The arrival of the kiacks meant that spring had come—and it was time to get to work
When I was in my 20s, I invited a friend from the West Coast for a spring visit to my home in Argyle, NS. I told her the only hitch was that I would be “kiacking” most evenings, but she’d be welcome to join me. She was surprised (but apparently not disappointed) to discover that my type of kiacking was not in an open boat, but rather sitting alongside a brook with a long-handled dip net, scooping a shiny herring-like fish into a catch box.
The annual arrival of kiacks (gaspereau, blueback herring, river herring, alewives—whatever you call them) means spring has come to the river communities of the Maritimes. This streamlined little 30-centimetre, silver hued fish returns every April and May, and against all odds, fights its way upstream to spawn. To those who catch this fish for lobster bait and sometimes food, it signifies the annual return of seasonal outdoor life. Buds appear on the trees, everyone strains for the first sound of peepers, old grass and undergrowth is burned in the fields and pastures, and nets are repaired and readied for the season.
Important rural industry
Gaspereau and American shad (which both run in late spring) are similar in appearance and are anadromous—meaning they migrate from their saltwater habitat to spawn in fresh water—and are scooped and netted during this migration; the largest shad are also keenly sought after by anglers.
These are only two examples of species that show up seasonally. Capelin generally arrive on Newfoundland and Labrador’s shores in June (although runs may be as late as July) and roll onto the beach to spawn, often at night. Traditionally, folks living close to the beaches would pass on news of the arrival of the run by word of mouth, and people would start arriving with lights that they shone on the water to see the fish and buckets and dip nets (and sometimes pots and pans and kettles) to scoop them up. They would then bring their catch home to clean and cook or freeze it. Many would pickle and dry the fish over several days. The capelin run was generally a great community event.
These fish once served as an important spring industry to rural villages—but their bony makeup and the increased availability of seafood options has led to a decrease in consumer interest. Demand for the roe of American shad is increasing, however; there is Japanese interest in Newfoundland’s capelin industry.
Kiacks for lobster bait
Long before the time of massive bait freezers, the lobster industry of Southwest Nova Scotia relied on the silver-scaled, sharp-bellied little kiack (gaspereau) as bait in its spring lobster fishery. They were sold by the piece, and thus painstakingly counted into bags yielding 100 per bag, or weighed and sold by the pound later in the season.
We spent nights by the fire in down-filled jackets, and sunny afternoons with a cold beer or two, scooping, counting, bagging and tractor-carting our fish to waiting buyers.
Selling directly to the fishermen often meant middle-of-the-night deliveries; this became my responsibility in my high school and university years.
Folks who knew me would take great delight in the awkward exchange that often occurred when I would reverse onto the wharf, jump into the back of the truck and start unloading 30 bags of kiacks to a new buyer. Although these fishermen were surrounded by women who worked hard in the plants, the sight of a young female throwing bags of fish around on a wharf was a novel sight for them.
A market for smoked kiacks
For my family, kiack season was a time of renewal as my grandfather and father, and in more recent years my uncle, told stories of days spent sitting by our scooping stand that was nestled on a branch of the Argyle River.
While selling kiacks for lobster bait was, and still is, the mainstay of the fishery, smoked kiacks also provided food self-sufficiency for some families, and annual incomes for others. In the spring, curls of smoke could be seen in nearly every backyard throughout our village of Argyle Head, NS.
My father, Ralph Crowell, with his amazing entrepreneurial spirit, took advantage of the demand for smoked kiacks and developed local markets throughout the South Shore region of Nova Scotia, and sometimes farther away. In fact, many visiting relatives would come to our door asking for a dozen or two smoked kiacks to take back with them, joking about how much wrapping would be required to mask the distinct scent from less appreciative fellow travellers.
Whether they had been caught by us or purchased from another fisher, all the kiacks were rinsed with cold water before being placed in large tubs in the salt sheds. Each tub held 500 fish; in later years, bins holding 1,000 replaced the smaller tubs. The brine was prepared in advance, and required much stirring to dissolve the coarse Windsor salt in the very cold well water. The fish were packed into this brine mixture, and each day more salt was added; they were then gently stirred to assure consistency.
To ensure that the fish were ready to be strung, 10 to a stick, we would insert a thumb under the gill cover and check the colour. If the gill was light pink to white, it was time—usually on the third day.
Working in the salt shed
When I was young, getting days off from school was not to play hooky for phantom medical appointments, but to work “in the kiacks.”
Once Dad saw how adept I was at stringing the fish (my thumbs bend in odd directions to this day), I worked in the salt shed. On early spring mornings the brine was bitterly cold, and wearing gloves was impossible while stringing the slippery little fish. You had to place your thumb under the gill, then slide the stick through and out the mouth, making sure you grabbed the kiack by the back and not the razor sharp belly. (Brine in cuts often led to odd dances in the salt shed.) There was a percussionist rhythm to stringing the fish; each of us tried to outpace the other, each with individual style and fluidity.
After all the fish were hung outside to air-dry, we would gather in my mother’s kitchen for her famous fish chowder and homemade biscuits; we held hot cups of tea to sooth our sore and frozen hands. On days when we processed 6,000 to 10,000 fish, the kitchen would be overflowing with the daily workers my parents hired to help. My father was the local school bus driver, so at the end of his afternoon run, the school bus door would open and out would pour a collection of neighbourhood kids to help carry the now-dried sticks of kiacks to the smokehouse.
Standing atop the smokehouse on slender lengths of wood while bending and stretching to grasp the sticks of fish would challenge any gymnast’s ability. My father insisted that, once a stick of 10 fish was hung, no fish could be touching the other—even on the day we did 16,000 in the rain! This ensured an evenly smoked product.
A true art
Of course, Dad was a master at smoking these little pot-bellied fish. His precision and insistence on quality elevated the work to a true art form.
Anyone who has attempted to smoke fish or meat knows that it takes a certain selection of wood to create the desired colour and taste—depending upon whether you want the hot smoke used for mackerel or eel, a cold smoke for the delicate salmon or a hard smoke for kiacks and herring. Hot and cold smokes take hours. A good hard smoke takes weeks, and while all the steps are important, the first week is the most intense.
A fire would be lit on the cement floors directly below the strings of fish. Once glowing embers were achieved, a mixture of sawdust was placed on top, creating a dense smoke.
Fires were tended, morning and evening, over a period of three weeks. My father had a few tricks of the trade that produced a glossy molasses-coloured shine—tricks I later used in my own Crowell Smokery business. Some folks preferred a lightly smoked kiack, and thus several hundred would be sold by the second week. However, most of the fish was smoked until it was a deep golden brown and actually “hard.” One of Dad’s favourite sayings was, “You could strap one of my smoked kiacks to the bottom of your boots, walk all day and it’d still be good for supper!”
Our main fish peddler for many years, Gordon Mahone, would leave on Friday afternoon with 4,000 boxed smoked kiacks; he delivered 100 to 200 to each store and returned the following Friday for more, until all 40,000 were sold.
When Gordon retired from making deliveries, I took up his route. When, initially, I did not meet with much success, I asked him what I was doing wrong. Gordon then accompanied me and, at every store, introduced me as “Ralph’s daughter.” I sold out—and I doubt that they know my actual name to this day.
The world was ours
As youngsters, my posse and I would pretend we were on a great adventure and sneak to the back door of the smokehouse, grab a stick of smoked kiack and climb out onto the roof of the salt shed. There, we would whip out our treasured Swiss Army knives, remove head, tail and belly, peel back the strip along the back and settle into the succulent smoked kiack strips. The world was ours.
The scent of smoked kiack would linger, but our mothers covered for us—often suggesting that maybe it was a good night to have smoked kiack for supper.
Whatever the reason—stock shortages, higher bait prices, lifestyle changes, taste—the once lucrative and delicately choreographed days of smoking kiacks is all but over. Still, after 40 years of working beside my father, each spring finds me beside the brook, inhaling deeply, and waiting to spot those quick little fish on their way upstream.