Clint Maxwell works out of an old creosote-smeared boathouse in East Beaver Bay on the North Shore of Lake Superior. His boat is a seatless iron tub, twenty feet long, like a dumpster with a prow and an outboard. The other day, he was casting off to check his nets. It was a bitterly cold, windless morning. “Just because I’m a commercial fisherman doesn’t mean I don’t get seasick,” he said, standing in galoshes and thick rubber bib overalls, his salt-and-pepper hair a fringe around the bottom of his stocking cap.
There are not many commercial fishermen in Minnesota. For many years, the state has had a strong, official preference for sport fishing, a natural result of several factors. First, there is our self-image as a state full of lakes and lake cabins. Second is the tourism that results from this self-image. Third, there is way too much mercury in most of our fish for it to be sold in quantity and in good conscience to the public. The idea seems to be that you may go ahead and poison yourself, but no one ought to profit commercially from it. Still, there are a few old salts working the largest lakes, especially Lake Superior. (Overfishing and the sea lamprey also nearly killed the commercial fishery by the 1960s.)
After an hour, Maxwell came back with two bins of gasping herring. Each fish weighed around two pounds. It took him thirty minutes to scale and filet the lot, about sixty pounds. This he divided into two piles, one with the skin on, the other without. He is a taciturn but companionable man, the type who finds religion and family life after years of robust living. “These aren’t really herring,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “That’s what the Norwegians called them when they came and settled here, because they look a lot like ocean herring. Actually, they’re whitefish.” Gulls began to gather and cackle at the mouth of the boathouse.
Whitefish have made a comeback since the state began to restrict the activities of mining companies, some of which had been dumping tailings directly into Lake Superior. It is a large-eyed fish with a handsome gun-metal color and a snow-white belly. A seven-year-old herring is the size of a nice walleye; a person would be proud to catch one on a hook and line.
Maxwell grew up on the North Shore, and eventually went to the big leagues of commercial fishing—he moved up to Alaska for the salmon. It was a good living in the mid-nineties, before commercial fish farming. Then, almost overnight, fresh salmon went from a dollar a pound to forty cents a pound. Fishermen were squeezed out by fish farmers. Maxwell took his earnings, invested in Treasury notes, and promptly lost everything. “I went up against the Bank of Japan, and I lost. I still haven’t recovered from that,” he said. He moved back home and took up the nets and the filet knife again. Today, he just wishes to make ends meet, however modestly. “Take a look around this place,” he said, pointing into the boathouse, which contained a couple of pairs of galoshes, a gas tank, an old winch, lots of rope ends, and, incongruously, some worn-out dress shoes. “There ain’t a lot of money in the commercial fishery.”
He razored into a whitefish behind its gills, made a quick, popping turn of the knife, and then sliced down the length of the spine. “I haven’t eaten them myself in a while, because I have to fill my customers’ orders first.” It’s a delicate balance, especially in the early season before summer tourism. The cancellation of a small order—say, eleven dollars’ worth—not only puts Maxwell into money trouble, but it threatens to lead to wasted fish, an idea he cannot abide. “These fish are precious,” he said. By July, demand will be very high.
Maxwell sells to just a few businesses—the Lemon Wolf, which is a small cafe in Beaver Bay, and Cove Point Lodge, a delightful new resort down toward Split Rock. The rest of his fish go to home customers. “Old folks especially,” he said, “because herring is really mild tasting and easy to digest.” That is not the only benefit. Maxwell claimed that a person can eat a normal meal, and then eat a couple of his herring, and lose weight. His visitor suggested that he could be the next Dr. Atkins, and make another million. Maxwell laughed modestly, and cut into another herring with a sharp crack of his knife.—Hans Eisenbeis
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