“Where the Salmon Still Run”

Notes from Alex: Streams of Salmon and Stories of Generations

“A timeless cycle that connects streams, people, and history.”

“There’s something timeless about standing at the mouth of a stream and watching salmon return, as if witnessing history swim right before your eyes.”

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The other day, I drove down to two different streams. One held a strong pink salmon run, just beginning to gather momentum, while the other was alive with chum and coho pushing upstream. At the mouths of the streams, schools of salmon shimmered and surged together, filling the water with life. I sat there for a moment, just watching, and found myself pondering the deeper story unfolding before me.

These runs have been happening for centuries—long before I was here, long before any of us. And to see it still going on today, against the odds, feels poetically beautiful. Nature’s persistence has a way of humbling us. The salmon return, generation after generation, as if carrying the heartbeat of this place.

Of course, things have changed. The salmon fisheries for commercial harvest are not what they once were. I can remember stories of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, when the runs were stronger, the harvests larger, and the docks busier. Will it ever return to those days? Probably not—or at least, I don’t know. What I do know is this: a handful of commercial boats, both gillnetters and seiners, still work these waters today. Their efforts provide jobs, income, and a thread of economic impact for the community.

This is a salmon-run community, through and through. Generations of fishermen and women have made their living on these runs, and that tradition continues, even if the scale looks different now. The sight of those salmon pressing upstream reminded me that while times change, the core of this place—its connection to the salmon—remains the same.

It’s more than just a run of fish. It’s history, tradition, and survival, all swimming together in the current.

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For me, standing by those streams was more than just an afternoon stop. It was a reminder that I too am part of this cycle, part of this tradition. Even if I’m not on a boat, even if I’m not casting a net, I carry the stories, the memories, and the gratitude for what the salmon represent. Observing their return ties me back to my roots, to the community I belong to, and to the generations before me who lived by these same waters. In that way, the salmon’s journey upstream mirrors my own journey—returning, remembering, and carrying forward what truly matters.

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