Fisherpoets Gathering

Artwork by Ray Troll.

It’s interesting how a mind will fill in the blanks or gaps of what we don’t know. I think this is especially true when it comes to geography; when what we know are literal dots on a map and what we don’t know is what’s in between. Such was the case when I first visited the Pacific Northwest, visiting Portland and Seattle while cruising up I-5. At the time, I had a general understanding that there was more, both north and west of those cities, but to what degree, I had no idea. Turns out, there’s a lot. The fact that there’s an hour-and-a-half long drive from Portland to be done just to get to the coast puts this into perspective.

Taking that northwest drive from Portland to the coast, then sauntering north on the 101 until it leaves the state means that the mouth of the mighty Columbia River and the town of Astoria have been reached - the very northwest of Oregon. I’d driven over the Columbia and passed through Astoria a couple times in years passed, driving from Washington to Seaside for fishing trips, but I hadn’t spent any time there until a year ago, when we went for the 2023 Fisherpoets Gathering.

To me, Astoria is a perfect blend of unique and familiar. It reminds me of many different places I’ve spent time in but also has its own feel and personality due, in large part, to the giant river that it sits alongside. It checks a lot of boxes for me and, while at certain points in my life I’ve tried to avoid tourist-ing around towns and cities and instead tried to insert myself into the more natural settings around those towns and cities, I am absolutely content to saunter the streets of Astoria, window shop, take pictures, get in the way of locals, and embrace the town.

Astoria is real. It has a real reason for being there, namely its location at the confluence of the largest river in North America with the largest ocean on the planet. It’s a place that requires intention to live in or even be in. There, an historic and vibrant commercial fishing culture mixes with an eclectic artistic community that’s sprinkled with folks who like to be away from it all. There are thrift stores, art galleries, breweries, dive bars, book stores, tattoo parlors, coffee shops, numerous performance venues, and even a magic store. And alongside all of it flows the massive Columbia, with Washington looming across to the north, and the Pacific Ocean spreading beyond the westward horizon.

Every year, over the last weekend in February, commercial fishers assemble in Astoria for the Fisherpoets Gathering. For two nights, across seven different venues, for four hours in each, the readers share their stories, poems, and songs to an audience filled with peers and strangers, eager for a first-hand glimpse into their lifestyle.

Their origins are up and down the west coast and there’s also usually one or two from the northeast who make the journey. They range in age accordingly, some performing for the first time, others approaching two decades at Fisherpoets. The camaraderie is palpable and even though there are no shortage of knocks, slams, disses, or digs, they are always, in part, in jest. And it’s likely that whoever the recipient, they already knew it was coming.

The themes at Fisherpoets aren’t hard to guess - fishing, salmon, the ocean, friends, family, love, loss - but the deliveries are as varied as the creatures of the sea, which, I suppose, these readers are, in a way. Just like Astoria, the Fisherpoets and their Fisherpoetry check a lot of boxes for me, and I come away from the weekend feeling inspired, enlightened, and humbled, not only from a commercial fishing and ocean-living standpoint but also from a creative writing and reading perspective as well.

There’s the fan-favorite who resides between the towns of Cape Disappointment and Dismal. There’s the couple who met in Naknek and are going on twenty years together. There’s the captain from Kasilof whose prose made me think of Guy Clark’s words and Mark Knopfler’s guitar. The singer-songwriter who I spoke to in the bathroom because he was wearing a Portland Sea Dogs hat, later sang about the ‘slime line.’ The crabber from Westport whose final poem, in tears, was an ode to those lost at sea. And, the tugboat captain in the Columbia who recounted the best one-line comeback of the weekend: “Yeah? Well, you look like you eat tilapia.”

Inevitably, we hear about faith. Faith in the fish, faith in the sea. Faith in the weather, in the machinery. Faith in fellow fishermen. And, faith in something else. As one Fisherpoet put it, “I’m not a true believer, but I’ve done some fishin’…”