Living Earth

Protecting the Gift of Herring Roe

ColavecchioS — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 16:00:05 +0000

Living Earth

Protecting the Gift of Herring Roe

From Issue: Winter 2025/Spring 2026 / Vol. 26 No. 4

by David Helvarg

Some Tlingit peoples tell the story of a young woman who would frequently go to Yaaw Teiyi (Herring Rock) in Sitka Sound off the southeast coast of Alaska. There, she would sing to the “yaaw” (Pacific herring), inviting them to visit with her. One day she fell asleep by the water, and as the tide rose, her long hair spread out on the surface. The herring swam to it and laid their eggs in its strands. When she returned to her village, her hair was thick with this herring roe. Her people realized they could collect the fish’s sticky roe during the spring spawning runs either from the blades of the nearshore kelp forests or from hemlock tree branches anchored in the water.

The Herring Protectors are fighting to keep traditional uses of herring alive in Alaska.

Photo by Caitlin Blaisdell/Herring Protectors

Harvey Kitka prepares to lay branches into Sitka Sound, Alaska.

Photo by Bethany Goodrich/Herring Protectors

When harvested days later, they will be covered in herring eggs, or roe—a precious gift that is often given to family and other community members.

Photo by Bethany Goodrich/Herring Protectors

Saul Brown (front, Heiltsuk Nation) and his family harvest herring roe from kelp hanging from a line into waters near Bella Bella, British Columbia.

Photo by Damien Gillis and Charity Gladstone/Heiltsuk Nation

As part of their evaluation of the regional herring population for the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Nations, Rufus and Jaydin Charleson (Hesquiaht First Nation) count rows of herring eggs laid on branches off the coast of British Columbia.

Photo by Irine Polyzogopoulos/Uu-a-thluk

Biologist Sabrina Crowley (Uchucklesaht Tribe) pulls out a net containing herring that will be counted and measured.

Photo by Irine Polyzogopoulos/Uu-a-thluk

For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples have harvested herring eggs, or roe, from the kelp that grows in the ocean along the Pacific Coast, extending from the Russian far east to California. Although declining populations of herring have vastly limited this harvest, it remains a cherished source of food, celebration and sovereignty for many Indigenous peoples in Alaska and British Columbia, some of whom acknowledge herring as their relatives.

“They are a part of our DNA,” said Louise Brady (Tlingit). “It hasn’t to do with money. It’s a cultural, spiritual, historical and social connection for us.” She helped found the Herring Protectors, a nonprofit organization based in Sitka, Alaska, that has helped bring back herring ceremonies, music and regalia to the Tlingit peoples, including brightly colored Herring Woman robes.

Having grown up in Sitka “my father and brother both harvested, and we always sent eggs on branches to relatives and friends in Seattle and Barrow [now Utqiagvik, Alaska],” Brady recalled. “The herring still come in the spring. How joyful this time of year is. There’s nothing like it when we have the herring Koo.e’ex’ [ceremony] right after the harvest.” (At their Koo.e’ex’ last year, Brady’s son wore a traditional Sculpin Hat that a Smithsonian team from Smithsonian Exhibits, the National Museum of Natural History and the Digitization Program Office recreated from a broken ancient hat using 3D technology.)

Eggs on kelp or on branches is a traditional gift to family and friends and is also traded for other necessary staples, such as moose, seal and goose meat or fish oil. However, warming seas, pollution and commercial overfishing has limited the herring roe harvest. The availability of the fishes’ roe dropped dramatically when “reduction fisheries” of the 20th century removed more than a million tons of herring from southeast Alaska waters for fish meal, fertilizer and oil. Then, during the 1960s, demand for herring roe skyrocketed as it started being shipped to Japan as komochi konbu, a high-end delicacy—salty, creamy, and crunchy like Pop Rocks candy—that sold for as much as $40 a pound.

While some of the Tlingit peoples of southeast Alaska and Heiltsuk First Nation of British Columbia are able to harvest in significant quantities to give roe to family and friends and sell to others outside their communities, other Indigenous nations in Canada conduct more limited harvests, including the Haida, the Kitasoo Xia’xais, Nuxalk, Wuikinuxv, Tsimshian, Nuu-Chah-Nulth and Hul’q’umi’num peoples.

Since the Herring Protectors’ founding in 2018, the group has been fighting Alaska state permits that still allow a sac-roe fishery in which the fish are killed, stripped for their roe and their remains turned into fish meal for salmon farms. This takes approximately 20,000 tons of fish a year from Sitka Sound. Brady and others worry that this kind of commercial fishery is further reducing the already depleted herring. Because on average herring spawn as many as five to seven times in their lifetimes, collection of their sticky eggs on kelp or evergreen boughs is a harvest technique that is considered more sustainable and respectful of Indigenous sovereignty. “It’s the last traditional food you can harvest without a permit and without killing one herring,” Brady said. In the spring, the shoreline still becomes milky white and turquoise with miles-long slicks of milt (spawn), but nothing like at the scale many elders recall.

Harvey Kitka (Tlingit) is the former chair of the Tlingit’s Herring Committee. Now 84 years old, he said, “When I started fishing with my father back in about 1950, the herring spawn covered the whole of Sitka Sound. … Our history says when America bought the town sites of Sitka, there’d be almost 10,000 Indians come to harvest herring roe. They’d [the fish] come here to spawn for about 30 days. Right now, we’re getting about five days of spawn. Still, we’re able to get enough for ourselves and extended families. Not everyone goes out, so there’s aunts, uncles, cousins to take care of. I kind of trained my nephews to harvest for other people. So, as long as I’m alive, my nephews and children will harvest and I’ll have something. We’re teaching younger people how to go about it. We take only what we need.”

The desire for roe remains strong in Indigenous communities of Alaska and the Pacific Coast. Among the many ways herring eggs are eaten are fresh, sprinkled with soy sauce, lightly simmered in water or fried in seal oil, Oolichan grease (candlefish oil) or butter—though the number of preferences seem to be as many as the number of fish eggs.

For Saul Brown, an elected council member from the Heiltsuk Nation in Bella Bella, British Columbia, “I like it fried, with garlic butter or on stringy kelp, with hot water poured over it and a simple soy sauce dip,” he said. “But really fresh, out of the water and right into your gullet, is my favorite [way]—with the taste of the evergreen and saltiness of the ocean and a unique pop. It’s almost poetic.”

Brown has been harvesting with his family since he was young. He recalled, “In spring, it’s still cold, wet and rainy. You get out to where the harvest is and it’s snowing and you’re out on a skiff [small boat], and so for us, it’s usually for able-bodied folks.” His father, cousins or sister would put out a line in the water to hold his family’s spot and anchor or float tree branches to provide a surface on which the herring can lay their eggs or they would collect the eggs laid on wild kelp. They return several days later to watch for otters, seals and seabirds—one indicator of when the spawn is happening. He continues the tradition with his own family. “I have a young daughter, and for us the herring come when the moon tips over, goes past the new moon [or “Qumsista” in the Heiltsuk language]. It’s our New Year, the celestial gift,” he said.

To maintain that gift, the Heiltsuk Nation has decided not to run a commercial fishery for export for the last several years, even though that means a 3-million-dollar to 6-million-dollar loss to the small community of about 1,200 people. It also initiated a project aimed at restoring some traditional spawning grounds that are no longer active.

“One of our stories is that our Raven trickster managed to secure some herring and brought them from one area to another in a canoe. [Raven] chanted and they came back to life and tipped the canoe over,” Brown said. “So, we’re testing Raven’s theory of transporting food sources. We’re moving 183 hemlock trees with herring spawn on them to historic spawning sites to see if they’ll come back.”

Along the western shore of Vancouver Island off Canada’s Pacific Coast, the long-term decline of herring in the Nuu-Chah-Nulth territories was so severe that the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Nations successfully pushed for the area’s commercial herring fishery to be closed in 2006. The First Nations then won a court injunction against the government of Canada’s attempt to reopen it in 2014. During the past several years, some communities along the shore have seen dramatic increases in numbers of usmit, or Pacific herring, for the first time in decades.

Judith Sayers, president of the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Tribal Council that represents the 14 Nuu-Chah-Nulth First Nations, said her people are still not harvesting in great amounts. “Though the herring has [now] come back, there’s still concern that some of the spawning areas are not being used [by the fish]. So, while some First Nations are now authorizing spawn on kelp and branch [harvesting], we’re being cautious,” she said. “I think in the last couple of years, more communities are harvesting. The 14 nations get together and talk about it but it’s up to each chief to decide: ‘Are the herring back for good?,’ or ‘Is this just a few good years?’ We want to make sure there will always be herring.”

To monitor the fish’s population, the Nuu-Chah-Nulth Nations’ fisheries program combines Indigenous and western science. The Nuu-Chah-Nulth Tribal Council’s Aquatic Resource Management Department monitors herring, groundfish, salmon and shellfish populations off the west coast of Vancouver Island. Crews cast small nets to collect a few herring as the fish spawn to send them off to a lab to be analyzed, which includes determining their age and size as well as other factors that can help evaluate the health of the fish’s population. While Canada’s Fisheries and Oceans institute contracts divers to conduct underwater surveys, the First Nations use metal rakes on chains to gather marine vegetation on which fish have laid their eggs. The amount of eggs can also reveal whether that fish population is thriving.

The scientists also survey the growing populations of marine mammals in the area, including whales and seals that feed on herring. The impacts of these predators are considered “like another [fishing] fleet,” when putting together models for regional fishing plans, said Aquatic Resource Management Department director Jim Lane. “In the right conditions [the herring] can go like gangbusters or collapse the other way, which is why it’s so important to have collaborative relationships [between the nations, fisheries researchers and the government].”

“Now we have enough expertise and capacity in our communities to monitor the stock and determine when to allow harvest and when to close it down,” Sayers said. “Our management skills will allow us to make sure numbers of herring come back, So, we’re feeling a bit better.”

Elder Harvey Kitka said he looks forward to the roe every year that whales, bears, seals and seabirds also depend upon. It is “one of the first foods we have after winter. Herring come March into April for a while. That’s our first sign of spring. And then they’re gone, and salmon and halibut come after that. The herring spawn, the plankton blooms, the ocean warms up, then the whales—they might be coming in after the herring and taking eggs that wouldn’t otherwise hatch out. There are so many branches to [the marine ecosystem],” he said. “We get our science from thousands of years of watching, of observing. A lot of us have taken care of these systems for an awful lot of time.”

Authors

David Helvarg

David Helvarg is an author, journalist and frequent contributor to American Indian magazine. His latest book is “Forest of the Sea: The Remarkable Life and Imperiled Future of Kelp.”

An Andean Legend Reborn

ArtmanM — Thu, 22 May 2025 12:00:00 +0000

Living Earth

An Andean Legend Reborn

From Issue: Spring 2025 / Vol. 26 No. 1

by Jonathan Franklin

Leaning into the driving sleet 15,700 feet above sea level, Hugo Escalante buries his head into a woolen shawl as he walks the hills of Picotani, his 200-person village in southeast Peru that is cradled by towering Andes mountains. This and two other nearby Quechua communities, Cambria and Toma, provide up to 20,000 acres of refuge for the vicuña, an animal that has been long been venerated in Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina. To this day, it is a symbol of nobility and its wool is an economic lifeline for Quechua and other Indigenous communities in South America.

The vicuña has long been venerated in Peru and other South American countries. Its wool is among the softest in the world and was once only worn by royalty.

Photo by Alessandro Pinto via Getty Images

The vicuña has been featured on Peru’s postage stamps, currency (such as this sol coin dated to 1975) and even its coat of arms.

Stamp and coin photo by Michael Artman; Coat of arms rendering by Guillermo Romero

Surviving in sparcely vegetated, high alpine environments, wild vicuña live in small herds that are typically made up of one male, a few females and young.

Photo by Michael Tweddle

In Picotani, residents such as Hugo Escalante frequently see vicuña wandering through his community.

Photo by Jonathan Franklin

Simona Yawa, one of the Quechan residents of Picotanti, is knowledgable about the local use of plants and animals for medicines. She talked about the importance of the vicuña’s hair to her people.

Photo by Jonathan Franklin

During the “chaku,” or annual roundup of wild vicuñas at the Lucanas community near a national preserve for the animals, residents encircle a herd with a rope covered with ribbons and then walk slowly inward until the animals are captured.

Photo by Gabriel Herrera

The gathered animals are then guided into a chute that leads them into a corral, where they are evaluated prior to shearing.

Photo by Christian Vinces

To be sheared, a vicuña must be not pregnant and needs to be a healthy adult. Any animals in need of veterinary care are treated and released.

Photo by Michael Tweddle

To calm the animals and keep them from kicking and injuring themselves, they are blindfolded and kept stretched out right before shearing. If the shearer is skilled (such as Hernan Sosaya, far right) the wool can be removed in about two minutes.

Photo by Gabriel Herrera

Once the fleece is removed it needs to be combed to remove any dirt, burrs or other particles before being sold.

Photo by Gabriel Herrera

A full month of cleaning the wool leads to just about 2 pounds ready for market.

Photo by Gabriel Herrera

This 18th-century poncho made with cotton and potentially vicuña hair is decorated with double-headed eagles, symbols of power during the time of the Hapsburg Dynasty. As is here, animal figures are often found around the neck opening on traditional Andean men’s garments.

Poncho, 1700s; tapestry weave with cotton warp and camelid weft; 76″ x 66″. 13/7028

Photo by NMAI staff

Yanett Soto, a Quechua weaver from Pitumarca, Peru, weaves a “lliclla” (a traditional Quechua woman’s square shawl) on a backstrap loom.

Photo courtesy of Yanett Soto

In a Peru market, a photo of a vicuña sits above a stack of wool clothing for sale.

Photo by Jonathan Franklin

This animal has narrow legs, a svelte body and the ability to leap with such grace that it resembles an antelope. However, it is a camelid related to domesticated alpacas and llamas as well as its wild cousins, guanacos. Its cinnamon fur is offset by patches of white on its underbelly and chest. The vicuña is often seen holding its head up high, alert to threats. It is territorial to the extreme. With oversized eyes framed by long lashes, it has a penetrating, captivating stare. With a famed resistance to domestication, the vicuña is a regal symbol enshrined on Peru’s national coat of arms, postage stamps, paper currency and coins.

When Escalante looks at the snow-covered pasture, he is relieved as this year the vicuña have a better chance of surviving the dry season. As the traditional summer rains in the Peruvian Andes turn to sleet, then snow, the dusted fields and ancient stone homes look frozen in time. Snowflakes the size of cherries float down and blanket this valley high in the mountains 3 miles above sea level.

“Picotani is an oasis for the vicuña. We have been working with this animal for years,” Hugo Escalante said as he walked toward a skittish wild herd on the outskirts of the community. He described a devastating drought that struck the area in 2023, causing hundreds of the cherished vicuñas to die of hunger and thirst. “The worst is behind us,” he said in between chewing on coca leaves to combat fatigue. This recent snow, he explained, will allow grasslands to sprout and vicuñas to graze on their lands.

Living in this high altitude and cold is a constant battle. Gusts of frigid wind rip through these valleys, through which occasionally can be heard the warbling, high-pitched call of the vicuña. Locals dress in layers, keep gas stoves burning and acclimatize to the harsh life in the altiplano, the plateaus high in the mountains.

The stone homes—some roofed using thatched bundles of grasses—do have electric power, but the residents say it is sporadic. So Picotani runs on the cycle of the sun. This pastoral schedule is focused on the vicuña and the slightly larger alpaca, which has for centuries served as a valuable source of meat, pelts and woolen products, including socks, sweaters and scarves. Even the alpaca stomach is cherished, as once removed it can be cleaned and then filled with milk that later curdles into a coveted cheese. The vicuña was also once hunted for food and fur, but now it is protected.

Farmers have to keep an eye on their herds and so can be seen patrolling their fields. Pumas are an infrequent predator on their animals here, but once spotted, are often shot on sight. Foxes are more common, and frequently they will sneak up to the the alpacas' shelters and kill newborns. “I lost two last night,” fretted Hugo Escalante as he described how the recent snowstorm brought his guard dogs into the house and the foxes out for the hunt. “In the morning the dogs brought me what was left,” he said, lamenting the death of the newborn alpacas.

This harsh climate led the vicuña to adapt to the region’s high altitude by growing multiple layers of hair that provide insulation against the cold. As each hair is 20 times thinner than that of a human, this extremely soft fiber has been highly valued since the beginning of the Inca Empire in the 1400s. Woven into ceremonial tunics,“the use of vicuña clothing was in Incan times reserved for clergy and nobility,” said Vanessa Ocaña-Mayor, a Quechua-mestiza weaver and fiber artist who has a master’s degree in sustainable tourism as well as bachelor’s degrees in the fine arts and anthropology.

The vegetation around Picotani is sparse. Not a tree is visible in the entire valley and plants are rarely more than knee high. Still, this alpine ecosystem provides the local herds grasses for grazing and villagers sources of medicine. Sitting inside the town’s community center with a ball of coca leaves wadded in her cheek, Simona Yawa, one of Picotani's Quechua residents, casually rattled off the names of a dozen plants used to combat fatigue, infections, fertility issues and headaches. She also described the centuries-old practice of gathering muña leaves, which are then ingested either as a mintlike tea to combat altitude sickness or made into a balm to promote healing of colds and congestion. She also said that people in Peru still use the white fibers from the vicuña’s chest for healing ceremonies. The tufts of fibers are burned so that the resulting smoke can be inhaled to strengthen immunity and provide spiritual protection.

An Upward Climb to Recovery

According to the 2020 book “Vicuñas: Survival of the Finest,” an estimated 2 million vicuña roamed the Andean highlands during the 1400s. But following Spanish rule of the region, massive hunting and poaching over centuries whittled that number down.“The vicuña was on its way to extinction because of clandestine hunting,” said Jose Escalante, another Quechua resident of Picotani. “In this area in particular, there was not much interest in the conservation of the vicuña.” By the 1960s, only an estimated 6,000 vicuña remained throughout Argentina, Bolivia, Chile and Peru.

The vicuña population was impacted further by a violent group in Peru known as “Sendero Luminoso,” or “Shining Path,” which killed tens of thousands of Peruvians from 1980 through the 1990s. Shining Path members often sought refuge in the southern Peruvian highlands, where they targeted the vicuña for food.

Given the extreme violence of Shining Path, many government offices and functions in the highlands were abandoned. Roads were not maintained and infrastructure improvements were postponed. Farmers were unable to transport their animal products to market, including vicuña and alpaca wool. Some villagers chose to live in caves as a tactic to avoid the bands of Shining Path hit squads. Noted breeders of alpaca and agricultural experts Orlando Barreda and Alberto Pumayala were murdered in 1992 near Picotani. The mayor of one village was executed in the town square.

The lack of government presence allowed bands of poachers to migrate in from Bolivia, slaughter alpacas and vicuña, and then retreat to relative safety beyond the Bolivian border. “In the late 80s, we formed self-defense committees,” said Jose Escalante. “It was difficult. We had not a rifle, and the hunters were well armed. It was difficult to confront them. It took time to earn the respect [of the poachers] and after that, the population of vicuña began to grow.”

The establishment of a nature preserve in Ayacucho, Peru, in 1967 for the vicuña called the Pampa Galeras–Barbara D'Achille National Reserve (named in part after environmental journalist Barbara D’Achille) as well as an international ban on trade of vicuña fiber in 1975 helped the animal recover. In 1992, Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori codified the vicuña as property of the national government but transferred the right to shear them to the country’s Indigenous communities provided the animals were not harmed in the process.

The Gathering of the Vicuña

Given that vicuña are fleet of foot and wild, every year a ceremony known as a “chaku” (a nonlethal hunt) is held in villages where the animals live to temporarily catch them. The capture of vicuña is a sacred affair that does not even commence until the completion of a fertility ceremony. This begins with a “wedding” between a female and male vicuña, who are adorned with woven earrings and headdress before being paired at an altar and blessed. “We ask the Pachamama (Mother Earth), our creator, to keep giving us more babies,” said Hugo Escalante. “We always ask for the next year for there to be more births and more fiber.”

During the chaku—a ceremony that is estimated to date to 1200 A.D.—the villagers herd the animals together by using long cords of twine adorned with flapping colorful flags and walking slowly toward the center. From above, the human circle looks like a slow-motion tsunami rolling inwards. The line of encroaching humans looks insurmountable, yet the vicuña try to break through the lines. Some do leap past the startled humans, but these can be quickly herded back toward the center. All are eventually directed toward a chute that leads them into a corral where they can be sheared. Once they are sheared, they are released.

The local residents treat the animals with care during these roundups and do not brand them. “We always trying to protect this species. We are a strong believer in this ceremony.” said Pedro Mullasaca, the Quechua president of Picotani.“The vicuña brings us together. We should value it more,” he said. “For our community, this is much more than just fiber.”

The land from which the vicuña must be rounded up is vast, and evaluating each vicuña to determine if it is healthy enough to be sheared is time-consuming. “The [Picotani] community has thousands of vicuña,” explains Alejandro Tejeda, a Quechuan community member who has worked on various projects for Picotani, including water conservation initiatives for vicuña pastures. Tejeda explained that for every thousand vicuñas, only about a third are eligible for shearing. Some are pregnant, while others are too skinny. Unless the animal’s coat is robust, shearing may cause it to freeze as it would be unable to shield its core temperature from the region’s bitterly cold wind.

During the chaku, celebratory meals that might include alpaca ribs grilled over coals are held between tasks. While the shearing process is completed in one day, the event may last several. Then the women in a community will spend weeks removing burrs, dirt and other imperfections from the sheared fibers. The work is meticulous, and a full month of cleaning leads to just about 2 pounds ready for market.

Given the amount of effort necessary to celebrate and protect the vicuña, Mullasaca is worried his people's traditions could be lost. “There are some youth who are interested, but not with the enthusiasm or the spark we have,” he said. “We have to work with the preschoolers, the elementary and the high schoolers so that they have a deeper understanding of the vicuña.”

A Delicate Market

The ban on international trade of vicuña wool was lifted in 1995. Protection of the vicuña soared in the late 1990s, when the Peruvian government spearheaded an international bidding process that encouraged luxury clothing brands to make their best offers for the animal’s wool. Italian luxury brand Loro Piana won the bid with an initial five-year commitment to buy all the vicuña wool that communities produced, invest $1 million in the machinery needed to process it as well as market any resulting products. Today, fine vicuña wool is among the most coveted fibers on Earth. Compared to the finest cashmere that is about 19 microns thick, the vicuña is just 12 microns yet still strong. As weaver Ocaña-Mayor explained, “It is unmatched in texture, luster and tensile strength.”

Sold around the world by high-end brands such as Louis Vuitton and Ermenegildo Zegna, a single vicuña fiber jacket or shawl can cost thousands of dollars. Vicuña baseball caps (which were recently made famous when used by actors on the television series “Succession”) are selling out at $600 each.

Every year, Tejada said that Picotani receives tens of thousands of dollars from its sale of vicuña fiber. All the money must be spent on community projects, such as a schoolhouse for the children or watering holes for the wild vicuña. Individuals such as Yawa keep their personal finances afloat through their herds of alpaca, each worth about $300. “If I need a thousand dollars, then I sell three alpacas,” explained Yawa, who estimated her current stock of alpaca at roughly 200 animals.

In Picotani, the economy isn’t necessarily dependent on a monetary system. Neighbors trade supplies, lend animals for breeding and share the costs of feed and transport. In March, scientists visiting from the National Agrarian University–La Molina in Lima provided local leaders with an ominous evaluation: the highlands were overgrazed and needed time to recover. For those living this pastoral tradition, this was unwelcome news, as they seek to increase the density of vicuña near the community.

Poachers also continue to be a threat, said Mullasaca. They shoot the vicuña, skin them and leave behind the carcass. Often they kill 10 to 20 vicuña per raid, which explains the written signs posted around the perimeter of Picotani that warn intruders they face armed patrols.

These challenges, however, have not weakened the community members’ commitment to the vicuña or their faith in Pachamama. “Be it the grasses, the vicuña, our own food supply, we thank her [Pachamama] for bringing these living things into existence,” said Yawa. “The vicuña has always been present in the different episodes of our life, and we have a deep conviction to conserve the vicuña.”

Authors

Jonathan Franklin

Jonathan Franklin is a journalist based in Chile.

Rescuing Thunderbirds: For the Iowa Peoples, Keeping Their Sacred Eagles Soaring is a Life-long Commitment

ThorneLE — Fri, 04 Oct 2024 17:28:23 +0000

Living Earth

Rescuing Thunderbirds: For the Iowa Peoples, Keeping Their Sacred Eagles Soaring is a Life-long Commitment

From Issue: Fall 2024 / Vol. 25 No. 3

by Anne Bolen

In north-central Oklahoma this past summer, a bald eagle had been on the ground for days. A resident saw him hopping across a parking lot, looking for scraps, and tried to help sustain the bird with hot dogs rather than his actual diet of fish. But after the bird still failed to fly, that resident called the experts.

The trained staff from the Iowa Tribe’s Grey Snow Eagle House safely retrieved the bird and brought him about an hour south to their rehabilitation center in Perkins, Oklahoma. There they examined their new patient and found that he was covered with mites that had eaten away his neck feathers. Also, many of his tail feathers were broken, and as these could take up to two years to regrow, the staff would have to wait months before knowing if this bird could fly long distances again. But at this avian sanctuary, he is being given that time.

Eagles have long been revered by Indigenous peoples. Both the Otoe-Missouria and Iowa Tribe of Oklahoma feature the eagle, one of their clan animals, in their tribal seals.