Below: Visitors
to the Little
White Salmon
hatchery can catch
glimpses of fish
via underwater
windows.Right: The
fish ladders at
Bonneville Dam,
on the Columbia
River, allow the
passage of salmon,
shad, eel, and other
species upriver to
spawn. Fish swim
back and forth in a
channel that rises in
elevation in a series
of switchbacks.the salmon is always wild—never farmed. Fittingly for a chef
who incorporates Pacific Rim details into his Northwest food,
he came to appreciate salmon skin from his first cooking job,
at a Japanese restaurant. “I learned from my Japanese chef to
treasure the skin and serve it in many forms. I love the fattiness,
the deep salmon flavor, and the ability to cook it crispy to provide
texture to a dish. At Lark I wouldn’t dream of taking the skin
off. It makes for a more pleasing presentation as well as a full
expression of a salmon’s flavor.”
Seattle is the jumping-off point for salmon eaters and anglers
from all over the world heading to Alaska and its myth-shrouded
fisheries. But for hundreds of years, probably longer, the most
revered salmon in the region were actually found to the south.
After taking in the spectacle of Seattle, I continue my salmon tour
to the Big River, as the Columbia is known to Native Americans,
where it borders the states of Oregon and Washington, following a
route that would have been familiar to indigenous fishermen and
traders long ago. The four-hour drive takes me over Snoqualmie
Pass to the far side of the Cascade Range, lush forests giving
way to sagebrush-dotted plateaus and rocky canyons. With a
high desert wind at my back, I skirt the Yakama Nation and the
volcanic cone of Mount Adams before dropping over the lip to
see the grandeur of the Columbia River Gorge, historically the
greatest salmon fishery on the planet.
The spring kings of the Columbia (also called spring chi-
nook, or simply springers) migrate hundreds of miles upstream
without feeding, relying on heavy stores of fat to carry them
through to the fall spawning. Entire indigenous societies, some
of which still exist, were organized around these fish. The fish
ladder at Bonneville Dam, an hour east of Portland, Oregon, is
the place to see these marathoners up close, and the greeters at
the dam’s interpretive center understand the attraction. They
direct tourists to the downstairs viewing area first; the turbines
and other power-generating equipment on this, one of the most
hydroelectrically developed river systems in the world, can wait.
As soon as the elevator doors open, I hear the clamor. Kids
and adults alike press their faces to the glass as chunky king
salmon, dozens of them, move silently through the ladder, a
galaxy of bubbles rushing backward in the current. “I’d like to
have a couple of those in my truck,” murmurs a man in coveralls.
The fish enter a chute at the foot of the dam because they’re
naturally drawn to current. Back and forth they swim through a
hard-edged concrete channel that flows like a water slide, gain-
ing elevation through a series of stair-stepping switchbacks,
until they’ve summited and reached the reservoir on the other
side. The salmon don’t seem to see us as they pass the viewing
chamber, just inches away. Their unblinking eyes betray no
recognition, and unlike a curious leopard or gorilla at the zoo,
they move through with their otherness intact.
The Snake River sockeye will swim more than 900 miles
upstream to a chain of subalpine lakes in the Sawtooth
Mountains of central Idaho, the longest salmon migration in106 NATGEOTRAVEL.COM
Below: Visitors
to the Little
White Salmon
hatchery can catch
glimpses of fish
via underwater
windows.Right: The
fish ladders at
Bonneville Dam,
on the Columbia
River, allow the
passage of salmon,
shad, eel, and other
species upriver to
spawn. Fish swim
back and forth in a
channel that rises in
elevation in a series
of switchbacks.the salmon is always wild—never farmed. Fittingly for a chef
who incorporates Pacific Rim details into his Northwest food,
he came to appreciate salmon skin from his first cooking job,
at a Japanese restaurant. “I learned from my Japanese chef to
treasure the skin and serve it in many forms. I love the fattiness,
the deep salmon flavor, and the ability to cook it crispy to provide
texture to a dish. At Lark I wouldn’t dream of taking the skin
off. It makes for a more pleasing presentation as well as a full
expression of a salmon’s flavor.”
Seattle is the jumping-off point for salmon eaters and anglers
from all over the world heading to Alaska and its myth-shrouded
fisheries. But for hundreds of years, probably longer, the most
revered salmon in the region were actually found to the south.
After taking in the spectacle of Seattle, I continue my salmon tour
to the Big River, as the Columbia is known to Native Americans,
where it borders the states of Oregon and Washington, following a
route that would have been familiar to indigenous fishermen and
traders long ago. The four-hour drive takes me over Snoqualmie
Pass to the far side of the Cascade Range, lush forests giving
way to sagebrush-dotted plateaus and rocky canyons. With a
high desert wind at my back, I skirt the Yakama Nation and the
volcanic cone of Mount Adams before dropping over the lip to
see the grandeur of the Columbia River Gorge, historically the
greatest salmon fishery on the planet.
The spring kings of the Columbia (also called spring chi-
nook, or simply springers) migrate hundreds of miles upstream
without feeding, relying on heavy stores of fat to carry them
through to the fall spawning. Entire indigenous societies, some
of which still exist, were organized around these fish. The fish
ladder at Bonneville Dam, an hour east of Portland, Oregon, is
the place to see these marathoners up close, and the greeters at
the dam’s interpretive center understand the attraction. They
direct tourists to the downstairs viewing area first; the turbines
and other power-generating equipment on this, one of the most
hydroelectrically developed river systems in the world, can wait.
As soon as the elevator doors open, I hear the clamor. Kids
and adults alike press their faces to the glass as chunky king
salmon, dozens of them, move silently through the ladder, a
galaxy of bubbles rushing backward in the current. “I’d like to
have a couple of those in my truck,” murmurs a man in coveralls.
The fish enter a chute at the foot of the dam because they’re
naturally drawn to current. Back and forth they swim through a
hard-edged concrete channel that flows like a water slide, gain-
ing elevation through a series of stair-stepping switchbacks,
until they’ve summited and reached the reservoir on the other
side. The salmon don’t seem to see us as they pass the viewing
chamber, just inches away. Their unblinking eyes betray no
recognition, and unlike a curious leopard or gorilla at the zoo,
they move through with their otherness intact.
The Snake River sockeye will swim more than 900 miles
upstream to a chain of subalpine lakes in the Sawtooth
Mountains of central Idaho, the longest salmon migration in
106 NATGEOTRAVEL.COM