- "Grandma Aggie" is in her element: a meadow along the
Applegate River where her ancestors once lived, presiding over a
rite once common among Western Oregon Indian tribes.
79, Agnes Pilgrim still leads the annual sacred salmon ceremony
she helped revive a decade ago. An honored elder with the Confederated
Tribes of Siletz, she normally uses a motorized wheelchair because
of a herniated disc and an atrophied foot. But she is so energized
by this event and this place that she gets around here with only
at dawn, she hollers a wake-up call to summon sleepy campers to
a sunrise prayer circle. Pointing with her crooked cane, she directs
details of a 200-person feast, down to making sure there are clean
white tablecloths and vases of flowers. Raising her hand and chanting
a prayer, she waves a smoldering braid of sweet-grass over ceremonial
granddaughter Tonya Nevarez Rilatos watches closely, Pilgrim blesses
the freshly spaded fire pit, the obsidian blade to cut the fish,
the sharpened redwood stakes used to bake it.
as the first cooked salmon comes off the fire, Pilgrim slices a
bite for each of the participants, who return the bone and skin
to her. Drums thump as four young men emerge from a sweat lodge,
skin flushed by the heat of the purification rite. Each holds cedar
boughs to wrap up the bone and skin offering. As they run to the
frigid river to dive in and leave their bundles on the bottom, the
women dance in a circle.
bless the female salmon," Pilgrim prays, "for her long,
dangerous journey up the river to spawn, still nurturing as she
has a passion for this ceremony once conducted here by her forebears.
She sees its values as crucial for today's tribal descendants -
and all whose future depends on respect for the interdependence
is beautiful ground," she says. "This spot was occupied
by the First Nation People of the Takelma for over 20,000 years.
Our people have a legend that salmon were people like us, who lived
in beautiful cities below the ocean floor and chose to come back
every year in the form of salmon to feed us."
ceremony acknowledges that sacrifice - and humans' duty to ensure
the survival of salmon in return.
teach reciprocity," Pilgrim says. "Our people used to
do things in moderation. They loved the salmon, so didn't fish them
out. We've gotten away from that. We've made garbage dumps of our
rivers and streams."
were important to the survival of dozens of Northwest tribes, including
the Kalapuya who lived in the Eugene-Springfield area. More than
two dozen bands formed the Confederated Tribes of Siletz, and many
of their descendants conduct salmon ceremonies, says Selene Rilatos,
the tribes' cultural activities coordinator.
salmon is held very sacred to the native people," she says.
she knows of no other ceremony that is open to the public. Pilgrim,
in fact, has been criticized for including non-Indians, as she did
at last weekend's 11th annual ceremony just below Applegate Dam,
south of Grants Pass.
woman said to me, `If this is a sacred ceremony, why are all these
people here?' " she recounts. "I said, `Because everyone
eats salmon nowadays, so we need to teach everyone to give back.'
is affectionately known as "Grandma Aggie" - not only
to her 18 grandchildren and 26 great-grandchildren - but to dozens
of regulars who make up her salmon celebration "family."
role as matriarch is evident around the campfire the night before
the ceremony. Her sharp eyes notice a new arrival, a mother with
a young child, behind the fire-lit circle.
her a chair with that baby, Shay," Pilgrim directs her grandson.
"Move it up to the fire - she looks cold."
clearly in charge of the ceremony, Pilgrim makes a point of involving
others to ensure it will survive her.
Keith Taylor, a Eureka, Calif., attorney, assists his mother in
slicing the $1,060 worth of salmon donated for the ceremony by the
Siletz tribes' Chinook Winds Casino.
eager young people thread each 3-inch filet onto a redwood stake,
Pilgrim reminds them how to do so - "belly meat up, so the
oil runs down," and shows them how to slip the sharpened stake
just between skin and meat.
if I died tomorrow?" she asks her apprentices at one point.
"Could you guys go ahead and do this without me? Sure you could!"
37, says her grandmother has long trained family members to become
leaders one day.
I was little, she'd have us walk across the room with Webster's
dictionary on our heads," Rilatos recalls. "She said,
`Oppression is still alive and well, and you will face prejudice,
but stand up strong and tall, and never be ashamed of who you are.'
was a time, however, when this ceremony would have felt as foreign
to Pilgrim as it still does to most Oregonians today.
her great-grandfather was chief when the Army marched his Takelma
tribe 150 miles north to the Siletz reservation.
her grandfather, Jack Harney, was the first elected chief of the
Confederated Tribes of Siletz.
by 1924, when she was born on the Lincoln County reservation, her
family no longer celebrated a formal salmon ceremony. The ranks,
languages and practices of individual tribes had been decimated
by disease, intermarriage and schools bent on assimilating Indian
students into white culture.
so, after graduating from Taft High School, Pilgrim embraced a more
urban life. She worked as a nurse in Portland and Vancouver. She
married and raised six children.
something about Southern Oregon felt like home. At 52, she moved
to Grants Pass and enrolled at Ashland's Southern Oregon University.
Studying local tribal culture while earning a degree in psychology
and American Indian history, she learned something shocking.
lot of people around here thought all the Takelma people were gone,"
her late husband, Grant Pilgrim, a member of Northern California's
Yurok tribe, she set out to resurrect her heritage. She has since
traveled all over the world as an expert on traditional culture
and environmentalism. In 2002, she was Southern Oregon's alumna
of the year for her work reviving traditional ways. With Northern
California resident Dennis Martinez, an O'odham tribal member, the
Pilgrims created the Takelma Intertribal Project. The goal was to
teach native ways of managing forests and streams. They set out
to find a natural setting where they could do it.
the three found this meadow on public land just below Applegate
Dam, Aggie Pilgrim immediately recognized its suitability. She tells
and retells a story that seems to confirm the power of the first
revived salmon ceremony here in 1994.
guy from Fish & Wildlife came to me the next spring and said,
`We don't know what you've done, Aggie, but keep it up - there's
more fish in that river than ever before!' " she remembers
Fustish, the current state salmon enhancement biologist for the
area, has no idea who might have made the remark. But department
fish counts back it up, he says.
1995 spring chinook numbers at nearby Gold Ray Dam set a record
that still stands: 81,845 salmon passed through the Applegate that
year, up from 14,000 in 1994. Fish runs fluctuate because of factors
ranging from water volume and temperature to previous years' commercial
Grant Pilgrim died in 1996, Aggie Pilgrim assumed sole leadership
of the salmon festival.
years, she even paid for it herself," says Patricia Ciminelo,
a Grants Pass neighbor who volunteers on the salmon committee. "A
few years ago, we started seeking donations, and next year we hope
to get a grant-writing committee going."
the feast winds down, Pilgrim moves among the tables in her tribal
regalia, greeting old friends and meeting newcomers.
would her grandparents and great-grandparents have thought of such
a gathering here?
wish they could have seen it," she says, surveying the crowd.
"They would have been so proud. But they know. They know."
TRIBES OF SILETZ
27 bands originally ranging from Northern California to southern
3,666 acres in Lincoln County
recognition: Terminated in 1955; restored in 1977
3,399 Administration: Tribal headquarters in Siletz; satellite offices
in Eugene, Salem and Portland