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    Sockeye Love
    Sockeye Love
    Sockeye Love
    Ebook77 pages58 minutes

    Sockeye Love

    By Sarah Black

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Wildlife photographer Grey Morisette is living a half-life, quietly mourning his lover, Saya Khin, who disappeared twelve years earlier into the infamous Insein Prison in Rangoon.

    Grey takes a picture of Sal Sanchez falling into an Alaska river with a sockeye salmon in his arms. Sal’s a law student, and his passion for the environment and love for the native tribes, his beautiful young face and eager hands, cannot be ignored. But there isn’t room in Grey’s heart for two lovers. How can he bear to let Saya Khin go, after loving him so long, and reach out for the love Sal is offering him?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDreamspinner Press
    Release dateMay 25, 2011
    ISBN9781615819416
    Sockeye Love
    Author

    Sarah Black

    SARAH BLACK is a baker and baking instructor with 25 years of professional baking experience in New York City, having worked at such legendary bakeries as Tom Cat Bakery and Amy’s Bread and consulted with companies such as Whole Foods Market and Pepperidge Farm. Her future plans include teaching bread classes at The Seasoned Farmhouse and opening a recreational bread and baking school called Flowers and Bread in the spring of 2016, both in Clintonville, Ohio.

    Read more from Sarah Black

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      Book preview

      Sockeye Love - Sarah Black

      Chapter One

      September

      THE soft light of dawn filled the tent, and Grey rolled over, looked into the face of the man next to him. Strong jaw covered in dark whiskers, a little dent in his chin, soft young mouth, lashes against his cheek. Grey smiled when he opened sleepy eyes. Hey. You want some coffee?

      A quick shake of the head. Thanks, I’ve got to go. We’re supposed to go into the village this morning, talk to the elders. He hesitated, and his face looked suddenly shy. Thanks for last night.

      Yeah, kid, it was great.

      Ben. My name is Ben.

      Grey reached up, traced across the boy’s forehead, over his nose and down across his soft mouth. You’ve got pretty brown eyes, Ben.

      That got him a quick smile, and he watched Ben scramble up, tug on his jeans and sweatshirt. He turned around before he ducked out of the door. Thanks, Grey. You’re a legend, man.

      Grey gave him a little salute, watched his young butt when he bent over and wiggled out of the low door to the tent.

      Grey Morisette was a legend with a camera, not in a sleeping bag. He lay back for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the tent, the smell of a sweaty clean boy, the pleasant stretch in his thighs from the climb yesterday. Ben split pretty fast, he thought. Maybe because you couldn’t remember his name, dickhead.

      He slipped his sheepskin boots on over his jeans, climbed out of the tent. There was a smoky drift from wood campfires on the cold air, the smell of coffeepots starting to bubble. He walked upriver to his favorite big spruce tree, took a leak, then went back to the tent and pulled out his camera. He hated not having a camera in his hand. He spent his life afraid the one perfect shot was going to happen right in front of him and he wouldn’t have a camera ready to catch it.

      The campsite was nestled among a stand of Sitka spruce near the headwaters of Bristol Bay, where the great rivers of Alaska came together and spilled out into the Bering Sea. They’d gathered to document the salmon run—maybe the last wild salmon in these waters, or any waters anywhere.

      If Pebble built the open-pit mine they wanted, this land would be gone, poisoned beyond repair, the huge, open mine an ulcer that would never heal. The sulfuric acid they would use to leach the gold from the rock would spread into the groundwater like a cancer. So a group of activists, writers, and photographers had gathered here for the last week of summer to watch the salmon run. Grey knew that the young environmentalists had not given up. They talked in excited voices, eager as young pronghorns in spring, ready to save the world. They were going to start with Bristol Bay, and they didn’t have any doubt they would win.

      Grey didn’t have any illusions about who was going to win this battle. He’d seen too many fights where enthusiasm, youth, and the unquantifiable value of nature were pitted against money. He just wanted to get it all down before it was gone, show the world what they had lost.

      You’re sounding pretty cynical, old man. Maybe cynical, maybe realistic. The world was what it was.

      He pulled off the cap, checked the lens, and lifted the camera. The soft morning light, little smoky campfires, and bright yellow tents dotted the ground like downed balloons; strong, eager, passionate boys and girls in jeans and messy hair spoke about what to do, making plans to save this little part of Alaska. This photo would be for him, Grey thought, to remember this trip, and all the trips like it.

      Back at his campsite, he stowed the camera in its bag and put some sticks of spruce inside the little rock ring he’d made for his fire. He fed the fire with twigs and broken branches until it was bright and warm; then he filled up his coffeepot—an old percolator—with water and a couple of scoops of coffee. Once the water started to boil, the grounds would sink to the bottom. Grey would never argue the point with someone who was passionate about coffee, but he was convinced that campfire coffee, boiled in an old aluminum pot over a wood fire inside a ring of rocks, was the very best coffee in the world.

      When the coffee was done, he set a pan of water on the fire grate so he could wash up, then took his camera, a monopod he could use as a walking stick, and the big insulated coffee cup and walked up the trail toward Dumpling Mountain. There was a spot he’d seen

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