We walk onto the dock bordering the Willamette River, which is already inhabited by two distinct groups of people fishing. The first group, made up of three young adults in their twenties, is sitting in fold up camping chairs and lighting a blunt, causing the sour fishy smell to take on a kind of sweetness. The second group of people is older, perhaps by thirty years, and is made up of a short woman with a child’s fishing pole, who is standing, and Wes Sieckmann, who is sitting on an upside down paint bucket closely watching the movement of his large bumblebee colored rod, which is baited with bits of squid.
We speak for a while with Wes, who is covered in fading tattoos, though he cannot remember the origin of them all. The most visible is a forearm-long depiction of a mermaid, which incorporates parts of a snake, a devil, and an angel. He says this collage of animals being formed into one being is symbolic of the many attitudes within women, though he quickly adds that men are no different.
A native Portlander, Wes spends his days fishing, arriving before dawn and leaving at sunset. He has been a fisherman since his days as a child, and his largest catch was a seven-footer. Before the month is over, he proclaims, he will catch a salmon, something he has never done. This brings to mind an image of Hemingway’s old man. We see the passion in his squinted eye and hear the determination in his gruff voice.
Wes is a simple man, donning clothes that he has found around the city, but he makes the distinction that he is not homeless. For him, his resourcefulness is a source of pride, as he’s more than happy to recount the number of pairs of size 10 shoes that he has found near the waterfront. He takes what he needs directly from his environment, and does not worry about the rest. Fishing is what he cares about. Fishing is what he knows.
Our conversation with Wes is abruptly stalled as the woman diverts our attention to the group of young fishermen, who have a large catch on their line. As the largest of the three emerges from his lawn chair to control the rod and reel, the fish drags him to where we are crouched next to Wes. He ducks under Wes’s line to a more available spot on the dock, gains some traction and really begins to work.
After a short struggle, a 45-inch white sturgeon is hoisted onto the dock’s edge. Obviously exhausted, it no longer moves, save for a few futile gasps. Wes remains close by, quietly hoping that the fish is not larger than the one he caught two days ago. Then he would have to turn over his bragging rights, a currency among fishermen. When it turns out to be bigger the young fisherman delights in being able to let him know. Wes sits back down on his paint bucket and we continue our conversation.
“So what other questions you got for me?” he asks, appearing to distract himself from the achievement of the other fisherman on the dock. When we start to pry into his personal life, we make little progress. Although he wears a ring on his left hand, he is not married, and he makes no mention of other family. He then sees some movement from his pole and encourages us to stay back, but there is nothing on the line. So after passing some more small talk back and forth we decide to leave him alone.
As we part he shows us two handshakes: the “biker shake,” though he says he’s no biker, and the “punk rocker shake.” Then he tells us four jokes; two that he heard from Ellen DeGeneres, and the other two he authored himself. We leave smiling, as he is too. The simplest joys are the most contagious. We’ll never forget what to call a bear with no teeth: a gummy bear, of course.