Post by blackcrowheart on Jul 5, 2007 8:53:54 GMT -5
Tribes recall a dam closure that ended a way of life
By JOSEPH B. FRAZIER / Associated Press
Jay Minthorn remembers watching the Columbia River rise, the islands of
Celilo Falls vanish, the fishing platforms wash away — and a
centuries-old way of tribal life vanish forever.
The gates of The Dalles Dam had closed, and nothing would ever be the
same.
"That was the hardest thing to do," says Minthorn, a member of the
Umatilla Tribe who fished the falls as a young man. "To me it was one of
the biggest funerals that I ever attended. People were up there
mourning, crying, everything.
"They just kind of walked off and left all their fishing equipment and
nets and scaffolds, whatever, we left them to go under water or down the
river."
He is 70 now. He was just 20 on March 10, 1957, when the dam pushed back
the Columbia River to reap the benefits of hydroelectric power. In six
hours the falls were gone forever beneath a mockingly tranquil reservoir
pool.
The 50th anniversary of that moment is approaching. It will be more
noted than celebrated.
"If you talk of Celilo to some Indian families you will get the door
slammed in your face. It's still that painful," says Charles Hudson,
spokesman for the Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission.
For 10,000 years or more, Columbia River Indians thrived on the abundant
salmon churning through the falls to upriver spawning grounds.
The falls provided a cultural identity, an abundant life, and, for
centuries, a Western Wall Street where tribes from across the West, from
Alaska, from the Plains, from the South came to trade salmon, shells,
buffalo meat, obsidian, copper, roots, fur, blankets, canoes, slaves.
For most people the falls today are trapped in classic black-and-white
photos of Indian fishermen silhouetted with their dip nets on
rickety-looking platforms hanging over the tumbling whitewater. But for
older tribesmen, the falls of their memories are in vibrant and living
color.
"I tell people, my kids and grandkids, about it when we travel down
here," Minthorn said. "They look at the manmade river we have today
compared to the great Celilo Falls."
He said you could hear the falls and feel the humidity from their mist
from miles away.
"The hills here used to be green from the mist from the water," he said,
looking over to the Washington side. "Today they don't have any color
left in them."
The story of how the color disappeared — and the fish, and the
majesty of the falls — starts long before the dam was built.
The tons of drying salmon impressed members of the Lewis and Clark
expedition as they headed down the river in October of 1805.
They were probably the first white men to see the falls, although
American and British ships had been calling at the Columbia's mouth
since 1792 and their trade goods (and venereal disease) had worked their
way up to Celilo and beyond.
Celilo custom called for providing visiting tribes with the salmon they
needed, but the expedition wasn't tribal and the Celilos were no fools.
"They ask high prices for what the Sell and Say that the white people
give great prices &c for everything," William Clark grumbled in his
journal in November of 1805.
Thus, perhaps, a tourist industry was hatched.
Clark described the falls and adjacent rapids that tumbled through
several miles of basalt formations as "foming and boiling in a most
horriable manner."
Beginning in the 1830s, gold seekers and early settlers forced the
tribes out of the river valleys leading to the Columbia, and the tribes
found a welcome among the Celilo on the Columbia. Treaties of 1855 then
herded the Indians onto reservations after they signed away huge tracts
of traditional lands and other wealth.
Some stayed on the river, but all members of the river tribes kept their
fishing rights to the "usual and accustomed" places, and the falls
remained known as "an Indian place."
But access to the "usual and accustomed" fishing areas, guaranteed by
treaty but not well-defined, often was blocked by whites who had taken
over land.
And murderously efficient fishing methods by non-Indian fishermen (such
as fish traps and fish wheels, since outlawed) fed the voracious
downriver salmon canneries.
Pollution and destruction of spawning grounds also played a role in
reducing the salmon runs to a trickle of their historic highs. But dams
were a major factor.
At the height, as many as 16 million salmon passed through the river. By
2006, only about 1 million adult salmon and steelhead heading upriver to
spawn were counted at Bonneville Dam, the first of 14 dams on the
Columbia.
Looking back, there was little the tribes could do to prevent the dam
from being built. They argued for its placement where it would not bury
the falls, but America in the 1950s — emerging from a hot war and
entering a cold one — was about progress and patriotism. Dam
advocates stressed a need for cheap hydroelectric energy to power the
aluminum smelters on the river.
Bonneville Power Administration newsreels of the day presented the falls
as a nuisance to river commerce and transportation and painted glowing
images of the easy life of abundant, cheap electricity.
Meanwhile, the Eisenhower administration was nullifying the reservation
status of many tribes and school books still depicted Indians as
defeated historical footnotes, the bad guys in the B movies generations
of kids saw on Saturdays for a quarter.
At the same time, bad blood remained between tribes and whites over
river access for fishing. Sometimes, the Indians successfully defended
their rights in court.
As a result, said Charles Hudson, many non-Indian fishermen supported
inundating the falls, believing it would end the Indian river fishery.
Perhaps it would do to the river what the loss of the buffalo did to the
Plains — get rid of the food supply, get rid of the Indians.
And so, the falls disappeared.
After considerable dickering, most members of the four tribes got about
$3,750 each for the loss of their fishing place. Some refused the money,
saying nothing could replace what was lost.
River towns, including Celilo, were relocated to allow for the rising
reservoir.
Those who remained at Celilo got new homes, many built with "weathered"
surplus World War II materials, in the new Celilo Village, said George
Miller, Celilo Village project manager for the U.S. Army Corps of
Engineers.
And it became a dreadful slum. Water pressure, residents said, was so
low that sewage sometimes backed into the water pipes.
Antone Minthorn, 71, chairman of the Umatilla tribal confederation based
near Pendleton, said non-Indian towns that were relocated got
good-quality modern facilities. Not so Celilo, "because we were Indians.
We were out of power."
Congress did not authorize money for repairs until 2004. It is now being
renovated by the Corps with new sewer and water systems and new streets
and housing.
About 60 people call the dilapidated village home, a number that can
double when tribal members arrive for fishing season. In its prime the
population probably ran to 5,000-10,000.
The fishery is controlled, and today the tribes' catch is limited. Some
isolated platform fishing continues but the tribal fishery generally has
become a much smaller and placid, mostly stillwater operation.
"There is an economy here only when there are fish," Jay Minthorn said.
"Young people go to work in Portland. The challenge is to keep the
village together, to build an economy for them."
Celilo Falls, he said, was a living, a livelihood.
"We had an abundance of fish ... ," he said. "They were 30, 40,
50-pounders," and salmon sales to visitors were brisk. The fishery was a
tourist draw. "People come from all over to witness the fishery," he
said. "They'd give you a dollar to take your picture. A dollar was a lot
of money in them days."
Today, windsurfers frolic where the falls once channeled a roaring
river. A sign at a freeway wayside tells visitors what they missed.
But the tribes remember.
Ronald Jim remembers his father, Howard Jim, a long time chief who
fished the falls; when the gates closed and the falls vanished, the
elder Jim couldn't bear the sight, went away and didn't come back for
two years.
Jay Minthorn remembers a Umatilla member, Wesley Tyus, who said he would
never fish or eat salmon again. "He lived by that," Minthorn said.
"When you see what we have here today, people say it's the biggest
cemetery that we have here," Minthorn said.
The Dalles Dam can generate enough electricity to serve a city the size
of Seattle, and there is no talk of removing it. A few have suggested
dropping the reservoir 40 feet or so to expose the falls again, if only
briefly.
"But there is an opinion that, `Don't bring them back only to take them
away again.' That pain should not be felt by others," Hudson said.
By JOSEPH B. FRAZIER / Associated Press
Jay Minthorn remembers watching the Columbia River rise, the islands of
Celilo Falls vanish, the fishing platforms wash away — and a
centuries-old way of tribal life vanish forever.
The gates of The Dalles Dam had closed, and nothing would ever be the
same.
"That was the hardest thing to do," says Minthorn, a member of the
Umatilla Tribe who fished the falls as a young man. "To me it was one of
the biggest funerals that I ever attended. People were up there
mourning, crying, everything.
"They just kind of walked off and left all their fishing equipment and
nets and scaffolds, whatever, we left them to go under water or down the
river."
He is 70 now. He was just 20 on March 10, 1957, when the dam pushed back
the Columbia River to reap the benefits of hydroelectric power. In six
hours the falls were gone forever beneath a mockingly tranquil reservoir
pool.
The 50th anniversary of that moment is approaching. It will be more
noted than celebrated.
"If you talk of Celilo to some Indian families you will get the door
slammed in your face. It's still that painful," says Charles Hudson,
spokesman for the Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission.
For 10,000 years or more, Columbia River Indians thrived on the abundant
salmon churning through the falls to upriver spawning grounds.
The falls provided a cultural identity, an abundant life, and, for
centuries, a Western Wall Street where tribes from across the West, from
Alaska, from the Plains, from the South came to trade salmon, shells,
buffalo meat, obsidian, copper, roots, fur, blankets, canoes, slaves.
For most people the falls today are trapped in classic black-and-white
photos of Indian fishermen silhouetted with their dip nets on
rickety-looking platforms hanging over the tumbling whitewater. But for
older tribesmen, the falls of their memories are in vibrant and living
color.
"I tell people, my kids and grandkids, about it when we travel down
here," Minthorn said. "They look at the manmade river we have today
compared to the great Celilo Falls."
He said you could hear the falls and feel the humidity from their mist
from miles away.
"The hills here used to be green from the mist from the water," he said,
looking over to the Washington side. "Today they don't have any color
left in them."
The story of how the color disappeared — and the fish, and the
majesty of the falls — starts long before the dam was built.
The tons of drying salmon impressed members of the Lewis and Clark
expedition as they headed down the river in October of 1805.
They were probably the first white men to see the falls, although
American and British ships had been calling at the Columbia's mouth
since 1792 and their trade goods (and venereal disease) had worked their
way up to Celilo and beyond.
Celilo custom called for providing visiting tribes with the salmon they
needed, but the expedition wasn't tribal and the Celilos were no fools.
"They ask high prices for what the Sell and Say that the white people
give great prices &c for everything," William Clark grumbled in his
journal in November of 1805.
Thus, perhaps, a tourist industry was hatched.
Clark described the falls and adjacent rapids that tumbled through
several miles of basalt formations as "foming and boiling in a most
horriable manner."
Beginning in the 1830s, gold seekers and early settlers forced the
tribes out of the river valleys leading to the Columbia, and the tribes
found a welcome among the Celilo on the Columbia. Treaties of 1855 then
herded the Indians onto reservations after they signed away huge tracts
of traditional lands and other wealth.
Some stayed on the river, but all members of the river tribes kept their
fishing rights to the "usual and accustomed" places, and the falls
remained known as "an Indian place."
But access to the "usual and accustomed" fishing areas, guaranteed by
treaty but not well-defined, often was blocked by whites who had taken
over land.
And murderously efficient fishing methods by non-Indian fishermen (such
as fish traps and fish wheels, since outlawed) fed the voracious
downriver salmon canneries.
Pollution and destruction of spawning grounds also played a role in
reducing the salmon runs to a trickle of their historic highs. But dams
were a major factor.
At the height, as many as 16 million salmon passed through the river. By
2006, only about 1 million adult salmon and steelhead heading upriver to
spawn were counted at Bonneville Dam, the first of 14 dams on the
Columbia.
Looking back, there was little the tribes could do to prevent the dam
from being built. They argued for its placement where it would not bury
the falls, but America in the 1950s — emerging from a hot war and
entering a cold one — was about progress and patriotism. Dam
advocates stressed a need for cheap hydroelectric energy to power the
aluminum smelters on the river.
Bonneville Power Administration newsreels of the day presented the falls
as a nuisance to river commerce and transportation and painted glowing
images of the easy life of abundant, cheap electricity.
Meanwhile, the Eisenhower administration was nullifying the reservation
status of many tribes and school books still depicted Indians as
defeated historical footnotes, the bad guys in the B movies generations
of kids saw on Saturdays for a quarter.
At the same time, bad blood remained between tribes and whites over
river access for fishing. Sometimes, the Indians successfully defended
their rights in court.
As a result, said Charles Hudson, many non-Indian fishermen supported
inundating the falls, believing it would end the Indian river fishery.
Perhaps it would do to the river what the loss of the buffalo did to the
Plains — get rid of the food supply, get rid of the Indians.
And so, the falls disappeared.
After considerable dickering, most members of the four tribes got about
$3,750 each for the loss of their fishing place. Some refused the money,
saying nothing could replace what was lost.
River towns, including Celilo, were relocated to allow for the rising
reservoir.
Those who remained at Celilo got new homes, many built with "weathered"
surplus World War II materials, in the new Celilo Village, said George
Miller, Celilo Village project manager for the U.S. Army Corps of
Engineers.
And it became a dreadful slum. Water pressure, residents said, was so
low that sewage sometimes backed into the water pipes.
Antone Minthorn, 71, chairman of the Umatilla tribal confederation based
near Pendleton, said non-Indian towns that were relocated got
good-quality modern facilities. Not so Celilo, "because we were Indians.
We were out of power."
Congress did not authorize money for repairs until 2004. It is now being
renovated by the Corps with new sewer and water systems and new streets
and housing.
About 60 people call the dilapidated village home, a number that can
double when tribal members arrive for fishing season. In its prime the
population probably ran to 5,000-10,000.
The fishery is controlled, and today the tribes' catch is limited. Some
isolated platform fishing continues but the tribal fishery generally has
become a much smaller and placid, mostly stillwater operation.
"There is an economy here only when there are fish," Jay Minthorn said.
"Young people go to work in Portland. The challenge is to keep the
village together, to build an economy for them."
Celilo Falls, he said, was a living, a livelihood.
"We had an abundance of fish ... ," he said. "They were 30, 40,
50-pounders," and salmon sales to visitors were brisk. The fishery was a
tourist draw. "People come from all over to witness the fishery," he
said. "They'd give you a dollar to take your picture. A dollar was a lot
of money in them days."
Today, windsurfers frolic where the falls once channeled a roaring
river. A sign at a freeway wayside tells visitors what they missed.
But the tribes remember.
Ronald Jim remembers his father, Howard Jim, a long time chief who
fished the falls; when the gates closed and the falls vanished, the
elder Jim couldn't bear the sight, went away and didn't come back for
two years.
Jay Minthorn remembers a Umatilla member, Wesley Tyus, who said he would
never fish or eat salmon again. "He lived by that," Minthorn said.
"When you see what we have here today, people say it's the biggest
cemetery that we have here," Minthorn said.
The Dalles Dam can generate enough electricity to serve a city the size
of Seattle, and there is no talk of removing it. A few have suggested
dropping the reservoir 40 feet or so to expose the falls again, if only
briefly.
"But there is an opinion that, `Don't bring them back only to take them
away again.' That pain should not be felt by others," Hudson said.