In late summer every year, when buckbrush on the mountains turns yellow and the soapberries grow soft and translucent, families from Little Salmon Carmacks First Nation gather at the mouth of Tatchun creek to fish for their namesake.
The creek itself, in Canada’s far-flung Yukon territory, is named after the fin on a salmon’s back that sticks out of the water as the fish fights its way upstream. Tatchun empties into the Yukon River, home to the world’s longest run of chinook salmon. Elders say the fish used to be so plentiful they could have walked across the water on their backs.
But when Yukon First Nations gathered at Tatchun this summer, it wasn’t to fish. It was, in the words of the Little Salmon Carmacks chief, Nicole Tom, to “call the salmon back”.
A sacred fire burned and there was traditional dancing, drumming, prayers and a feast. “It is very traditional that you make a big pot of fish soup and share the first salmon,” says Tom.
Only now, there is no first salmon. Instead, they had to boil a frozen one, shipped in from Alaska.
This year marks the lowest run of chinook ever recorded in the Yukon River – down a catastrophic 95% from previous levels, according to experts. Communities throughout the Yukon that have the fish at the heart of their culture are relying on expensive frozen salmon.
Many here fear an integral part of their traditional lifestyle and spiritual identity is about to disappear for ever. “Our name, culture, language, ways of knowing and doing, our intergenerational teaching, storytelling, ceremony – everything surrounds salmon,” says Tom. “Even our vitamins.”