FISH TALES CONTEST.... THE YUKON GANG “We’ve come so far North we got‘a be gettin’ close to the Yukon,” Mario proclaimed. And with those words, the storied Yukon Gang was born. The five-boat flotilla had just rounded Point Arena for their first time. Superproductive Gulf of the Farallons salmon trollers, the Yukon Gang became famous in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. Rich the “Spawner” Burtleson ran with them for 10 years, and when he recently described the Yukon Gang to me, several times Spawner used the adjective unconscious. “Most consistent salmon fishermen the Bay Area’s ever known,” he articulated. “Competitive as red roosters, with unconscious luck. Every, single, time they’d drop right in on top of ‘em. . .they were simply unconscious,” Spawner tenderly revered. Now, close to four decades later, his voice still cracks with awe. The original Yukon Gang consisted of five boats: Barbara Ann; Joey Boy; Rose; Virginia; and Norma D. To this day these names, that undoubtedly belonged to someone special and dear to those salmon highliners, run ice down my spine with the weight of their history. The gang, to a young salmon fisherman, were like rockstars. They were bait-punchin’ down-on-your-knees-when-you-see-them-comin’ superfantastic icons. Mario Ballisteri had the Barbara Ann (A.K.A. Bubbly Ann), his brother Scheff had the Joey Boy, and Mario was the President and group leader. The famous Chives that many remember was a Crivello, and the Rose, Virginia and Norma D were owned by the three Crivello brothers. All of them had immaculate, mirror-image, 28-foot Montereys. The Ballisteris painted their rails dolphin blue, and the Crivellos trimmed their boats with pork-and-beans orange. Richie joined the gang in 1958. Of the Yukons he exclaimed, “They were the best salmon fishermen ever!” A strong tribute from a troller as prolific as Spawner. Richie had the San Giuseppe, then the Barbara, and was well known on the salmon grounds in the 50s and 60s. The Yukon Gang fished in a tight, Blue Angel-like formation, perhaps so no one else could get on their exact tack. Getting the fish to follow your boat, the experts say, is a most critical goal when salmon fishing. You keep working your gear in such a way so you look like an under-attack shoal of bait: Changing speeds; plucking fish that are tired so you don’t have spinners; leaving a few good ones on that are well-hooked to soak—they swim along and like living flashers attract others. Make no mistake about it; the Yukon Boys were so good, so in tune with one another, that they were a delectable bait ball times five. Like fighter pilots, each dropping back, pulling ahead, working the school—herding it like Australian sheep dogs. Marie De Santis, on the Angelina D, ran with them and in her book Neptune’s Apprentice she attributes the Gang’s uncanny ability to work so well together to one thing: The fact they stacked their gear early everyday and went in to barbecue. Every evening they shared close camaraderie over an “evening bite” at their Point Reyes cookhouse, the Shak-a-la. Rich said the Yukons taught him the way of the fish, and Bubbly Ann Mario often philosophized: “If you will learn the ‘way of the fish,’ you will master and savvy all things in life.” Carlo Crivello (the Virginia) would conservatively counsel Spawner: “All those fish and crab out there are like money in the bank, you only want to catch a few and leave plenty for seed; leave them to grow interest by getting bigger,” Carlo would say, and Rich explained to me the Yukons would never flood the market and thus bring the price down. “Now you’re catching and destroying your seed, and giving it away at half-price. . .how retarded is that!” Rich asserted. And I think the new generation would be wise to take careful heed of these sentiments from the past. My first encounter with the Yukon Gang was during a trip into Point Reyes. It was 1972, and I worked for Joe on the Italia, a 40-foot trimmed-red Monterey. We were coming up on the outside buoy in 12 fathoms, when Joe spotted a congregation of cormorants and pelicans working. We were going to anchor, having just come out of Bodega ready for a trip, and he suggested we drop a few lines on the clutch of birds. I was green with inexperience, but excited at the prospect. We plunked in the bow lines, and they immediately began pumping exuberantly. It was a quick flurry, only two short tacks, but we nonetheless boated a swift 20-or-so splitters. When the anchovies plunged, and the salmon followed, we stacked our gear and resumed the run back up and inside toward the crook in the panoramic anchorage. The bight at Drakes bay is a long country mile to the far inside: Past the majestic blood-red cliffs; beneath the towering Chimney Rock; phantasmagorical in the penumbra on the south side of the elongated promontory of the famous cape. The promontory’s long-necked and soaring bluff is as ominous as it is colossal. The tall lighthouse, high on its tip, is a tiny toy, insignificant looking in the light of day in contrast to the towering point. Sitting at such an elevation (it can hardly be seen) the beacon is an erect and admonitory finger pointing at the sky. In the rocks at the cape’s base, sea lions bray like hounds as the boats rumble into the placid-green bay. Up inside the bight, the water flattens dramatically. The smell changes from the salty iodine of the sea to the fecund aroma of Mendoza’s cows in the pastures atop the cinnamon mesas. The air turns balmy, almost tropical some days. The Tides bought fish at Point Reyes back then—sent a truck down and paid cash for salmon daily, same as they did at Bodega. So, we decided to sell a handful of fish that night. Meanwhile, Joe wanted to pump the Yukon Gang for salmon information. I was thoroughly impressed that Joe knew them like that. They were all characters, regular looking Italians with unremarkable builds and clothes. I somehow expected they’d be tall and Herculean, maybe clad in sequined jeans and electric flannels, or perhaps in suits of light like those Spanish bullfighters. But, no, they were regular guys, maybe even on the short side. Normal clothes, dark hair and eyes, however personalities that bespoke of a rich history, tight friendship, and a deep love for their calling. Near the mouth of a creek is an old fish house they called the Shak-a-la, and after anchoring next to where the Yukon Boys had their armada of cloned Montereys moored withal in a neat formation, Italia Joe and I rowed the skiff in. We sold our fish, and Mario, a charmer, invited us to eat. They had a crackling fire in a rocky pit. The air was delicious and we ate squid sautéed in garlic oil, fried rock fish, and of course French bread and Burgundy wine while a thousand red-legged frogs chorused in the nearby rushes. I don’t remember everything about that night. I know they had a kitchen inside the Shak-a-la, but for some reason we were eating out in front. I recall Freckles on the Octopus, the original old man of the sea, came around, and the guys talked intermittently in Italian. I sat and listened, happy to be a part of the legend. Content that I was there at the place where four hundred years earlier Sir Francis Drake and his crew sat. It was the superior location to bivouac. The creek provided sweet water, the flat ground was handy to the prime bend in the anchorage, and I was there. There at the very spot that Drake called the gateway to New Albion. And when Joe and I rowed back out, a crimson full moon rose in the east giving the anchorage surreal illumination. I pondered New Albion after my recent reminisce with Rich Burtleson about the gang. He said the Yukon Boys didnt like to leave the point, but they did when necessary. They stayed between Half Moon Bay and Bodega most of the time, but occasionally went North into “Yukon Country.” And when they did, they liked to go up the Navarro River, into the Port of Albion on the Albion River. Ive since learned that there is likely no connection between the Albion below Fort Bragg, and Drake’s “New Albion.” But, as I sat there that night with the rockstars of salmon fishing, them carrying on in their bubbling Italian-English, I could feel the fever these men had for their business. They carefully avoided talking about fishing over dinner, but it was the underlying current by which their river flowed. Bursting with enthusiasm, they obviously could hardly wait to get out in the morning to set their gear. My salmon fishing flame intensified that night, and with every sunup since it continues to glow the same carmine-orange. Five men. Two sets of brothers. Identical boats fishing in formation in order to work the school in an unparalleled and grand fashion. The Yukon Gang, celebrity legends. To a young salmon deckhand like I was: Sea Dog gunslingers as infamous as Jesse and the James Gang.
Posted on: Thu, 16 Oct 2014 06:56:07 +0000
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