Tradition and Family ~ Salmon Life

Heritage Lifestyle

“Aaguum,” he said to Great Papa Ralph. A 12-pound jack king lay inside the gray tote and my dad said it was plenty. Great Papa smiled in agreement. I also smiled with gratefulness knowing there was a coming taste of buttery & rich barbecued king salmon, but what lay underneath my smile was a feeling of sadness.

After five sets during the prime of Chinook salmon fishing in the Norton Sound, Dad caught one jack king. The same man, 20 years earlier, was part of a commercial Chinook salmon fishery in the same waters. And then they were huge. Fifty pounds. Salmon not only helped build the house I was raised in, it was what we ate nearly every day from June to August. That night, Dad grilled the tiny king salmon steaks over charcoal and we savored every morsel, knowing that would be our only taste of the prized fish in a year.

The author's family, salmon fishing in the Norton Sound outside of Unalakleet.

The Chinook salmon run for the Unalakleet River drainage, while showing signs of improvement, had gotten to a place where I didn’t want my dad to set his net at all. It was a difficult thought. The first taste of king salmon marked the beginning of summer for our family, but from the numbers it seemed as if the king run was nearly dead. It seemed as if the numbers were so low, the kings couldn’t replicate, much less feed us.

Thankfully, immediately after the king salmon run, the humpies arrive in the Unalakleet River. A fish that isn’t commercially prized and never bragged about at high-end restaurants, the salmon is much-appreciated, if not celebrated, in our family. With low fat content, the meat dries well. Ever plenty, it makes a beautiful meal. “Grab a bowl!” Mom would say to the crowd of Ivanoffs on the island sandbar. Mom would make a simple and satisfying soup every single time we went upriver to enjoy time together, to enjoy our beloved Unalakleet River and the outdoors. Called uuraq (ooh-ruq), the soup is made of humpy steaks & eggs, onions, potatoes and salt and pepper. Mom liked to add kimchi to her bowl. Auntie Abuz added seal oil. I liked mine as is and always tried to grab more than my fair share of the pale, orange eggs.

I think about my aunties talking away, telling stories and laughing.

Photo by Clark James Mishler

My cousins and I would take breaks from swimming and stand by the fire to eat uuraq. The soup would warm our bodies from the inside out. Every time I eat uuraq today, I think about those happy and sunny days at the sandbar. I think about how Auntie Fena stayed at the point with her fishing rod, hat and smile, desperately wanting to catch a silver. I think about my aunties talking away, telling stories and laughing.

I think about the first time I cut humpies with them. I had used my Mom’s ulu. It was too big, but it was sharp. The next time my family went upriver to cut fish, eat uuraq and spend time together, my parents gave me my first tool. An ulu. It was smaller than Mom’s, made from an old wood cutting handsaw and the handle out of new, white walrus ivory. The oldest man in town made it. John Auliye. When I used it on that sunny day, I felt like I had arrived. I was useful. I had something to offer. I contributed. I stood at the table.

Photo by Clark James Mishler

At the table I began to understand what it meant to be a woman.

That day, although still in a swimsuit, I cut the fish just like they did. I made the slit down the belly. The cut behind the head, down the back to the tail. The cut that separated the flesh from the backbone and I replicated these steps on the other side of the small salmon. Discarding the bones and the guts, I made the tiiraqs, or horizontal slits, and the fish was ready for drying. I repeated this process with my aunties until all the tubs were empty.

I had never left the sandbar feeling so satisfied. Until that day, the sandbar was simply fun. It was the place to go to spend time with cousins in the water and fish in the parked boats to pass the time. While Dad and the uncles seined, we played volleyball in the sand. We made s’mores at the fire, placing chocolate on the grahams to place in the heat. Melted chocolate ran down our fingers. When the ladies started cutting, we shifted our play time to rinse the fish Mom and the aunties cut, although still playing in the water and swimming while doing our job.

The day I got my ulu, the sandbar was a new place to me. It was a place to, with the family, not just fill our freezers, but a place to work together. To share stories. To hear my aunties and Mom build each other up. Yes, salmon was processed with skill and care, but love was shared in those stories and insights. It always was. At the table I began to understand what it meant to be a woman. Not only that. I began learning how to be a woman amongst women.

The author, Laureli Ivanoff, and her son boating together.

Every summer, the humpies arrive. I hear them puuyaaq (boo-yawq) and the season and the year isn’t complete or enjoyed without grabbing the slimy fish to cut for hanging. Some years I’d cut only 20 on my own. Other years, I’d cut hundreds with my family. And since the years of cutting with my Mom, I’ve realized that the work doesn’t end the day the fish are cut. When I was 13 years old, my ulu was cleaned and I was done. Today, the cut fish are tended to for 5-7 days. Tending to the salmon, while they dry, takes time, dedication and patience. The time it takes for the drying process to be complete depends on the weather, the oil content in the fish and how dry a person likes their fish. It’s not glamorous. Or romantic. I think about my Mom and aunties and the work they enjoyed to put fish away. For that short time, I feel connected to them and the humble pride I feel is in knowing they’d be happy seeing me.

Today, some of the vacuum-sealed dried fish we grab from the freezer and eat has been cut by my 14-year-old daughter. She knows how to cut down the belly, behind the head and down the back. She knows how to separate the meat from the bones and make the tiirraqs. She knows what it’s like to stand with the women in her life and work with them until the tubs are empty. She does this work with the ivory and steel ulu. She does this work with pride. Sometimes she does it in her swimsuit and my whole being smiles. “Aguum,” I think. While I feel we have plenty and much to be grateful for, I hold on to hope that one day, she’ll do something I never did with that ivory ulu. I hold on to hope that one day our net will be set and there will be enough for her to cut king salmon strips for smoking.

I hold on to hope that one day, she’ll do something I never did.

Salmon Life

Tradition and Family

The Story of Laureli Ivanoff

Guiding the Salmon Life

Captain Tom & the Kasilof

Tradition and Family

The Story of Laureli Ivanoff

Guiding the Salmon Life

Captain Tom & the Kasilof

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