Traditions on the Oregon Coast
“Meet us here tomorrow at 5:30.”
It’s completely dark outside as we walk around the garage between the houses, past a rhododendron that holds up at least ten fishing rods that are rigged and ready to go. Marion, Sam’s dog, greets us in the yard with a tail wag. We meet Monti and John, the friends that invited us along, at the base of the gangplank and head down to the dock in single file. I almost forget to take a photo and don’t have much time to frame anything as the group moves, but luckily I come away with something more than nothing for memory’s sake. Sam, our guide for the day and Monti and John’s former neighbor, is already on the boat checking rods and tying on the last lure. We meet him quickly as we file onto the boat. Sam directs us to the seats he prefers we take. We get seated, and in the faint light off the porch and a more directed light from his headlamp, Sam gives us a briefing of how we’ll use the reels in the coming hours.
We leave the dock in the dark. It’s quiet, damp, and chilly as we head upstream. We can hardly make out the silhouettes of the treetops on the hill and see only reflections of house lights off the surface of the water. Within a few short minutes, however, we begin to see the red port and green starboard lights of other boats. I learn quickly that we’re far from alone in the dark. In fact, it starts to remind me of traffic - a kind of morning rush hour I’ve never experienced but somehow feel I should’ve expected.
After heading upstream a few hundred yards, Sam turns the bow downstream and cuts the motor. He instructs us to let out 20-25 ft of line and gives us a sequence for setting up to troll. He starts the engine again, slower, and we move downstream. Sam says to Katie, “You’re supposed to ask me how you’ll know when you have a fish on.” Katie laughs almost nervously, “How will I know when I have a fish on?” she obliges. “Oh, you’ll know,” Sam smirks.
We continue slowly downstream, following the lights of all the boats in front of us. Marion’s found her spot in the bow, and she curls up for a bit more rest. As daylight grows, the river begins to take shape. It’s foggy. Mist rises out of the trees higher up in the forested hillsides above us. It’s quiet. All we can hear is the low hum of the trolling motor and the gentle roll of water off the bow. The air feels full of anticipation. The humidity adds to that sense of fullness.
Katie and I have lived in Oregon for three years now but not the part of Oregon you think about when someone mentions the state. THIS place, however, feels quintessentially Oregon, the very essence of the Pacific Northwest.
We’re on the Siletz River near Lincoln City, Oregon. It’s September. The Chinook are heading into the river from the Pacific, making their way back to the streambeds they were born in to reproduce. The people of the Pacific Northwest head to the rivers for their autumn tradition: attempting to fill their freezers with salmon for the winter. I’ve read about these traditions - from the Native Americans celebrating these runs hundreds of years ago to the accounts of those who were raised in the northwest and have fished these rivers this time of year since they were kids. Growing up in Georgia, I didn’t know anything about salmon or steelhead until I was already an adult. I find myself overjoyed just to be invited to partake in the tradition. In a way, it feels sacred. People have been paying attention to the habits of these fish in this place for hundreds of years, and this is a way of life for many of the people in the boats that surround us. They do this every year. John tells me he’s been fishing this river since he was a kid with his grandfather. I’ve never even seen a salmon. Excited is an understatement.
On our first pass down the two-mile stretch of river it’s mostly quiet… until the tip of Katie’s rod dips down and her reel makes a loud zipping sound. There’s a flurry of activity. Katie’s reeling, John stands up and moves to the bow to grab the net, Katie heads back to the stern with Sam as Sam coaches her through fighting the fish. The moment is chaotic and I forget to take a photo. Katie eventually brings the fish in close and John nets it. Katie is beaming but surprised at how hard the fight was. The fish is beautiful - a silver torpedo. Its tailfin is the size of a dinner plate. It feels like the entire thing is a muscle. John takes care of the fish and cleans the net. Then, to our surprise, Sam hands Katie a bottle of apricot flavored brandy. It’s a tradition on his boat, he says, for everyone to take a sip of brandy after someone catches a fish. We follow the rules. It tastes remarkably like cough syrup. It’s about 7AM.
When we make it down to the highway 101 bridge, Sam instructs us to pull the lines in and place the hooks in the hook keepers as he turns the boat back upstream. As we begin to pass Sam’s acquaintances and friends in other boats, I start to learn more of the culture. Some boats pass silently, though there’s typically at least a shrug that seems to hold a question mark. Sam holds up a single finger: we’ve caught one so far. Everyone seems to be asking each other as they pass. Some interactions feel sarcastic and competitive - maybe most of them do, but there’s something about all of it that’s friendly and positive. Everyone wants their friends to catch fish, but everyone wants to catch more fish than their friends.
Marion, now awake, stands in the bow scanning the boats for other dogs. When she sees them, you can hear her claws scrambling on the gunwales as she growls and wags her tail. She sees a few boats and is up on the gunwale before any dogs are even visible. “She knows the boats,” Sam says. It feels like another element of the culture. Dogs can learn which cars carry which people - why couldn’t they do the same with the boats that carry their friends?
We lose track of time. Before long, Monti catches a fish, then I catch a fish. Both successes are followed by the obligatory apricot brandy. The moments when fish are “on” are thrilling and I forget the camera every time. By the time Sam says we ought to head back for a break, I realize I haven’t eaten breakfast and it’s half past noon.
In the full light of the day, the hillsides are difficult to ignore. I can see what feels like every shade of green on the side of the mountain. Even the water runs a deep, emerald color.
John, who hates having his photo taken, might be the person I have the most photos of from the trip. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know.
A photograph I’ve wanted to make for years, inspired by photographers like Jon Moore, Justin Bailie, Katie Falkenberg, and Ben Matthews. It feels like a step in the right direction.
After a short break for lunch, we head back to the river for round two. This time, Sam’s decided we’ll be using a tactic called kwikfishing. A kwikfish, I learn, is a banana-shaped lure about 4-6inches long with a treble hook in the middle and at the tail. Bananas, I learn from Monti, are not allowed on the boat, whether for superstitious or practical reasons remains a mystery. Kwikfishing is closer to what I thought fishing was as a kid. It’s primarily an exercise of sitting and waiting, but I learn more culture from it.
Sam guides the boat out about two hundred yards upstream from the dock and instructs John to lower the bow anchor. We’re facing downstream, but the boat remains upstream of the anchor. The river is flowing backward. We’re in the tidal section of the river. It’s saltwater. When the tide comes in, the river flows upstream. It’s a bizarre experience to witness for the first time. Sam’s called a couple of friends and they bring their boats on either side of us, anchor out and cast the same lures out upstream. There’s a bit of catching up and a bit more banter between the boats.
We’ve got a time limit this time. 5PM. That’s just past the peak of high tide and coincidentally, the time Sam needs to head to mass. He’s a devout Catholic, I’m told. He’s a devout fisherman, for sure.
At 4:55 or so, the tip of John’s rod dips down once and everyone snaps to attention. John waits a moment as the tip bounces upward and then dips again and stays down, the reel clicking as the fish takes line. John’s already moving to start reeling as Sam says, “he’s hooked now.” Being closest to it, I stand and move to grab the net as John fights the fish. I find myself nervous. Attempting to net a fish can be a way to lose a fish (ask me how I know), and I’m a bit nervous about messing it up. I move for it once, but the fish runs. It’s a close call but the fish is hooked well. After a short, second round of wrestling, John brings the fish in and I net the fish successfully. We congratulate John, and Sam congratulates me. “If you do it wrong and the fish breaks off at the net, it wasn’t meant to be, but if you do it right, you were supposed to,” Sam says. Brandy follows.
As soon as the fish is in and taken care of, Sam says it’s time to head out. John with the buzzer-beater. Sam’s friends are shocked to see us leaving. “I’ve gotta head to Mass,” he replies. There are understanding nods as we pull away from the group. Sam lets us off at the dock and tells John how to lock up the house. Monti and John used to be Sam’s neighbor here, so they already know. We thank Sam for a wonderful day as he heads off to church. John is forced to take a photo before cleaning his fish. He doesn’t smile, but I catch one somehow anyway.
It’s difficult to sum up the experience, but as we head out for dinner I feel a deep sense of gratitude. I now have a story that joins the collective volume of stories of humans celebrating and seeking these miraculous fish every autumn. I’ve participated in tradition. We have salmon for the next several months. I’ll have a different, more connected appreciation of it when we eat dinner this winter and when we share meals with friends. I’ve been fishing for ten years now, but I’ve only kept fish to eat twice in that time. I usually prefer to make them late for work. I don’t love killing anything, but I do value having a different level of gratitude and appreciation for the food that will be on my table. It’s an anthropological experience. It makes me feel connected to our ancestors in a way few things have. I’m deeply thankful.
Until next time,