OCTOBER 1, 2001
Smoke Signals 3
LAMPMEY
Their Health is am Indicator
for the Eotiure Watershed
The strongslippery eels played an important role
in Tribal history, soon they could be gone.
6
i
BY CHRIS MERGER
Whoever said that we
have the sad ten
dency to equate
beauty with virtue
may have been on to something.
And unfortunately, that same in
clination could ultimately lead to
the demise of one of our oldest
Tribal friends, the lamprey.
( Oily, ugly, and from what I hear
an acquired taste, we should not be
entirely surprised that the Pacific
lamprey (Lampetra tridentata),
throughout history generically re
ferred to as "eel," enjoyed multiple
stays on the list of pest species and
only recently has anyone expressed
concern for its decline. And any
body that has handled the serpen
tine creatures and been the unfor
tunate victim of its greedy barb
lined mouth would not likely miss
them were they to disappear.
But physical attractiveness is,
thankfully, not a requirement for res
cue. And clearly the Oregon Depart
ment of Fish and Wildlife (ODFW)
had this in mind when they elected
this year to issue limited permits for
lamprey harvest at Willamette Falls,
an area that has served as a virtual
pantry for many regional Tribes since
time immemorial.
The questions will invariably
arise. Why? Why the lamprey?
Why a species of fish that for the
greater part of its existence has
been stigmatized and outcast with
the likes of leeches and suckerfish?
What makes the lamprey worth
saving, if in fact it is in danger?
To begin, we are to a degree in
debted to the fish. Up until the
late 20th century, lamprey were a
mainstay in the diets of many Na
tive Americans during the summer
months, often rivaling salmon and
trout as a source of protein. Of
course that is not exactly common
knowledge, for in the pantheon of
game animals utilized by North
west Tribes, historically lampreys
have barely elicited mention, even
in the aquatic realm.
Second, lamprey still are, accord
ing to one ODFW biologist, a good
marker by which to judge the state
of things in watershed areas. If the
hardy parasite is in trouble, then
by logic, so must we all be.
Many Tribes in Oregon, particu
larly in the Willamette Valley knew
the value of the lamprey early on.
Enough, at least, to where they saw
fit to even incorporate the fish into
their diet, but also some of their
better-known folk tales.
One Clackamas story recounts the
efforts of a young man whose vil
lage has nearly run out of food.
Harried, he sets out to the falls (near
Oregon City, presumably Willa
mette Falls), and collected eels (lam
prey) and upon returning to his vil
lage rations out a good portion of
them to his neighbors. His wife
advises they throw the eels onto
the fire, as opposed to roasting them
on spits, for the fish will cook faster.
Naturally, a select few impatiently
ignore her advice, only to die of
hunger before the eels were fully
cooked. Their bodies turned to stone
and evidently remain at the site to
this day.
Nonetheless, Natives in the
Willamette Valley and in' other
parts of Oregon still held the fish
in somewhat high esteem, cultivat
ing a number of superstitions about
them. Some Clackamas, strangely,
even though living within a good
distance of Willamette Falls, the
cornucopia of lamprey, considered
the creatures to be taboo, and
wouldn't eat them under most cir-
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Traditional Fishing Grounds Lampreys were once as thick as thieves
in these waters. Today, their numbers have dwindled to the point of scarcity. Love
them or hate them, many Tribal members can tell you stories about catching, killing,
skinning, cleaning and then learning to eat the fabled ocean-going eel.
cumstances. Reasons
for this are unclear.
The Cowlitz, would
roast the lamprey on
sticks, and when fully
cooked, toss away the
head. If the head landed
far away, a long life was
in store for the eater. If
it landed close, it would
have quite the opposite
effect.
Lamprey also found
their way into the occa
sional ceremony. One
rumor holds that the
Tututni of Southwest
ern Oregon had a cer
emony for the fish
whereby the village
chief would be the first
to catch one in the
yearly runs. Every vil
lager would take a morsel of the
flesh, and from that point on the
Tribal-fishing season was officially
open. That is quite an endorsement
considering they held a similar
ritual for the salmon.
In Yakima, a tradition still con
tinues to this day. People attend
ing a funeral often would give bags
of eels to the deceased.
Believe it or not, Coyote's rumi
nation in the old Clackamas tale
does an adequate job of summariz
ing the lamprey's plight, namely by
illustrating that even in folklore the
fish always took a backseat to the
region's more famous fish-like
salmon. And doubtless, there were
a number of good reasons for that,
chiefly that the quantity of salmon
far exceeded that of the lamprey.
But folklore aside, the keenly
utilitarian Natives still saw the
lamprey the same way many other
animals see them, as food. And for
that, there is plenty of explanation.
When they are available in bulk,
as at Willamette Falls, they are
quite easy to catch. During the
summer months they could be sim
ply plucked by hand from rocks and
streams and on some occasions be
gathered with nets.
And while those days may be long
gone, one might be surprised to know
that they aren't that long gone. A
surprising number of Tribal Elders
in Grand Ronde alone can remem
ber the lamprey harvests.
"When the flying ants were thick,
that meant it was time to go catch
eels," recalled Darrell Mercier.
Collecting lamprey was a summer
ritual, remembers Mercier, as he
and his father Hubert would head
down the Salmon River for 20 miles,
to a place that was then called the
Rapid Inn.
"My father would hook them," he
f ' " . ..
In Search Of... In June, Tribal
members and Natural Resource staff mem
bers went in search of the mysterious lam
prey in an area rich with lore from Tribal
Elders who remember journeys to Wil
lamette Falls when they were young. At
one time, the lamprey played an impor
tant role in the diets of Tribal members.
said. "And then flip them to the
bank where I would gather them
up in a sack."
"But I never could hook them
myself."
Of course, Mercier explained, only
Natives collected and ate them,
meaning that to non-Indians the
harvest assumed the role of spectacle.
Having an audience was unsettling.
"We quit eventually," said Mercier.
"Because white people would watch
us the Indians collecting eels."
Mercier's father, Hubert, didn't
seem to mind. That's why he kept
collecting them until the numbers
thinned too much.
"You can't catch them anymore,"
he said. "But I used to catch them
and can them... smoke them.
"I canned 90 quarts one day."
Canning lampreys eventually
became the manner of preservation
of choice for many Tribal members,
typically because once canned the
fish could last for anywhere from
two to three years. Tribal Elder Ila
Dowd, who like the two Merciers
has spent the greater part of her
life in Grand Ronde, can remem
ber the grim canning ritual, one
that she grew to loath.
"Oh I hated them," said Dowd,
wincing.
Perhaps the process ruined her
taste for them. Because the fish was
so oily, cleaning them and remov
ing the entrails usually meant hav
ing to nail the head to a board. This
continued on next page