Why an Alaskan fisheries manager called me a jackass
Ten years ago I was in charge of news at a public radio station, and about to learn that I was terrible at my job.
There’s a few things I know now that I didn’t know at the time this story took place in 2003 (in Months 18 and 19 of my time in Alaska, to be exact), and will also be key take-aways for the average reader:
- A “pulse” of Yukon King Salmon is not synonymous with a “run” of the Yukon King Salmon.
- A 23-year-old, no matter how smart and capable he may appear, is not.
- Don’t believe everything you hear on the news, because it’s reported by people like me (and the 23-year-old version of me).
- No, it’s not always okay to cry.
June, 2003 - Galena, Alaska:
(The following has likely been twisted and abused by the shortcomings of memory, language and ego. Names of people have been changed or omitted, names of places have not.)
It’s early evening, but outside the radio station the summer sub-arctic sun is near apogee in the sky.
What they don’t tell you about life up here is that the omnipresence of daylight can drive you just as crazy as the lack of it in winter.
Perhaps that’s why I’m sobbing like a small child with a big boo-boo in front of one of the few people I’ve managed to form a genuine, healthy friendship with here over the last year and a half.
No, no that’s not it. It’s more likely because I’m a fraud.
No, no it’s worse than that. I’m a fraud who’s afraid of being discovered. I’m a guy with a degree in journalism running a tiny newsroom, and I’m not very good at it.
No, no, that still doesn’t capture it. Actually, the thing is — I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
That’s why I didn’t do enough research or ask enough questions when I interviewed my friend about the massive pulse of Yukon River King Salmon heading our way. That’s why I called it a “run” instead of a “pulse” in my news story. That’s why the top fisheries officials for Alaska and Canada tracked down my home phone number and left nasty messages on my voice mail. That’s why one of them went so far as to call me a “jackass,” quite an impressive display of anger for a public official to willingly put down on tape. That’s why my friend, who works for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, got in trouble for my faulty reporting and came down here to say (although in much more civil terms and without acronyms not yet in common use) “Dude, WTF?”
A newsman who knows his stuff doesn’t need to ask a lot of questions, right? He should just have done his research. He should know the context he’s reporting on already.
I am not that newsman, but some kind of pathetic sense of pride wouldn’t allow me to admit it, no matter how obvious it must be to the casual observer.
So, I didn’t ask the question. I didn’t use the right word. I didn’t get the story right. And now I’m crying in front of another grown man. As if the humiliation of my initial mistake weren’t enough.
Oh god, now I’m turning and running into the office in shame like a first-grader embarrassed by his own uncontrollable display of emotion. So pathetic.
My friend is just standing in the hallway by himself, completely unsure of how to respond to this melodramatic turn of events. He hadn’t come to me in anger at all. His eyes were kind and concerned, but definitely not pissed. Perhaps because he already knows I’m a fraud. I think that’s the most humiliating part of all. It’s the being found out that’s made me lose control.
I eventually compose myself and we agree on a time to record a new interview and set the record straight. An international fisheries incident is avoided.
It will be a few more years before I even realize there was a lesson in all this, and a few more beyond that until I figure out what it is. In fact, it will take me so long to learn anything from this episode, that ten years from now, I won’t be able say I ever understood why using the wrong word for a group of salmon caused a cross-border stir.
I could find out, too. The whole reason this piece will be written ten years after the events described herein occurred is because the friend in question will reach out on Facebook. So, I could possibly ask him before I write this. But I’ll still be too impatient and lazy and it wont really be the point, anyway. (I’ll also imagine he’ll explain it to me soon after this will be published. Consider this me asking the question, Mr. G.)
So the me that writes this ten years later will still be flawed, but before that time I will eventually reflect enough upon this episode to learn something from it.
At some point around 2008 I’ll finally begin asking this question in my interviews:
“Ok, can you explain that to me again in really simple terms? Pretend I’m a first grader if you have to.”
Once I’ve got them speaking on my level, I’ll feel more at ease. I won’t have to worry about being found out. I’ll have already revealed myself.
Oh, and in about a week, my friend and I will be the only ones who remember this whole incident. Everyone else will be too busy pulling dozens of 60-pound salmon out of the river under the unending daylight.
In this space, I’ll continue to expand on my experiences in Bush Alaska first put down in this Kindle short. You can also follow along here.
