The Last Salmon honors the relationship that indigenous people have had with salmon over millennia. The depletion of a natural abundance that sustained these cultures, caused by misguided myths and greed, is tragic. I have been honored over these last several years to listen to and learn from people whose families have inhabited this land for hundreds of generations. Their resilience is defining. Just like the salmon.

Someone asked me once, “Why this story?” I looked inward to find the clues, and here’s what I found…

Water and fish have inhabited my psyche throughout my life. I start with this vague memory as a very young boy, fishing alone on a dock. The bobber went down and I got too excited; dropped the Zebco into the water. Without thinking, I jumped in after it. I mean, I was young, barely able to swim, but the memory I have is opening my eyes and seeing this underwater world with brilliant clarity. The recurring dream that has followed throughout my life is me, underwater, holding my breath, scared. I open my eyes to that same clarity. Then I take just a little breath, and then another. I can breath. I am a fish.

Flash forward to my first fishing experience in Alaska. My father-in-law loved his annual trek to the Kanektok in early June to back-troll for King salmon. I was a newly passionate fly fisherman and he had heard of this lodge on Lake Iliamna where you head out on daily excursions for these legendary rainbow trout. He was a generous man and booked us for a week. It was early September when millions of Sockeye were returning to the watershed, and the rainbows would be gorging on eggs and decaying salmon flesh preparing for the long winter. This is when salmon entered my dream world. It was the most remarkable thing to witness. Literally the rivers chock full, the current reversing as the masses of fish powered upstream. All of this happening with one objective; to spawn a new generation and nourish an entire ecosystem. I was awestruck. And the trout fishing was pretty good too.

I consider these next two experiences as the final sources of inspiration for The Last Salmon. The first was learning about Lonesome Larry, one year’s only Sockeye salmon to return to Redfish Lake in the Snake River watershed. After witnessing the abundance in Alaska, it was hard to fathom how we could get to a place where literally there would be just one left. But that’s what can happen after generations of destruction disguised as progress and prosperity.

The second was when my son, probably 10, and I were sitting on our deck, looking down on the Chewuch River one beautiful late summer afternoon. We noticed some kids throwing rocks into the river. I didn’t really think much about it, but Charlie leapt up and ran down the steep bank to the river, yelling at the kids to stop. They ran off. I wasn’t really sure why Charlie cared so much about a couple of kids throwing rocks, until I watched him wade into this quiet pool, reach into the water, and cradle a dying salmon in his arms, nudging it out into the faster current, hoping to revive it. I tear up often recalling this scene. It is at the core of my story.