DUNCAN BERRY grew up on the Clatsop Plains on the Northern Oregon Coast son of author-father Don Berry and photo journalist mother Wyn Berry. He began his fishing career at the innocent age of 13 as a puller on his brothers Salmon-troller out of the Columbia River. He went on to captain the boat when he was 16 and then pursued other careers for the next 40 some odd years. These included making a living as a gold smith and enamelist, starting and running a design and exhibits firm, entering the fashion business and creating international brands in conventional and organic cotton.
During this same span of time Duncan spent 30 years on Vashon Island off of Seattle, raising two rambunctious and beautiful children with his beloved wife of 44 years, Melany… In 2006 the Oregon Coast beckoned them home to form a non-profit to preserve a large property at Cascade Head named Westwind.
In 2012 Duncan re-entered the fisheries business as co-founder of Fishpeople which is now a national brand distributing value added seafood products in 10,000 stores in all 50 states and landings in Ilwaco, Garibaldi and the Yukon. As a creative release he currently writes poems and shanties about his life with fish, and time spent on or under the water, as well as being crazy about the Japanese technique of Gyotaku or fish printing. He loves to swim with Salmon in the upper reaches of the coastal rivers and is a dedicated conservationist believing that native species are the key to our iconic Salmon’s future here in the great NW….
“I admire fish more than most of the human beings I meet”!
During this same span of time Duncan spent 30 years on Vashon Island off of Seattle, raising two rambunctious and beautiful children with his beloved wife of 44 years, Melany… In 2006 the Oregon Coast beckoned them home to form a non-profit to preserve a large property at Cascade Head named Westwind.
In 2012 Duncan re-entered the fisheries business as co-founder of Fishpeople which is now a national brand distributing value added seafood products in 10,000 stores in all 50 states and landings in Ilwaco, Garibaldi and the Yukon. As a creative release he currently writes poems and shanties about his life with fish, and time spent on or under the water, as well as being crazy about the Japanese technique of Gyotaku or fish printing. He loves to swim with Salmon in the upper reaches of the coastal rivers and is a dedicated conservationist believing that native species are the key to our iconic Salmon’s future here in the great NW….
“I admire fish more than most of the human beings I meet”!
WRITINGS
homewaters
the turbulence
of two creeks
converging
has carved this depression in rock
as deep as a man stands
filled with water
stripped from clouds
pushed hard against
the sides of coastal mountains
homewaters
on the far bank
a Big Leaf Maple has fallen
arcing into this pool
its roots popping and snapping
out of the earth
as it descended
leaves parting from branches
like feathers
in the light air
I stand thigh deep in
38 degree water
the weak sunlight of October
reflecting silver
on the surface of the water
hiding what lies below
a stab of cold
pierces my wet suit
as I wade deeper
take a sharp
breath
and go under
gravity suspended
heart beating loudly
face pained by cold
muted sound of rapids
clicks of rocks shifting in their beds
light streaming to the bottom
homewaters
Muscles work against the current
I enter the rib cage
of fallen branches
stripped of their bark
hanging by one hand
at the deepest point
like a kite stretched out sideways
in the upper reaches of the tree
Then suddenly
they are everywhere
heavy black forms
darting in and out of the shadows
light rippling across their backs
they have come
40 miles from the sea
to this pool
past
fishermen,
tangled log jams
and the ever present surge of current
these are nomad kings and queens
of the Pacific
the salmon people
she has come back
come full circle
giving up her salty runs
to return
return to the gravel-lined shallows
where her mother and father
lay with their bellies
against these same stones
full of the seed
that would give her life
as they died
homewaters
here
swimming underneath me
sharing this communion of water
she in their majority
me in my minority
the clarity
of her determination
and beauty
resonating deep inside me
bringing words silently
to my tongue
….sacred
….humbling
these are the gift bearers
giving completely
of their flesh
and eggs
and sperm
reminding us of
long buried memories
of belonging
of returning
of something greater
and older
and deeper
in its rhythm
homewaters
Dedicated to my friend Conrad Gowell….March 2015
________________________
i am salmon
i am salmon
my body the
the elegant result
of millions of years of trial and error
adapting to mountain ranges
that have come and gone
rivers once flowing
now dry
rocks made and unmade
and me
still here
i am salmon
and my body is a simple miracle
red of gill
iridescent of scale
muscled for bursts and glides
small white ear bone in my head bearing witness to it all
annular rings written in calcium and mineral molecules
the origins of my mother and father
what river birthed me
what i ate
and when
and where
and this
only one page in the book that
i am
and you two legged ones
you of chain saws and damns
and sharpened hooks and strong nets
you who we call
the salmon eaters
who amongst you could survive
being dropped from your mother’s belly
onto clean black rock
into cold rush of oxygen rich waters
emerging
with only an egg sack at your belly
for a jumpstart
and nothing more
tumbling down tributaries
into estuaries
where the tang of salt burns your gills
spit out the mouth of the river
into the great liquid canyons of the continental shelf
with its legions of oil rich eulachon sand lance anchovy and herring
who amongst you
could return from a great arc to the north
looping back
four years later
in a navigational miracle
to the very river
of your birth
feeling your flesh pulled from your bones
no food in your belly
single-minded purpose
of passing the genetic baton
in the perfect
tiny red spheres
who amongst you?
and in the midst of all this
this mighty race run
we give you humans our all
gifting you with our bodies
from time immemorial
and all we ask in return
is that when you take our brilliant flesh
into your bodies
raising us to your lips
that you pause
and remember
the mythic arc of our lives
from the rivers stone cradle
into the deep sea and back
remember
that you are consuming this optimism
and persistence and selflessness
of ours
we salmon becoming human
and all we ask in return is to
honor our gift
by making the work you do in the world
extraordinary
burning us as rich bright fuel
so that the work you do in the world
is extraordinary.
i am salmon
________________________
Playing rough
so well behaved
during an unbroken
stream of blue days
that I clean forgot
you could play so rough
on the last
hot day of October
your light was
ready to spill over the edge
into darkness
the thin gray horizon
hiding winter
just
out of sight
then you came in swinging
6 straight days
of house rocking punches
10 inches of
life giving liquid
falling in the span
of one mornings cup of coffee to the next
the river gorged
and pushed out of its banks
by the advancing tide
sometimes
you just don’t know
when to quit
as I walk
more evidence
of your mood
lies strewn across the road
in piles
of living matter
having delivered
on their promise
that took
all of the days of spring and summer
to keep
as i sit
writing this
the thud
of the surf
calls me to walk
outside
drawn
by the
pull of
you and your
knee high foam
and broken trees
and the rearing
flagrant
creaming
ladder of waves
that you make from
six thousand miles of sea
and the thin membrane of land
under my feet
and in all of this
you say
it is easy to walk
in the high meadows of summer
when the light is low in the West
and the world holds still
but to really
know me
you say
i want you here
in THIS
humbled by cold
salt rimmed eyes
staring into the west
at me
dressed in grey
coming at you
playing
rough
On the 8thday of un broken rain when it finally stopped.
Cascade Head in November of 2006
________________________
the mad queen
there are
dive bars,
gold bars,
high bars
and low bars
but there’s only one
Columbia River bar.
thank god.
we are all her subjects
we who set out
upon the waters
to meet this mad queen
and she waits for us
at times calm and patient
at others
gathered in her spring glory
brown and swollen
from a thousand upstream tributaries
tithing liquid to her
broad shouldered
salty swells
travel far
to meet her sweet
earth, rich waters
in between
rock jetties
stretched like arms
out into the sea
june of 1969
my brother
fresh from war
has built a troller
from mahogany, oak and fir
and I his puller
age 13
both of us
innocent and untried
that first day of the season
heads held high
breathing deep
of chill ocean air
and fresh paint
as we slipped our lines
heading west
dock talk
had told us three big boys
had crossed the bar
at slack
how lucky are we?
but the robot woman’s voice
on the weather channel
told us differently
16 foot swell at 9 second intervals
Is that bad? I remember thinking.
our smooth run down river
turning into a freight train
line up
of mountainous swells
one stacked on top of the other
25 five feet from trough to crest
taller than our poles
engine throttled back
we climb up and up
breaking through
into thin air
slamming down the back side
gear breaking free on the deck
and another
green water over the bow
this time
out into the frenzy of the bar
no worse timing than this
river in full flood
and big storm
over the horizon
sending its rhythmic
messengers out ahead
my brothers voice rises
over the scream of the wind
“I’m turnin’ back next chance I get”
two story swells
growing to three stories
imprisoned in a rhythmic battering
me on the back deck
thigh deep
in crisp foaming sea water
the queen
has dressed in white today
to greet us
the south jetty
boiling mad
rocket bursts of spray
rising into the air
massive ivory surf on her flanks
like watching a train wreck
fascinating….deadly
2 hours in
shivering uncontrollably
half from fear
half from 52 degree water
underneath us
the river
fanning out
into open sea
as we glimpse the red light ship
there’s a space
in which to power turn
turn back to earth
re-turn to all that is solid
and fragrant
and known
passing over the still
white human bones
buried deep under sand
of those subjects
that chose
not to leave
their mad queen
alone and unattended
there are
dive bars,
gold bars
high bars
and low bars
but there’s only one
Columbia River bar.
thank god.
the turbulence
of two creeks
converging
has carved this depression in rock
as deep as a man stands
filled with water
stripped from clouds
pushed hard against
the sides of coastal mountains
homewaters
on the far bank
a Big Leaf Maple has fallen
arcing into this pool
its roots popping and snapping
out of the earth
as it descended
leaves parting from branches
like feathers
in the light air
I stand thigh deep in
38 degree water
the weak sunlight of October
reflecting silver
on the surface of the water
hiding what lies below
a stab of cold
pierces my wet suit
as I wade deeper
take a sharp
breath
and go under
gravity suspended
heart beating loudly
face pained by cold
muted sound of rapids
clicks of rocks shifting in their beds
light streaming to the bottom
homewaters
Muscles work against the current
I enter the rib cage
of fallen branches
stripped of their bark
hanging by one hand
at the deepest point
like a kite stretched out sideways
in the upper reaches of the tree
Then suddenly
they are everywhere
heavy black forms
darting in and out of the shadows
light rippling across their backs
they have come
40 miles from the sea
to this pool
past
fishermen,
tangled log jams
and the ever present surge of current
these are nomad kings and queens
of the Pacific
the salmon people
she has come back
come full circle
giving up her salty runs
to return
return to the gravel-lined shallows
where her mother and father
lay with their bellies
against these same stones
full of the seed
that would give her life
as they died
homewaters
here
swimming underneath me
sharing this communion of water
she in their majority
me in my minority
the clarity
of her determination
and beauty
resonating deep inside me
bringing words silently
to my tongue
….sacred
….humbling
these are the gift bearers
giving completely
of their flesh
and eggs
and sperm
reminding us of
long buried memories
of belonging
of returning
of something greater
and older
and deeper
in its rhythm
homewaters
Dedicated to my friend Conrad Gowell….March 2015
________________________
i am salmon
i am salmon
my body the
the elegant result
of millions of years of trial and error
adapting to mountain ranges
that have come and gone
rivers once flowing
now dry
rocks made and unmade
and me
still here
i am salmon
and my body is a simple miracle
red of gill
iridescent of scale
muscled for bursts and glides
small white ear bone in my head bearing witness to it all
annular rings written in calcium and mineral molecules
the origins of my mother and father
what river birthed me
what i ate
and when
and where
and this
only one page in the book that
i am
and you two legged ones
you of chain saws and damns
and sharpened hooks and strong nets
you who we call
the salmon eaters
who amongst you could survive
being dropped from your mother’s belly
onto clean black rock
into cold rush of oxygen rich waters
emerging
with only an egg sack at your belly
for a jumpstart
and nothing more
tumbling down tributaries
into estuaries
where the tang of salt burns your gills
spit out the mouth of the river
into the great liquid canyons of the continental shelf
with its legions of oil rich eulachon sand lance anchovy and herring
who amongst you
could return from a great arc to the north
looping back
four years later
in a navigational miracle
to the very river
of your birth
feeling your flesh pulled from your bones
no food in your belly
single-minded purpose
of passing the genetic baton
in the perfect
tiny red spheres
who amongst you?
and in the midst of all this
this mighty race run
we give you humans our all
gifting you with our bodies
from time immemorial
and all we ask in return
is that when you take our brilliant flesh
into your bodies
raising us to your lips
that you pause
and remember
the mythic arc of our lives
from the rivers stone cradle
into the deep sea and back
remember
that you are consuming this optimism
and persistence and selflessness
of ours
we salmon becoming human
and all we ask in return is to
honor our gift
by making the work you do in the world
extraordinary
burning us as rich bright fuel
so that the work you do in the world
is extraordinary.
i am salmon
________________________
Playing rough
so well behaved
during an unbroken
stream of blue days
that I clean forgot
you could play so rough
on the last
hot day of October
your light was
ready to spill over the edge
into darkness
the thin gray horizon
hiding winter
just
out of sight
then you came in swinging
6 straight days
of house rocking punches
10 inches of
life giving liquid
falling in the span
of one mornings cup of coffee to the next
the river gorged
and pushed out of its banks
by the advancing tide
sometimes
you just don’t know
when to quit
as I walk
more evidence
of your mood
lies strewn across the road
in piles
of living matter
having delivered
on their promise
that took
all of the days of spring and summer
to keep
as i sit
writing this
the thud
of the surf
calls me to walk
outside
drawn
by the
pull of
you and your
knee high foam
and broken trees
and the rearing
flagrant
creaming
ladder of waves
that you make from
six thousand miles of sea
and the thin membrane of land
under my feet
and in all of this
you say
it is easy to walk
in the high meadows of summer
when the light is low in the West
and the world holds still
but to really
know me
you say
i want you here
in THIS
humbled by cold
salt rimmed eyes
staring into the west
at me
dressed in grey
coming at you
playing
rough
On the 8thday of un broken rain when it finally stopped.
Cascade Head in November of 2006
________________________
the mad queen
there are
dive bars,
gold bars,
high bars
and low bars
but there’s only one
Columbia River bar.
thank god.
we are all her subjects
we who set out
upon the waters
to meet this mad queen
and she waits for us
at times calm and patient
at others
gathered in her spring glory
brown and swollen
from a thousand upstream tributaries
tithing liquid to her
broad shouldered
salty swells
travel far
to meet her sweet
earth, rich waters
in between
rock jetties
stretched like arms
out into the sea
june of 1969
my brother
fresh from war
has built a troller
from mahogany, oak and fir
and I his puller
age 13
both of us
innocent and untried
that first day of the season
heads held high
breathing deep
of chill ocean air
and fresh paint
as we slipped our lines
heading west
dock talk
had told us three big boys
had crossed the bar
at slack
how lucky are we?
but the robot woman’s voice
on the weather channel
told us differently
16 foot swell at 9 second intervals
Is that bad? I remember thinking.
our smooth run down river
turning into a freight train
line up
of mountainous swells
one stacked on top of the other
25 five feet from trough to crest
taller than our poles
engine throttled back
we climb up and up
breaking through
into thin air
slamming down the back side
gear breaking free on the deck
and another
green water over the bow
this time
out into the frenzy of the bar
no worse timing than this
river in full flood
and big storm
over the horizon
sending its rhythmic
messengers out ahead
my brothers voice rises
over the scream of the wind
“I’m turnin’ back next chance I get”
two story swells
growing to three stories
imprisoned in a rhythmic battering
me on the back deck
thigh deep
in crisp foaming sea water
the queen
has dressed in white today
to greet us
the south jetty
boiling mad
rocket bursts of spray
rising into the air
massive ivory surf on her flanks
like watching a train wreck
fascinating….deadly
2 hours in
shivering uncontrollably
half from fear
half from 52 degree water
underneath us
the river
fanning out
into open sea
as we glimpse the red light ship
there’s a space
in which to power turn
turn back to earth
re-turn to all that is solid
and fragrant
and known
passing over the still
white human bones
buried deep under sand
of those subjects
that chose
not to leave
their mad queen
alone and unattended
there are
dive bars,
gold bars
high bars
and low bars
but there’s only one
Columbia River bar.
thank god.