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demand. In the last three decades, the harvest of Alaska salmon more than doubled, to over 200 million animals annually.
    But even with demand growing yearly, managers reserve the right to act conservatively when they think things are going in the wrong direction. This was why the people on Emmonak’s main street, the people who fish the Yukon, had nothing to do. Salmon enter the Yukon Delta in bursts, and each burst represents a slightly different genetic subpopulation. After years of watching salmon runs implode, fisheries managers have learned that maintaining diversity within a given population is critical. Each burst may be headed for a slightly different bit of the Yukon’s nearly two-thousand-mile-long water-shed, and Fish and Game makes the argument that the more these sub-subpopulations survive and thrive, the richer the overall salmon genome is and the more adaptable and elastic the population will remain in the event of a crisis.
    At the same time, Fish and Game has to make allowances for another population living on the river: Yupik Eskimos. Fisheries managers will permit “subsistence openings” for a limited number of hours, during which time the Yupik can catch salmon for their personal consumption. These fish have to be readily identifiable as subsistence catch and not for sale (hence all those yellow signs talking about the clipping of tail lobes). Only once the number of salmon in the river exceeds both the escapement and subsistence goals does Fish and Game allow a “commercial opening.” And when a commercial opening takes place, the Yupik can sell what they’ve caught to Kwik’pak Fisheries.
    On the Yukon a commercial salmon opening occurs in a relatively civilized fashion. There are only two fishing companies working the area, and the tribal unity of the people makes it basically a collaborative effort. In the more populous salmon regions to the south, where lower-forty-eighters often run the show, the moment Fish and Game declares an opening a dangerous game of waterborne, motorized rugby begins. Fish and Game draws a line of passage for salmon with floating buoys in the river, beyond which boats are not allowed to fish. Dozens of boats crowd the lines, bumping up against one another. Some boats are jet-powered, with no descending propeller, and can skip over other fishers’ nets. As the day progresses, Fish and Game gradually reduces the fishing area. There is a crush as the managers draw in the line . If you cross that line, you can receive an initial fifteen-hundred-dollar fine. If you do it multiple times, you get points on your fishing license, a bit like drunk driving. If it goes on too many times, they take your license and your boat.
    But even though this kind of wild competition does not generally occur, the shifting regulations still make things tense. When I finished my tour of Emmonak and returned to the Kwik’pak offices, Jac Gadwill shushed me with a finger while he listened nervously to the announcement over the radio. A woman with a flat midwestern accent droned out the bad news:
    “At this time Fish and Game will not be opening the commercial king salmon fishery. There will be a subsistence opening only in the Y-1 and Y-2 section of the river from twelve to six P.M.”
    Jac slumped in his chair. He pulled a long drag off a cigarette and exhaled with a smoky cough.
    “No milk and cookies for Fish and Game.”
    He took off his baseball cap and ran his hands though his unwashed, slightly-too-long, sandy-gray hair. He glanced over to the wall where a chart favorably compared the Yukon king salmon’s fat content to that of other Alaskan salmon. Finally he pushed a button on the intercom and called out to his secretary.
    “Hi, Jac,” she said.
    “Yeah, hi,” Jac replied. “Can you see if Ray and Francine are around? I want to get Paul here out on the river.”
    Jac loaned me a set of orange rubber overalls and a thick, very comfortable pair of wool socks and wished me good