What’s needed to get spring Chinook back to Walla Walla? Cooperation — and patience

In a tiny cement room under a big steel-and-cement bridge, Jerimiah Bonifer stood at a rectangular window. Through the plexiglass pane, he had an underwater view of the Walla Walla River, which flows from the Blue Mountains to the Columbia River. 

A camera sat trained on the window, collecting data that would be hand-reviewed by staff at the  Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, or CTUIR. 

Bonifer, who manages fishery programs for the CTUIR, was excited by what the camera had captured: more than 900 spring Chinook salmon swimming past this bridge in Milton-Freewater, Oregon, as of late June. 

That number is a significant jump from past years: roughly 500 in 2024 and roughly 60 in 2023. The growing numbers of Chinook are the result of decades of work by the CTUIR, as well as extensive collaboration with the Bonneville Power Administration and the governments of Washington and Oregon. 

The CTUIR, which is a union of the Cayuse, Umatilla and Walla Walla people, soon hopes to have a self-sustaining population of Chinook, with runs big enough to allow for tribal harvest. 

“ With spring Chinook actually returning in harvestable numbers, we’re gonna be restoring a connection to landscape that’s been missing for quite a while,” said Bonifer, who’s a CTUIR member. “This relationship with the landscape, this relationship with the foods, is essential to our culture.” 

A ‘First Foods’ mission

Spring Chinook went extinct in the Walla Walla River about a century ago, after infrastructure built in the river caused it to run dry in the summers. Bonifer said other factors contributed to the extinction, too: overfishing, overallocation of water, and a lack of screens on irrigation systems, which meant salmon would pour onto farmers’ fields. 

The loss of the salmon was devastating to the CTUIR. For the tribes, the fish are more than just a food source; they’re an integral part of their culture. So much so, the mission statement of the tribes’ Department of Natural Resources is to “protect, restore, and enhance the First Foods” — water, salmon, deer, roots and huckleberry — that represent the region’s Indigenous people. 

Bonifer stands by the window through which CTUIR staffers can count fish. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

As Bonifer put it: “These natural resources and cultural resources, we don’t separate ‘em. They’re necessary for our existence.” 

So in 2000, the CTUIR began making a pointed effort to bring Chinook back to the Walla Walla Basin. It started by planting adults, and later juveniles, or smolts, from the Carson National Fish Hatchery into the river. 

But not many salmon returned in the following years. And besides, releasing salmon from a different location seemed incongruous with the tribes’ ultimate goal of a naturally spawning local population. So the idea for a CTUIR-owned hatchery was born. 

But first, the water flowing down the Walla Walla River — which needed to be colder and more plentiful for the fish to survive their passage — had to be addressed. 

“ Fish gotta have water,” Bonifer said. “We’re gonna work our tail off to get these fish back. But if we don’t have sufficient flows in the river to support these populations, it’s just not possible.”

A groundbreaking new law

The tribes weren’t the only ones concerned about water in the Walla Walla Basin. 

Brook Beeler, the eastern region director for Washington’s Department of Ecology, said that there had been “decades of frustration” because there wasn’t enough water to meet the needs of everyone: farmers, industry, cities and tribes. 

So in 2009, Washington’s Legislature developed a pilot program that gave those in the Walla Walla Basin more flexibility in managing their water. Despite some successes, the program didn’t result in more water in the streams — a necessity for fish migration. And after a decade, the CTUIR asked the state of Washington for more help. 

The Legislature directed the Department of Ecology to get involved again — and this time, to include the state of Oregon, as well. The result was the Walla Walla Basin Advisory Committee. 

Modeled after the Yakima Basin Integrated Plan, which started in 2013, Walla Walla’s committee includes representatives from government, agriculture, business, recreation, conservation and more. The group also encourages the public to attend its monthly meetings. 

“The overarching goal is to have that durable supply for everyone,” Beeler said. “People, farms and fish.”

In comparison to the pilot project, the new committee makes decisions by consensus rather than votes. Beeler said that’s been key to its success. 

“Whereas before you could really just sit in your camp and vote how you wanted, now it really forces dialogue and understanding,” she said. “You have big irrigated ag folks talking about how cool fish releases are.” 

Eastside Bridge, known locally as Nursery Bridge, is the only point along the Walla Walla River where spring Chinook salmon can be counted. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

The committee’s biggest accomplishment, Beeler said, has been pushing for two new laws that allow the state of Washington to collectively manage water in the Walla Walla Basin with Oregon. 

To understand why that matters, imagine each state has a big water cooler, and that residents have a number showing where they are in line to get that water. Those who’ve had water rights for a long time are at the front of the line. Those who are newer to the game are at the back. 

In the past, if Oregon found a way to conserve some of its water, that water would flow into Washington’s water cooler. All of a sudden, the people at the back of Washington’s line would get some water — completely negating Oregon’s efforts to reduce its usage. And due to long standing water laws, neither state could do anything about it. 

But now, when someone in Oregon adds more water to the proverbial cooler that is the Walla Walla River, Washington’s Department of Ecology can preserve that water, too, ensuring it flows all the way to the Columbia River and out to sea. The laws that allow this were among the first of their kind nationwide. 

“It’s pretty remarkable,” said Dylan Hedden-Nicely, a professor and  head of the Native American law program at the University of Idaho and citizen of the Cherokee Nation. “I think that this serves as maybe an example or a precedent for better intergovernmental, transboundary water resources management.” 

While Hedden-Nicely wasn’t familiar with the specifics of the laws or their origins, he said the notion that states worked together and prioritized fish passage was noteworthy in itself. 

“Usually states, pretty jealously, protect state sovereignty over water,” he said. “So just the fact that these two states are engaging with each other on this level and making agreements that might limit one state’s or both states’ control over water resources, I really think is pretty groundbreaking.”

The first time water was protected through these news laws was in 2024, as part of a cooperative effort between the city of Walla Walla, the CTUIR and a nonprofit called the Washington Water Trust. 

The city, which has some Oregon water rights despite being in Washington, agreed to put some of its Oregon water into an aquifer during the winter, when demand for water is lower. The city then diverts less water during the dry summer months — using what’s stored in the aquifers instead — thereby preserving more stream flow for fish in Mill Creek, a tributary of the Walla Walla River. The project is on hold this year while some kinks are worked out, but is expected to resume in 2026.

Greg McLaughlin works for the Washington Water Trust. In the West, he said there’s been a long history of litigation when it comes to water rights. But that attitude has been changing, especially in this region.

“There’s a lot of places where water is this kind of place of conflict — and truly in the Walla Walla, this is a place where partners are working on behalf of one another,” he said. “ There’s a real spirit of, ‘We can do more together than we can separately.’”

Beeler echoed that sentiment. She brought up an old saying: “Whisky’s for drinkin’ and water’s for fightin’.” 

“That has really been what water management has been, up until the last, probably, 10 to 20 years,” she said. “We’re learning that you’re much more successful when you have all the interests working together towards common goals.” 

500,000 smolt 

Back at the bridge in Milton-Freewater, Emily Meshke opened the lid of a big silver tank truck. About 30 salmon swam around, the water burbling around them. 

Meshke, who works at the CTUIR’s Imtwaha Fish Hatchery, was collecting these adult fish from the Walla Walla River to use as “broodstock.” She’ll put the fish into a holding pond to mature and spawn, thereby providing the hatchery with smolts that can be released in future years. 

Emily Meshke, who works at the Imtwaha Fish Hatchery, stands atop a silver tank truck holding spring Chinook salmon. (Credit: Susan Shain / NWPB)

“It’s really, really cool to get to be part of a program that’s in its infancy still,” Meshke said of Imtwaha, which was completed in 2022. “ The returns we’re seeing this year are kind of showing that what we’re doing is working.” 

Imtwaha, the first hatchery that’s fully owned and operated by the CTUIR, sits on a 12-acre site on the South Fork of the Walla Walla River, about nine miles from Milton-Freewater. The 33,000-square-foot building has dozens of tanks that see the salmon through their first two years of life. 

The hatchery’s construction was funded by the Bonneville Power Administration, as part of its legally-required efforts to mitigate the impact of hydropower dams. The company also covers the hatchery’s ongoing operating and maintenance costs.

In 2023, the hatchery released 500,000 smolt — the first group of fish that it had reared from eggs to juveniles — into the Walla Walla River and Mill Creek. Now, those fish are returning as 4-year-old adults. 

“ I was just excited to see a lot of fish showing up,” said hatchery manager Thomas Tall Bull, who is Cayuse and an enrolled member of the Nez Perce tribe. 

Imtwaha’s program has continued to release another half-million smolt every spring, with the eventual goal of having 5,000 return annually. 

Those stark numbers reveal the limitations of these efforts: Surviving as a salmon is difficult, even with lots of help. It’s especially difficult when they must pass through a system filled with dams and other infrastructure. And when climate change is bearing down on them, too. 

“ I’m kind of worried about drought, kind of worried about fire, I’m worried about habitat — especially low flows and warmer temps,” Tall Bull said. “The tribe is doing their best to make up for that.” 

And if the CTUIR succeed, Tall Bull said the return of spring Chinook would benefit far more than just the tribes. 

Salmon “bring nutrients to the water from the ocean, not just to humans, but to all walks of life,” he said. “Everything flourishes with what salmon bring to the area, because they’re a keystone species.” 

Earlier this spring, Bonifer thought there might be enough returning Chinook to have a harvest. 

But the returns were about 100 fish shy of what the tribes’ Fish and Wildlife Commission was looking for. The agency only opens fishing after an adequate number of salmon have been captured for the hatchery and an adequate number have escaped to spawn naturally.

Still, Bonifer is hopeful it’ll happen next year. Or the year after that. Whenever it does, he will celebrate his people’s return to the river to catch spring Chinook, prepare them for ceremonies and feast together, as they have for millennia. 

“ We’re not just thinking about today, we’re not just thinking about tomorrow,” Bonifer said. “We’re thinking seven generations ahead.”