LORRIE HAIGHT tried to catch trout when she was a child at summer camp, but it was just some activity to keep her busy. Later she used fishing as an excuse to be outside by a beautiful stream, and when she lost her lure to a snag, that was the time to jump in and swim. She says, "I guess I never really cared that much about catching the fish until 1974 when I got talked into taking a job on an Alaskan-bound salmon troller. That was the year that changed my life forever. The life-style fitted me to a tea. By 1976, I had my own troller out of Juneau. But that didn't last very long. I met the love of my life, Harrison "Smitty" Smith, in Pelican in 1979 and wound up spending 32 years living, fishing and building a life together. Not only did we fish together, we built a 53 foot steel ketch that we fished out of Sitka in 1985, then sailed down to the south Pacific and bobbed around down there for eight years. Upon our return to Washington State, I started writing down Smitty's stories and eventually got around to writing my own stories of fishing and adventure. I learned how to bind books and created the "Floating Press", self-publishing my books. We got Harley Davidson motorcycles and rode across the four corners of the US and British Columbia." Lorrie became Smitty's caregiver after a major motorcycle accident, and stayed true to him until he crossed the bar in 2012. She still attends and performs at the Fisher Poets Gathering to carry on Smitty's legacy. He was a great poet, fisherman and person. He is greatly missed by all who knew him.
AUDIO
WRITINGS
With a little coaxing, I got Smitty to write this poem for me. Since he wrote it in my voice, I am the only one to ever read it.
The Ballad of Bridge Cat
(An ailurophobe hates cats, an ailurophile loves them)
One day I said, “I want a cat, I think they’re lots of fun.”
Smitty countered stating, “You are the only one.”
A difference of opinion hardly termed a spat,
Whether or not ‘twas practical for us to have a cat.
‘Cause we lived on a fishing boat, it was our only home.
There were no trees for a cat to climb nor alleys it could roam.
Although he argued long and loud, he gave in after while.
A triumph o’er the ailurophobe by the ailurophile.
With haste I searched the classifieds, then we’re Alaska bound
With a tiny kitten aboard, heading for the Fairweather ground.
Its life was now confined to sea far from any land,
Living on the flying bridge with a box of sand.
Shanghaied from her litter-mates for life on the bounding main.
Clawed up and down a hawser rope, Bride Cat was her name.
Adapting to a life at sea, there was no other choice.
And she confirmed her happiness with loudly purring voice.
Whether it be decks awash or rain pelting from the sky,
Bridge Cat seemed not to mind and she was seldom dry.
Whenever it did happen that near the docks we’d close,
Bridge occupied the bow stem on the anchor she did pose.
She couldn’t seem to wait until we were tied up safe.
Six feet away from the dock and she’d leap into space.
She prowled the docks and other boats but always came to rest,
On Sea Miner’s flying bridge in her cozy nest.
She took advantage, like all cats, when it came to eating,
Especially the salmon hearts while they were still beating.
The very end of the boom was her favorite perch.
No problem for an agile cat, the boat’s sea-rocking lurch.
From here she saw the cleaning rough with anticipated stare.
I’d toss up a needlefish and she’d snatch it in mid air.
That’s the way the season went, no bird or mouse or rat.
Bounty of the ocean was crunched up by Bridge Cat.
We’d dump a shrimp pot in a pail, it’s there she caught ‘em.
Arm deep in the water she’d reach to grab them off the bottom.
Season ended, heading south, what would she eat now?
The tasty seafood tidbits replaced by dry cat chow.
Then sometime that winter inside the Ballard Locks,
Bridge Cat found a boyfriend on the Fishermen’s Terminal docks.
So our boat’s cat population was increased by six.
Smitty wisely mentioned not a gunnysack and bricks.
Next season fast approached, new homes must be found.
Discovering with luck five more ailurophiles around.
One kit still begged for a home, for this we also prayed,
And before we headed north we had Bridge Cat spayed.
While we were in the locks, descending to the Sound,
Talking to a nearby boat, the last kit’s home was found.
The locksman was a jewel, and whilst the kitten purred,
He lowered down a bucket, to the other boat transferred.
Oh, we were so happy. At last our problem solved.
But not so for poor Bridge Cat her happiness dissolved.
All the way up north we could tell that on her mind,
Was the desperate hope that her kittens she would find.
We made a stop in Ketchikan to pick up some supplies.
Bridge Cat roamed around the floats with searching eyes.
Next morning it was time to go, but my Bridge Cat was gone.
After days of fruitless search and call we reluctantly went on.
Fishing on the outside banks some friends gave us a shout.
“We saw your cat in Pelican. It was her without a doubt.
“At first we didn’t think it was, we scarce believed our eyes,
“But not our dog, Vanilla, her friend she recognized.”
This news gave me fresh hope. I was excited and elated.
I’d have to wait ‘till the next closure, in three weeks it was dated.
It seemed to take forever the arrival of that date.
Then the Sea Miner made a tack for Lisianski Strait.
I searched the town of Pelican asking everyone I knew.
No trace was found of Bridge Cat, so what was I to do?
Smitty wanted to take off and wished that I were faster.
He whiled away the time with his pal the harbormaster.
“We came to town to find our cat. My wife looked every place.”
“I might have your cat,” he said. “Did it have an orange face?”
A skeptic always, he said yes but one clue didn’t show
That it was Bridge, so Smitty said, “Much more I’ll have to know.”
“Did Doc Derocher spay your cat in Seattle at his clinic?”
Smitty’s eyes lit up with shock. He didn’t have to mimic.
This really threw him for a loop. “How’d you know this from afar?”
“I used to work for Dr. D. I recognized his scar.”
Just then I came back down the dock so sad without my pet.
Smitty said, “There may be hope, now don’t be so upset.”
We went back into town just as fast as we were able,
And found Bridge Cat fast asleep on the harbormaster’s table.
He then told us the story of some ailurophobic lout
Who found her stowed away on board and promptly tossed her out.
‘Twas fate the Kansas came along, the skipper came beside
And saved her from Wrangell Narrows where she swam against the tide.
The Kansas docked in Pelican, singing glory from above.
A died in the wool ailurophile, with this cat he fell in love.
Alas, her missing kittens poor Bridge Cat still was seeking.
On other boats she searched, went a snooping and a peeking.
While thus engaged, a boat cast off. Away with her they drove.
Upon discovery she was dropped off in Elfin Cove.
Her search there continued and what happened then?
Another boat gave her a ride back to Pelican again.
This time the harbormaster took in this calico friend.
And so our trip to town came to a happy end.
For several years she fished with us without strife or harm.
She lived to be 20 years old on a riverside Stanwood farm.
The Ballad of Bridge Cat
(An ailurophobe hates cats, an ailurophile loves them)
One day I said, “I want a cat, I think they’re lots of fun.”
Smitty countered stating, “You are the only one.”
A difference of opinion hardly termed a spat,
Whether or not ‘twas practical for us to have a cat.
‘Cause we lived on a fishing boat, it was our only home.
There were no trees for a cat to climb nor alleys it could roam.
Although he argued long and loud, he gave in after while.
A triumph o’er the ailurophobe by the ailurophile.
With haste I searched the classifieds, then we’re Alaska bound
With a tiny kitten aboard, heading for the Fairweather ground.
Its life was now confined to sea far from any land,
Living on the flying bridge with a box of sand.
Shanghaied from her litter-mates for life on the bounding main.
Clawed up and down a hawser rope, Bride Cat was her name.
Adapting to a life at sea, there was no other choice.
And she confirmed her happiness with loudly purring voice.
Whether it be decks awash or rain pelting from the sky,
Bridge Cat seemed not to mind and she was seldom dry.
Whenever it did happen that near the docks we’d close,
Bridge occupied the bow stem on the anchor she did pose.
She couldn’t seem to wait until we were tied up safe.
Six feet away from the dock and she’d leap into space.
She prowled the docks and other boats but always came to rest,
On Sea Miner’s flying bridge in her cozy nest.
She took advantage, like all cats, when it came to eating,
Especially the salmon hearts while they were still beating.
The very end of the boom was her favorite perch.
No problem for an agile cat, the boat’s sea-rocking lurch.
From here she saw the cleaning rough with anticipated stare.
I’d toss up a needlefish and she’d snatch it in mid air.
That’s the way the season went, no bird or mouse or rat.
Bounty of the ocean was crunched up by Bridge Cat.
We’d dump a shrimp pot in a pail, it’s there she caught ‘em.
Arm deep in the water she’d reach to grab them off the bottom.
Season ended, heading south, what would she eat now?
The tasty seafood tidbits replaced by dry cat chow.
Then sometime that winter inside the Ballard Locks,
Bridge Cat found a boyfriend on the Fishermen’s Terminal docks.
So our boat’s cat population was increased by six.
Smitty wisely mentioned not a gunnysack and bricks.
Next season fast approached, new homes must be found.
Discovering with luck five more ailurophiles around.
One kit still begged for a home, for this we also prayed,
And before we headed north we had Bridge Cat spayed.
While we were in the locks, descending to the Sound,
Talking to a nearby boat, the last kit’s home was found.
The locksman was a jewel, and whilst the kitten purred,
He lowered down a bucket, to the other boat transferred.
Oh, we were so happy. At last our problem solved.
But not so for poor Bridge Cat her happiness dissolved.
All the way up north we could tell that on her mind,
Was the desperate hope that her kittens she would find.
We made a stop in Ketchikan to pick up some supplies.
Bridge Cat roamed around the floats with searching eyes.
Next morning it was time to go, but my Bridge Cat was gone.
After days of fruitless search and call we reluctantly went on.
Fishing on the outside banks some friends gave us a shout.
“We saw your cat in Pelican. It was her without a doubt.
“At first we didn’t think it was, we scarce believed our eyes,
“But not our dog, Vanilla, her friend she recognized.”
This news gave me fresh hope. I was excited and elated.
I’d have to wait ‘till the next closure, in three weeks it was dated.
It seemed to take forever the arrival of that date.
Then the Sea Miner made a tack for Lisianski Strait.
I searched the town of Pelican asking everyone I knew.
No trace was found of Bridge Cat, so what was I to do?
Smitty wanted to take off and wished that I were faster.
He whiled away the time with his pal the harbormaster.
“We came to town to find our cat. My wife looked every place.”
“I might have your cat,” he said. “Did it have an orange face?”
A skeptic always, he said yes but one clue didn’t show
That it was Bridge, so Smitty said, “Much more I’ll have to know.”
“Did Doc Derocher spay your cat in Seattle at his clinic?”
Smitty’s eyes lit up with shock. He didn’t have to mimic.
This really threw him for a loop. “How’d you know this from afar?”
“I used to work for Dr. D. I recognized his scar.”
Just then I came back down the dock so sad without my pet.
Smitty said, “There may be hope, now don’t be so upset.”
We went back into town just as fast as we were able,
And found Bridge Cat fast asleep on the harbormaster’s table.
He then told us the story of some ailurophobic lout
Who found her stowed away on board and promptly tossed her out.
‘Twas fate the Kansas came along, the skipper came beside
And saved her from Wrangell Narrows where she swam against the tide.
The Kansas docked in Pelican, singing glory from above.
A died in the wool ailurophile, with this cat he fell in love.
Alas, her missing kittens poor Bridge Cat still was seeking.
On other boats she searched, went a snooping and a peeking.
While thus engaged, a boat cast off. Away with her they drove.
Upon discovery she was dropped off in Elfin Cove.
Her search there continued and what happened then?
Another boat gave her a ride back to Pelican again.
This time the harbormaster took in this calico friend.
And so our trip to town came to a happy end.
For several years she fished with us without strife or harm.
She lived to be 20 years old on a riverside Stanwood farm.