Heidi Walters

These days it's hard to call the ocean clean, or the rivers pristine. It has affected the Yuroks' way of life, and their diet. Dams upriver on the Klamath have severely impacted river flows and quality. In good years the Yurok were able to not only subsistence fish for their daily food, but could supplement their incomes by commercial fishing. But there hasn't been a good year in a while--a massive die-off of adult Chinook salmon in 2002, and major losses of juvenile fish in other years, have led to low runs and restricted fishing in the river and the ocean. The Yurok have suffered along with non-native fishing communities, and have placed their own restrictions on themselves to allow the river species to recover. They haven't fished commercially in a couple of years, and their subsistence quotas have been drastically reduced.

Even so, during the different seasons you'll find a number of tribal members down at Requa, launching their boats to head to the spit and toss out their nets. And there are always a few guys hanging around the dock.

Nonnie Lee, of Seletz and Yurok descent, and Pride Painter--half Athabaskan, half Yurok--sit on the dock at Requa, a glance away from the mouth of the Klamath River, looking at the water. It's afternoon; the fog has lifted. Out on the leg of sand that barricades most of the river from the ocean, you can see a handful of fishermen and women trailing nets in the water near where the river has broken through to the ocean, letting them run with the current. Watching, one can imagine nets full of flopping fish being hauled in.

Lee and Painter are taking it easy at the moment. This, to them, is life very nearly at its best.

"My family grew up on this river," says Lee.

"I grew up in Eureka," says Painter, "but I come up here every weekend, especially when the fish are running."

The ocean, says Lee, means food: "mussels, clams, sea anemones--cut 'em in rounds, scrape the green slime off, bread 'em, fry 'em--eel, sturgeon, salmon."

"We're salmon people," says Painter. "We harvest 'em to feed our families, our elders--like my aunties, I bring them little gifts of salmon."

Painter opens a big cooler to show off the seven salmon he caught in his net. Three days ago, he got out of prison--several months at Pelican Bay, his second stint there. And right after that he went out on the spit and fished and camped for two nights. It was--he doesn't have words to express it, just opens his arms wide and smiles. "I live in Eureka, but this is like my home," he says, sweeping his hand over it all--river, mountains, trees, spit, ocean. "This is my family roots. It's our heritage. If we don't get the salmon, we can't keep our smokehouses full."

"It's sacred, it's our culture, it's our pride," adds Lee.

Painter says too many tourists go out onto the spit these days--they just walk right out there from the river bank, from where his people traditionally used to hold ceremonial dances.

The two men watch the river, talk to each other, laugh. Return to talking to a visitor about the ocean, food, and life.

"We have food gatherings," says Painter. And other ceremonies.

"Brush Dance, that was last month," says Lee. "Jump Dance, that's in September."

Two more young guys walk over, say their whassups, walk on. A few yards down the dock, two young employees--a man and a woman--of the Yurok fisheries department, who have been out counting fish catches, haul their boat from the water onto a trailer and drive off.

Lee lights a cigarette, and he and Painter pose for some pictures. They sit back on the dock and look out at the river, which swirls deeply.

"The big run hasn't come in yet," says Painter.