Difference is, we picked up about five thousand empty casings cheap and we've been reloading them in our spare time. Oh, and I got an M79 grenade launcher — the single-shot — plus twelve 40mm grenades. That puts our grenade count at thirty."

"Good. Keep the M79 and those twelve rounds on your vehicle."

"Will do."

I turned to Frank.

"Frank, so how's the salmon catch these days?"

As if he'd been waiting for the question, Frank held up his fingers.

"We've expanded to seven ice holes total. And I added another leased hole for the Anderson family."

He let that land, then kept going.

"Between what we catch ourselves and what we take as rent, we're pulling a minimum of forty a day — sixty-plus on a good day. And every so often a big Mackinaw comes up. Yesterday we landed a twenty-pounder."

I must have looked stunned at the numbers, because Frank laughed as if he'd expected it.

"I just posted on Reddit looking for hands to process all this salmon and trout. Daily wage: two fresh salmon!"