Notes from Alex: Streams of Salmon and Stories of Generations
“A timeless cycle that connects streams, people, and history.”
“There’s something timeless about standing at the mouth of a stream and watching salmon return, as if witnessing history swim right before your eyes.”
The other day, I drove down to two different streams. One held a strong pink salmon run, just beginning to gather momentum, while the other was alive with chum and coho pushing upstream. At the mouths of the streams, schools of salmon shimmered and surged together, filling the water with life. I sat there for a moment, just watching, and found myself pondering the deeper story unfolding before me.
These runs have been happening for centuries—long before I was here, long before any of us. And to see it still going on today, against the odds, feels poetically beautiful. Nature’s persistence has a way of humbling us. The salmon return, generation after generation, as if carrying the heartbeat of this place.
Of course, things have changed. The salmon fisheries for commercial harvest are not what they once were. I can remember stories of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, when the runs were stronger, the harvests larger, and the docks busier. Will it ever return to those days? Probably not—or at least, I don’t know. What I do know is this: a handful of commercial boats, both gillnetters and seiners, still work these waters today. Their efforts provide jobs, income, and a thread of economic impact for the community.
This is a salmon-run community, through and through. Generations of fishermen and women have made their living on these runs, and that tradition continues, even if the scale looks different now. The sight of those salmon pressing upstream reminded me that while times change, the core of this place—its connection to the salmon—remains the same.
It’s more than just a run of fish. It’s history, tradition, and survival, all swimming together in the current.
For me, standing by those streams was more than just an afternoon stop. It was a reminder that I too am part of this cycle, part of this tradition. Even if I’m not on a boat, even if I’m not casting a net, I carry the stories, the memories, and the gratitude for what the salmon represent. Observing their return ties me back to my roots, to the community I belong to, and to the generations before me who lived by these same waters. In that way, the salmon’s journey upstream mirrors my own journey—returning, remembering, and carrying forward what truly matters.
“From Metlakatla to the Misty Fjords — A Day in the Life of an Alaskan Bush Pilot”
By Alex Atkinson Jr.
Back in the 1980s, I had the honor—and I do mean honor—of flying as a commercial seaplane pilot in Southeast Alaska. I was based out of Metlakatla and kept my aircraft docked there five days a week.
My days started early. Real early. I’d be up at 5:00 a.m., and head down to the dock where the airplane—usually a DeHavilland Beaver or sometimes a 185—had spent the night tied up, resting after a long day before. The quiet of those early mornings, the dock creaking softly, the scent of saltwater and spruce in the air—it was something special. I’d perform my preflight check while the world was still half-asleep.
Once ready, I’d fire up the engine while still tied to the dock, letting her warm up for that first flight of the day. By 6:30 a.m., I’d taxi the aircraft out into the open bay, perform my pre-takeoff checks, and begin my takeoff run. Within moments, I’d lift off the water, leaving Metlakatla behind and heading for Ketchikan—a short 12-minute hop over some of the most stunning terrain on the planet.
Ketchikan’s harbor would already be humming by the time I landed and taxied in. I’d tie up, refuel, and prepare for the first tour flight of the day. On busy mornings, our operation was a well-oiled machine: up to 10 planes heading out in the first rotation to the Misty Fjords National Monument.
We had a fleet that could move people. The DeHavilland Beavers carried five passengers. The Otters took ten. The Cessna 185s held three. Each flight lasted about 75 minutes, and we’d brief our passengers before departure—headsets on, smiles wide, cameras ready.
Then came the show.
One by one, aircraft would taxi out and line up, ready to depart for the Fjords. It was a ballet of sorts—15 planes moving in rhythm over the water, headed into what we all knew was God’s country.
As we climbed to cruising altitude—anywhere from 1,500 to 4,000 feet—we’d begin our narration, chatting with our guests over the intercom. We’d round Mountain Point, heading toward Rudyard Bay, the entryway into the Misty Fjords.
Flying beside towering cliffs and deep green valleys, we’d point out waterfalls, ridgelines, glaciers, and wildlife. Eagles. Bears. Maybe even a whale breaching in the distance.
The highlight? Landing on a secluded bay or alpine lake, shutting the engine down, and letting the passengers step out onto the pontoons. The looks on their faces—pure wonder. They’d take photos, videos, breathe in the stillness. Ask questions. Soak it all in.
After 5 to 10 minutes, we’d load everyone back up, take off once again, and make the return trip to Ketchikan.
When we landed, there were always smiles. Always thank-yous. They had just experienced something few people in the world ever will—Alaska, seen from the sky, felt on the water.
It’s hard to describe the feeling you get flying seaplanes in Southeast Alaska. The scenery never gets old. The job, though demanding, was more like a calling. A life of adventure, of responsibility, of deep connection to this place.
Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was. The life of an Alaskan Seaplane Pilot was more than a career—it was a front-row seat to something truly magnificent. And I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.
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In the picturesque village of Metlakatla, Alaska, surrounded by the majestic beauty of the Pacific Northwest, a young man named Iñupiaq dreamed of the skies. Growing up in a place where the land met the ocean, he found himself constantly gazing upwards, mesmerized by the aircrafts that flew overhead.
From a tender age, Iñupiaq was captivated by the idea of soaring above the clouds, exploring the world from a vantage point few could imagine. He would spend hours crafting paper airplanes, meticulously studying aviation books, and asking endless questions to the local aviators who occasionally visited the village. His dreams were bold, but they were his own.
Yet, as he grew older, the harsh reality of society’s expectations began to set in. School was a challenge for Iñupiaq; traditional tests and academic pressures did not align with his way of learning. Teachers and peers alike often discouraged his dream, pointing to his test scores as a measure of his potential. “Stick to something more realistic,” they would say. “Aviation is not for everyone.”
Despite these discouraging words, Iñupiaq’s spirit remained unbroken. He found solace and strength in his determination, knowing that passion and perseverance were the true markers of success. He sought out every opportunity to learn about flying, volunteering at the local airstrip, and saving every penny for flight lessons.
Through sheer grit and tenacity, Iñupiaq managed to secure a scholarship to a flight school, where he worked harder than ever before. His instructors were impressed not by his test scores, but by his unwavering dedication and natural affinity for aviation. He excelled in his training, proving that intelligence and capability could not be defined by standardized tests alone.
Years of hard work paid off when Iñupiaq finally earned his pilot’s license. He went on to have a storied career in the aviation industry, flying commercial planes and touching the lives of countless passengers. His journey was one of inspiration, a testament to the power of dreams and the importance of following one’s passion despite the naysayers.
Now, over 40 years into his career, Iñupiaq often returns to Metlakatla to speak to young people about his journey. He encourages them to believe in their dreams and to never let anyone define their limits.
“The sky is not the limit,” he tells them. “It’s just the beginning. Chase your dreams with all your heart, and let your passion be your guiding star.”
I hope this story provides the encouragement you’re looking for. It’s a reminder that our dreams are worth fighting for, no matter the obstacles we face.
what would it take to reopen the annette island airport?
Reopening Annette Island Airport would involve several key steps and considerations:
1. Infrastructure Assessment and Repairs: o Runway and Taxiway Maintenance: The runways, especially the asphalt surface of Runway 12/30 and the gravel surface of Runway 2/20, would need thorough inspection and repairs1. o Facilities and Equipment: Ensuring that all airport facilities, including lighting, signage, and communication systems, are operational and up to current standards1.
2. Regulatory Compliance: o FAA Certification: The airport would need to meet Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) requirements for safety and operations1. o Environmental Impact Assessments: Conducting necessary environmental reviews to comply with federal and state regulations1.
3. Operational Readiness: o Staffing: Hiring and training staff for airport operations, including ground handling, security, and air traffic control (if applicable)1. o Emergency Services: Establishing or updating emergency response protocols and ensuring the availability of emergency services1.
4. Community and Stakeholder Engagement: o Local Support: Engaging with the Metlakatla Indian Community and other local stakeholders to gain support and address any concerns1. o Funding and Investment: Securing funding for the necessary upgrades and ongoing operations, possibly through federal grants, private investment, or tribal funding1.
5. Marketing and Partnerships: o Airline Partnerships: Negotiating with airlines to establish routes and services to and from the airport1. o Promotion: Marketing the airport to potential users, including tourists, businesses, and cargo operators1.
A little History of Annette Island Airport:
Annette Island Airport (IATA: ANN, ICAO: PANT, FAA LID: ANN) is located on Annette Island in the Prince of Wales – Hyder Census Area of the U.S. state of Alaska.[1] It is located 5 nautical miles (9 km) south of Metlakatla, Alaska.[2] The airport was established as the Annette Island Army Airfield during World War II and initially served as a military airbase.
Facilities and aircraft [edit] Annette Island Airport has two runways: 12/30 is 7,493 by 150 feet (2,284 x 46 m) with an asphalt surface and 2/20 is 5,709 by 150 feet (1,740 x 46 m) with a gravel surface. For the 12-month period ending January 16, 1990, the airport had 8,400 aircraft operations, an average of 23 per day: 64% general aviation, 24% military, and 12% air taxi.[1]
Historical airline service [edit] Prior to the opening of the Ketchikan International Airport (KTN) in 1973, the Annette Island Airport served as the primary airfield for scheduled passenger service for Ketchikan which is located approximately 20 air miles to the north. In 1947, Pan American World Airways was operating daily nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau with Douglas DC-4 prop aircraft with no change of plane flights operated twice a week to Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory of Canada via Juneau and then continuing on to Fairbanks, Galena and Nome in Alaska.[3] Pan Am later operated Douglas DC-6B and Boeing 377 Stratocruiser aircraft into the airport.[4] During the late 1950s, Pacific Northern Airlines (PNA, the successor of Woodley Airways) served the airport with Lockheed Constellation propliners with nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau as well as direct, no change of plane flights to Anchorage, Cordova and Yakutat.[5] The airport’s first jet service arrived during the early 1960s. In 1963, Pan Am was flying Boeing 707 jetliners into the airport with a daily roundtrip routing of Seattle – Annette Island – Juneau.[6] By 1965, Pacific Northern was operating Boeing 720 jetliners on nonstop flights to Seattle and Juneau as well as on direct services to Anchorage via Juneau.[7] In 1967, Pacific Northern was acquired by and merged into Western Airlines which continued to operate jet service into the airport.[8] By 1968, Western was serving the airport with Boeing 720B jetliners with nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau as well as direct, no change of plane flights to Portland, OR, San Francisco and Los Angeles.[9] In 1971, the federal Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB) awarded Alaska Airlines new route authority which enabled this air carrier to begin jet service into Annette Island Airport thus replacing Western.
With the opening of the Ketchikan International Airport in 1973, Annette Island lost all scheduled passenger jet flights as such airline service then moved to the then-new Ketchikan airport. Prior to the opening of the Ketchikan airport in 1973, Alaska Airlines was also operating scheduled flights with Super Catalina and Grumman Goose prop-driven amphibian aircraft on the short hop between Annette Island Airport and the Ketchikan Harbor Seaplane Base serving Ketchikan as well as to other local destinations in southeast Alaska.[10]
See also Annette Island Airport (IATA: ANN, ICAO: PANT, FAA LID: ANN) is located on Annette Island in the Prince of Wales – Hyder Census Area of the U.S. state of Alaska.[1] It is located 5 nautical miles (9 km) south of Metlakatla, Alaska.[2] The airport was established as the Annette Island Army Airfield during World War II and initially served as a military airbase.
Facilities and aircraft [edit] Annette Island Airport has two runways: 12/30 is 7,493 by 150 feet (2,284 x 46 m) with an asphalt surface and 2/20 is 5,709 by 150 feet (1,740 x 46 m) with a gravel surface. For the 12-month period ending January 16, 1990, the airport had 8,400 aircraft operations, an average of 23 per day: 64% general aviation, 24% military, and 12% air taxi.[1]
Historical airline service [edit] Prior to the opening of the Ketchikan International Airport (KTN) in 1973, the Annette Island Airport served as the primary airfield for scheduled passenger service for Ketchikan which is located approximately 20 air miles to the north. In 1947, Pan American World Airways was operating daily nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau with Douglas DC-4 prop aircraft with no change of plane flights operated twice a week to Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory of Canada via Juneau and then continuing on to Fairbanks, Galena and Nome in Alaska.[3] Pan Am later operated Douglas DC-6B and Boeing 377 Stratocruiser aircraft into the airport.[4] During the late 1950s, Pacific Northern Airlines (PNA, the successor of Woodley Airways) served the airport with Lockheed Constellation propliners with nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau as well as direct, no change of plane flights to Anchorage, Cordova and Yakutat.[5] The airport’s first jet service arrived during the early 1960s. In 1963, Pan Am was flying Boeing 707 jetliners into the airport with a daily roundtrip routing of Seattle – Annette Island – Juneau.[6] By 1965, Pacific Northern was operating Boeing 720 jetliners on nonstop flights to Seattle and Juneau as well as on direct services to Anchorage via Juneau.[7] In 1967, Pacific Northern was acquired by and merged into Western Airlines which continued to operate jet service into the airport.[8] By 1968, Western was serving the airport with Boeing 720B jetliners with nonstop service to Seattle and Juneau as well as direct, no change of plane flights to Portland, OR, San Francisco and Los Angeles.[9] In 1971, the federal Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB) awarded Alaska Airlines new route authority which enabled this air carrier to begin jet service into Annette Island Airport thus replacing Western.
With the opening of the Ketchikan International Airport in 1973, Annette Island lost all scheduled passenger jet flights as such airline service then moved to the then-new Ketchikan airport. Prior to the opening of the Ketchikan airport in 1973, Alaska Airlines was also operating scheduled flights with Super Catalina and Grumman Goose prop-driven amphibian aircraft on the short hop between Annette Island Airport and the Ketchikan Harbor Seaplane Base serving Ketchikan as well as to other local destinations in southeast Alaska.[10]
Carving Stories, Singing Traditions, and Building Community
In the heart of Metlakatla, Alaska, lived a man named David A. Boxley, a master carver and a beacon of Tsimshian culture. David’s journey began with a deep connection to his ancestors, whose stories and traditions he cherished and sought to revive.
David A. Boxley’s legacy is one of dedication, artistry, and love for his community. Through his totem poles, songs, and tireless efforts to preserve Tsimshian culture, he ensured that the spirit of his people would live on for generations to come.
The Potlatch of 1982 holds a special place in the history of the Tsimshian people, particularly for David A. Boxley. This event marked a significant revival of traditional practices and cultural pride.
The potlatch featured traditional songs, dances, and the sharing of stories, all of which played a crucial role in preserving the Tsimshian heritage. It was a time for the community to come together, honor their ancestors, and pass down their cultural knowledge to the younger generations. The event also showcased David’s incredible totem poles and carvings, which served as visual representations of the stories and values of the Tsimshian people.
This potlatch was a turning point for David and his community, reinforcing their commitment to cultural preservation and education. It inspired many to continue the work of keeping their traditions alive, ensuring that the rich heritage of the Tsimshian people would endure for future generations.
In the heart of Metlakatla, nestled among ancient forests and fjords, lived a young dreamer named Kaya. She grew up listening to her grandfather’s tales of seafaring adventures and soaring eagles. The salty breeze carried whispers of freedom, and Kaya knew her destiny lay beyond the horizon.
At 17, Kaya stepped onto the floatplane dock, her heart pounding like the propeller blades. She had saved every penny from summer jobs, determined to earn her wings. The seaplane instructor, grizzled and weathered, greeted her with a nod. “Welcome to the world of waterbirds,” he said, eyes crinkling.
Kaya’s training began—a dance of wind, waves, and wings. She learned to read the currents, to coax the Cessna 185 onto the glassy surface of Tongass Narrows. Her fingers traced the rivets, feeling the plane’s history—the countless flights, the dreams it had carried.
The Alaskan wilderness became her classroom. She practiced touch-and-goes on hidden lakes, their names echoing Tlingit legends. She weaved through fjords, where glaciers met emerald forests. Bald eagles watched from treetops, guardians of the skies.
One misty morning, Kaya faced her solo flight. The seaplane bobbed, waiting for her command. She taxied, then opened the throttle. The floats lifted, and she soared—water and air entwined. The world blurred, and Kaya laughed—a wild, exultant sound.
Her checkride came—a stern examiner with a twinkle in his eye. Kaya demonstrated stalls, steep turns, and glassy-water landings. The examiner nodded, scribbling notes. “You’ve got the spirit,” he said. “Remember, the sky is your canvas.”
And so, Kaya became a seaplane pilot. Her wings carried her to remote fishing villages, to glacier-fed lakes where bears roamed. She delivered mail, medicine, and hope. Her passengers included elders, children, and curious tourists—all bound by the magic of flight.
Metlakatla celebrated her—a hero in neoprene boots. The community gathered on the dock, drums beating, as Kaya taxied in. Her grandfather’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve made us proud,” he whispered.
Years passed, and Kaya’s logbook filled—a testament to courage and connection. She still felt the thrill—the moment when floats left water, when she danced with the elements. And when storms raged, she remembered her grandfather’s words: “Fly true, my child. The sky awaits.”
Notes from Alex 