The tantalizing smell of smoked salmon hooked and then reeled me in — to the Native American encampment at the Wenatchee River Salmon Festival, held each autumn at the Leavenworth National Fish Hatchery Complex. It’s one of the few occasions in modern life when the public gathers to celebrate an animal’s mating and spawning habits, and I for one participate whole-heartedly.

All kinds of creatures will entertain you at the festival — snakes, raptors, novice kayakers  — but the star of the show is the salmon. And while we fish-lovers appreciate the complexities of the salmon’s life-cycle (the epic struggle from stream to river to ocean and back again), it’s that final stage — served on a plate with lemon-dill sauce — that interests us most.

So I was delighted to find the Indian encampment awash with the perfume of salmon smoked on an open fire. Several elders stood watch over the cooking process, which included spreading thin filets on dogwood sticks and positioning them just-so over smoldering coals. Best of all, free samples were available. I thought of myself as a mama salmon, overcoming all impediments, wrestling past competitors to get just one more bit of the oily, but extremely tasty smoked fish. (My apologies to the women and children who got in the way.)

Off to the side of the salmon-smoking operation, about 20 full-sized filets hung from ropes, as if on a clothesline. I stopped salivating when I realized these slabs of fish were dotted with flies and yellow-jackets, and were acting as insect bait to keep the smoking area insect-free.

Smart thinking. No fly paper. No $15 wasp traps. No sprays or insecticides or even a fly swatter. These skilled salmon chefs know what bugs want — their own little servings of salmon — and are glad to provide. The trick, said one of the cooks, is to offer the bugs more salmon over there than there is over here. And once their bellies are bloated with fish (like mine?) they’ll think twice about flying 50 yards for more.

Savoring my last little chunk of fish, I wandered over to the encampment’s center where the singing, drumming, and dancing was in full swing. Next to me, a little girl balanced a sheet of aluminum foil on her knee. Atop the foil rested a huge piece of smoked fish. 

Quicker than I could say “Gimme that,” she’d dropped it flat in the dirt.

I swallowed a yelp, then eased back in my chair. I pondered the struggles ahead as I make my way up life’s stream. Salmon will be eaten; salmon will be wasted. Hmm. In front of me, the dancers — all feathers and jangles — were really very good.              

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