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The eels are running!" That's all the native people of Humboldt and Del Norte counties (Yurok, Karuk, Hupa, and Tolowa among others) need to hear, and it's off to the mouth of the Klamath River to "hook eels." They brave storms, rough surf, and cold weather to practice this traditional form of obtaining food.
Lamprey start making their annual migration up the river in December, and continue through April, destined to spawn, then die. Native Americans use the English word eel, but lamprey are really a snakelike fish. They are jawless, and have a sucker mouth that's lined with teeth, used for boring into the sides of other fish, to suck out their blood and body fluids. Fossils of jawless fish, dating back 425 million years, are the ancestors of lamprey.
An old, Yurok legend illustrates lamprey anatomy: Eel entered the mouth of the Klamath River and met a sucker fish. Eel asked Sucker if he would like to play a gambling game.
"You have to continue your journey upriver to spawn, Sucker replied. Besides, I have nothing to wager."
"I have some time, Eel said. We can bet our bones."
Sucker agreed, entered into a gambling game with Eel, and won. That is why sucker fish have so many bones, and eels have none.
Eel-hooks are fashioned out of wood and metal. The handle, about three feet long, is made from the branch of a Pacific yew tree. Finger notches are carved out, and some have intricate designs carved on them too. The metal part is about two feet long and is made out of 1/8 inch diameter stainless steel wire. The business end of the wire is bent into a U-shape (about four inches long), and sharpened into a point with a file, or grinder. The other end of the wire is lashed onto the end of the wooden part with nylon twine. The complete setup is fairly rigid, and totals about five feet in length.
It is a cool, cloudy, February day. A storm front is approaching the beach. The surf is getting rough, and the breakers are slamming into the rocky coast line sending spray forty feet into the air. Seagulls and terns are circling above, and sea lions are busily swimming about the mouth. The air is fresh, and the breeze is sprinkled with salt. There are fifteen eel fishermen lined up along the south bank at the mouth of the river. Everyone has been patiently waiting for the eels to make their appearance.
Eels run in spurts. They come up the river for an hour or so, then slack-off, and then start up again. Between these spurts, when the action slows down, the eel fishermen begin talking with each other, exchanging news of family and friends. Suddenly, the eeler fishing farthest downriver comes running out of the breakers, swinging his eel- hook in a circular motion over his head, with a two foot long eel on the end of his hook. "There's two more coming up," he shouts, and all the other eelers cease talking and get ready for the business at hand.
The best time for eeling is when the tide starts going out, particularly when there is a minus tide. The water level drops, and the river current gets much stronger. Eels are not strong enough to swim up through the middle of the current. They ride in on the waves, and swim upriver close to the shore. When waves break, the water carries eels up onto the wave slope of the beach. They can be seen slithering back down to the river in the shallow, retreating surf. With a raking motion, the eeler runs down and snags the eel out before the next breaker comes in. Swinging the eel 'round overhead creates the centrifugal force necessary to keep the eel from falling off the hook.
Standard gear for eeling is a burlap sack, hip-boots, knitted stocking cap with Native American design, and of course, the eel-hook. When eels are running steady, the fishermen don't have time to "sack them up." Besides, they are having too much fun running and chasing after them. Eel fishermen dig a shallow hole up away from the surf, and toss eels into it as they catch them; that is, until the action slows down, or the hole fills up.
The eelers farthest upriver are beginning to look anxious. They watch two more people further downriver come running up out of the surf swinging eels over their heads. A big swell comes crashing in, and sends all the eelers running up onto the beach. "That was close," one man yells, barely audible over the pounding waves.
"Oh no, my eels," yells a teenage boy as he watches his eels wash back out into the sea. "Better those eels than you," another voice rings out.
Eels look strange lying in those holes. They have no scales. Their cold, smooth, slippery, green and grayish skin is perforated below the head, and on each side, with seven circular gill openings that eelers call "portholes." Skewered with a hook, they continue to pulsate and squirm, taking hours to die.
Another eeler arrives, digs out a hole, and makes his way down to the water. He dips his eel-hook and his hand into the surf-- to show his respect for the river, and the eels--an old, local Native American custom. His wife waits up by the hole. She is going to sack his eels for him. It is forbidden for women to eel, and everyone would leave the beach if she did. It's believed a woman eeler will bring bad luck.
Four hours have gone by, and the tide is beginning to turn. Waves are pounding the beach, and it's really getting rough. Everyone has some eels, but no one's ready to go yet. The river is boiling, churning, and rumbling as it crashes into the sea. An older man is making his way back upriver. "I'm seventy years old, he says as he's passing by. The eeling's not as good up this way, but at least I'll be out of those breakers."
Another wave breaks sending a powerful surge of surf up onto the beach. The old man stumbles, almost knocked down by the force of natural fury. Three more eelers come running up out of the breakers swinging eels overhead. A huge, diagonal swell is approaching the beach. Someone yells, "Look out," and all the eelers come running up onto the beach. The swell breaks with a booming whoosh-- taking logs and trees lying on the beach with it-- then heads upriver. Someone yells out, "The old man!" Everyone takes a quick look upriver. The old man is nowhere in sight. "There he is," the teenage boy shouts. The old man's head comes into view, bobbing along the bank, as he helplessly drifts down the frosty-cold river at a furious pace. All the men run downriver to intercept him. "We have to get him before he heads out the mouth," someone yells. "Grab my hook," shouts a voice, and then, they all yell, "We got him!" The old man is helped up onto the beach by a few of the others. The river has claimed eelers' lives before, so the old man is very lucky. "Time to quit," one eeler remarks, and everyone else agrees.
"Come up by the fire, and warm yourself," a Yurok traditionalist tells the old man. The aroma of roasting eels has everyones' mouths watering. All the eelers gather up by the fire. The men start joking with each other: "I'd walk across the backs of five salmon just to get one eel," a man chuckles. "The river didn't want me today because I would have scared away all the eels," the old man tells the teenage boy. "I could eat two or three yards of roasted eel. You better throw a couple of more on the fire," another man laughs.
Tradition and culture is alive at the mouth of the Klamath River, and eeling has evolved into a form of social interaction. The Yurok traditionalist is explaining the proper method of cooking eels to the teenage boy: "The traditional way to cook eels is to face them upriver. That is where they are born, and that is where they return. The cycle must be completed." The eels finish cooking, and everyone starts to gobble down eel. They eat, talk, joke, and tell stories of past eeling adventures, and the "old-ways." One man remarks, "This is what keeps us coming back."
