The air within the Tulalip longhouse crackled with anticipation and the earthy scent of woodsmoke. Two robust fires blazed on the packed dirt floor, their flames dancing and casting flickering shadows across the faces of the assembled crowd. Wisps of smoke, carrying with them tiny embers, ascended through carefully positioned openings in the longhouse’s roof, a natural ventilation system honed over generations. The sheer number of people was remarkable. Hundreds filled the elevated wooden platforms that lined the interior walls, creating a multi-tiered panorama of faces.
This was the annual First Salmon Ceremony, a deeply significant event for the Tulalip Tribes, a celebration steeped in tradition and reverence for the life-sustaining salmon. The ceremony, a vibrant tapestry of ancient customs and contemporary community spirit, marked the return of the salmon and served as a prayer for a bountiful fishing season.
The longhouse itself was a testament to the tribe’s enduring connection to the land. Constructed from cedar planks, its sturdy frame echoed the strength and resilience of the Tulalip people. The interior, illuminated by the firelight, felt both ancient and vibrant, a space where the past and present intertwined.
The attendees represented a diverse cross-section of the Pacific Northwest community. Tulalip tribal members, the hosts of this sacred gathering, sat shoulder-to-shoulder with public officials from neighboring cities like Marysville and Everett. Representatives from other Native American tribes, including the Makah and Suquamish, were also present, their presence underscoring the shared cultural heritage and interconnectedness of the region’s indigenous peoples. A particularly noteworthy guest hailed from the Hopi and Laguna Pueblos, a testament to the far-reaching respect and recognition of the Tulalip’s cultural preservation efforts. Adding to the eclectic mix were three young sailors, resplendent in their crisp dress whites, their eyes wide with curiosity as they observed the unfolding ceremony from a front-row bench.
The rhythmic pulse of drums filled the air as a procession of approximately fifty men, women, and children, adorned in vibrant traditional regalia, began a ceremonial dance. Moving in a counterclockwise direction around the perimeter of the longhouse floor, they sang ancient songs, their voices blending with the steady beat of the drums and the gentle rattle of gourds. The dancers’ movements were deliberate and graceful, each step carrying the weight of generations of tradition. Their colorful costumes, adorned with intricate beadwork, feathers, and shells, were a visual feast, reflecting the artistic skill and cultural pride of the Tulalip people.
As the dance concluded, Glen Gobin, a respected Tulalip tribal member and the designated master of ceremonies, stepped into the center of the longhouse. His voice, amplified by the acoustics of the wooden structure, resonated with warmth and enthusiasm. "Great turnout!" he exclaimed, his words echoing the sentiment of the community. "It feels good to see this longhouse full. It lifts our spirits. It lifts our voices." His words were a heartfelt expression of gratitude for the community’s participation and a recognition of the ceremony’s importance in strengthening tribal bonds.
Gobin then proceeded to outline the day’s agenda, providing context and meaning to the various rituals and activities that were to follow. He emphasized the historical significance of the First Salmon Ceremony, explaining that it had been revived in 1979 after a period of suppression. "Before, we were forbidden to practice our ceremonies," he explained, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "Then the elders got together and remembered. They asked their grandparents. We may not do it the way it was done 200 years ago, but we do it the best way we can." His words highlighted the resilience of the Tulalip people and their determination to preserve their cultural heritage in the face of adversity.
He further elaborated on the dual purpose of the First Salmon Ceremony. "At the salmon ceremony, we come together for two reasons: To bless the fishermen, and to welcome back Haik ciaub yubev (‘big important king salmon’ in the Lushootseed language). He comes to scout for the other salmon. We go down to greet him and treat him with respect, because he’s going to provide for us all through the year. He will return to the salmon people and report to them how well we treated him, how well he was received. We’ll take his remains, and we return him to the water and send him on his way." His explanation revealed the deep spiritual connection between the Tulalip people and the salmon, viewing the fish not merely as a food source but as a respected guest and a vital link to the natural world.
Adding a touch of levity to the proceedings, Gobin quipped, "If we could only work on the price of fish, though!" His humorous remark elicited a wave of laughter from the audience, demonstrating the community’s ability to find humor even in the face of economic challenges.
A few days prior to the ceremony, an excursion to Tulalip Bay provided a glimpse into the practical aspects of preparing for the event. Jerry Torres, a tribal employee, guided observers to witness the traditional fishing methods employed to catch salmon for the ceremonial luncheon. Two set nets were strategically positioned within the bay, a technique that has been used for generations. "The fish mill around in the bay, and when the tide goes out, they go with it, following the shore. So they set up the net from the beach out, catching them near the beach," Torres explained, providing insight into the intricacies of this time-honored fishing practice.
One of the nets was being tended by Cy Fryberg, the individual responsible for cooking the salmon for the First Salmon Ceremony luncheon. He had already caught five king salmon, but with an anticipated need of 2,500 pounds of salmon to feed all the visitors, he would need to supplement his catch with additional salmon sourced from Alaska or the Columbia River. The sheer volume of salmon required underscored the scale of the event and the importance of providing sustenance for all who attended.
Another fishing crew, led by Lance Williams and including his teenage sons Christopher and Charlie, as well as his nephew Johnny, were employing a different technique called round-hauling. This method involved anchoring one end of the net while the other was attached to a boat. The boat then circled to close off the net. The men worked diligently, hauling in the heavy 600-foot net by hand. Others used plungers to create disturbances in the water, preventing the fish from escaping. Despite their efforts, the net yielded only small crabs and a flounder – no salmon.
Back at the longhouse, the ceremony continued with a blessing of the fishermen. Gobin invited all the fishermen – including several women and the three uniformed sailors – to come forward. "We bless the fishermen and remember those lost at sea. The waters are good to us, but they are dangerous," he said, acknowledging the inherent risks associated with fishing and expressing gratitude for the bounty of the sea.
The blessing had just concluded when a young boy burst into the longhouse, announcing the arrival of a canoe. The crowd eagerly filed out of the longhouse and made their way down to the shore, where a sleek, black carved canoe with a high prow was approaching the beach. As the canoe neared the shore, one of the rowers proudly raised a king salmon aloft, prompting a resounding applause from the assembled crowd.
The salmon, carefully placed on a pallet of sword ferns and cedar branches, was carried up the gravel road to the longhouse by two men. This salmon would serve as the symbolic first returning salmon of the season, a representative of the abundance to come. "Our visitor has arrived to honor us," Gobin announced. "Thank you for helping us celebrate the First Salmon Ceremony, our scout, our reporter."
Chief Joseph Gosnell from the visiting Makah Nation then addressed the crowd, emphasizing the shared spiritual connection to the salmon. "We acknowledge the beauty of the connection that we have with our Creator through the salmon," he stated. "We have many ethnic groups here today, and we share the same Creator. During today’s ceremony, each person was welcomed. The longhouse door was never closed."
Following the formal ceremony, Gobin invited everyone to the tribal gymnasium for a shared meal. After receiving a small piece of the ceremonial salmon, the attendees enjoyed a communal feast. "We do this to ensure that we’ll have a good salmon return," Gobin explained. "We need it – we depend on that salmon to keep us alive, even though we may all have other jobs now."
Gobin’s words resonated with a deep understanding of the challenges faced by the Tulalip community. Many of the fishermen had to supplement their income through other means, highlighting the economic pressures impacting the tribe. Kit Rawson, the Tulalip Tribes’ senior fisheries management biologist, noted that the tribe had significantly reduced its wild salmon catch to aid in the restoration of the salmon fishery. "Most of the fishing areas are closed, most of the time, with the goal being to restore natural production," Rawson explained. Hatchery fish help to offset the loss of wild catch, with the Tulalip raising chinook, coho, and chum salmon in their hatchery, and all catches are carefully reported.
As the First Salmon Ceremony drew to a close, the singers and drummers, followed by the visitors, walked behind the remains of the ceremonial salmon as they were carried back to the beach. The salmon remains were placed in a canoe, taken far out into Tulalip Bay, and then returned to the water, completing the cycle of respect and reciprocity.
The ceremony, in its essence, was a reminder of the enduring connection between the Tulalip people and the salmon, a relationship that has sustained them for generations.