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Coastal Life INSPIRATIONAL DAYS
Story by DAVID CAMPICHE
S
tories have it that Chief
Nahcotti (some recent ev-
idence suggests the native
was called Old Klickeas)
saw two whitemen in a
stolen canoe paddling
in the dense fog, lost for
sure and headed for the deadly Willapa Bar. The
good chief pounded out a communication on a hol-
low log. Here is safety and comfort, the message
seemed to convey. Espy and Clark followed the
drumming to shore, and soon after that spot became
Oysterville, a lovely pioneer village on Willapa
Bay. The year was 1854.
Nahcotti shared with the pair the native oysters,
a bivalve similar to today’s Kumamoto oysters
(mild brininess, sweet Àavor and honeydew ¿n-
ish). Those pioneers founded this small community
and for a while it Àourished. 3oor Nahcotti died of
either smallpo[, inÀuen]a or the measles. 6o did
most of the Chinook. 6o much for being generous.
Not so many years later, the indigenous oysters
were played out. Time passed before the introduc-
tion of the 3aci¿c oyster. That oyster, or shells cov-
ered with spat (larvae), arrived from Japan in force.
A new incarnation began. Locals call the oyster the
Willapa. I believe them to be one of the most deli-
cious oysters in the world. Much of that has to do
with the cleanest estuary in the country, if not the
planet. One eats what one sows.
Those early years of my youth — so far away
and not so far away — haunt and inspire me. I was
17, and that summer of 1965 I picked oysters for
Jack Wiegardt, a clever man with strong ideas and
a particular eccentricity who didn’t seem to like
this son of a local doctor. But I picked well for him.
My motivation was dollars. A hard summer’s work
back then might generate a couple of thousand dol-
lars. Those dollars paid all the tuition, room and
board at most private West Coast collages. I wanted
an education and worked hard for it. Oh, how those
economics have changed.
An oysterman picked the bivalves at low tide.
The day before — as the tide swirled about battered
hip-boots — we would secure long alder stakes
into the soft Willapa mud, marking out the location
of our scow or barge for the next day’s picking. The
craft would be maneuvered into position during the
Àood tide. As the waters retreated, we would ven-
ture out on foot from the scow, ¿lling the bushel
basket with live oysters and the mud that clung to
them.
4 | February 18, 2016 | coastweekend.com
ON THE BAY
Columnist David Campiche recalls his youthful days on Willapa Bay picking oysters
Photo by Dwight Caswell
David Campiche’s memories of picking oysters on Willapa Bay in the 1960s glaze over the arduous labor of oystering and rally around the jewel-faceted splendor of the summer sunrises.
During the next several hours, a hearty indi-
vidual might make up to 200 trips back and forth
in unctuous mud to the Àat-topped scow, leaving
about 50 or 60 pounds of the succulent oysters on
the top of the wooden vessel with each passing. The
mud was up to a foot deep, and with each step, one
worked further and further away from the scow.
Muscles protested, but what the heck. With thighs
like fence posts, an average young oysterman run-
ning a football that next fall could carry three tack-
lers into the end ]one.
The days on the bay were inspirational. Then as
now, the Willapa simmered between mornings of
dense heron-gray to sun bla]es with colors rich in
reds, golds and quicksilvers. One can’t really pick
apart the subtleties of so much color or hue, but the
writer’s mission is to valiantly try.
As I approach a plateau of the 1960s, those
mornings of exploration on lovely Willapa Bay
seem to neglect the arduous labor of oystering and
rally around the jewel-faceted splendor of these
summer sunrises, a rare guest, I suppose, superim-
posed on annual rainfall that deposited nearly 100
inches of wet Hail Marys that spelled out North-
west weather over the last century.
Traveling in small boats, we crisscrossed that shal-
low water. The bay teemed in waterfowl. Along the
edges, particularly along Long Island, every nature of
four-legged mammal seemed to wander into view.
The ¿rst days of this new employment became
an initiation period. Handed a bushel basket, I was
told to capture a large crafty raccoon that was feed-
ing on the mudÀat. I chased that dang critter across
foot-sei]ing mud for what seemed hours. The rac-
coon retreated only steps ahead of mine, until, that
point of time when he or she seemed undeniably
trapped. Then my furry friend hissed, and, well-
ing up in defensive mode, sprinted away, leaving
me exhausted and frustrated. The older oystermen
cackled and guffawed.
I’ve eaten the delicacies ever since (oysters, not
raccoon): fried, sautéed, baked; Rockefeller, Ital-
ian, poached, and, of course, au naturel. And many
other variations, all pleasant in their savory evoca-
tion. Often I would smuggle an oyster knife onto
the oyster grounds, and, when hungry, open a few,
clean them in the briny water of the Willapa, and
send them unceremoniously on a short journey into
the ol’ tummy-tum. This made me happy then, and
happier today.
Like the taste of that ¿ne oyster repast, the
beauty of that bay lingers. Unlike so many disap-
pointments we experience today as we trudge back
to the precious landscapes of our past, the Willapa
remains virtually intact. Forgoing the impacts of
warming waters and acidi¿cation, the treasure of
this bay may forever foster delight and inspiration.
We work at that. Certainly the oystermen do, and
the environmentalists (though both sides pick on
each other like birds of prey) and, please, you and
me, too. Willapa Bay is our future, and the future is
our deliverance.
And I covet those memories. And I pray for a
kind tomorrow, one with plates of pan-fried oys-
ters, gentle laughter, and the promise of more —
more of those succulent and salty bivalves.