I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest all my life. The trees, the water, the mountains, they’re my home. My family has been here since the mid-1800s, and I’ve always felt deeply rooted in this place. But over the past two years, I’ve learned that my connection is a mere flicker compared to that of our tribal neighbors, whose families have lived and fished these lands and rivers for thousands of years.
Growing up in the 1980s, tribal reservations were, to me, a mystery. We’d go once a year to “the rez” for fireworks, but otherwise that world stayed hidden. As mayor of Tenino, my interactions with tribes were limited but always cordial. But I knew when I took office as county commissioner, I wasn’t just representing my town or my district. I was also a commissioner for the Chehalis, Nisqually and Squaxin tribes. My circle grew larger when I became County Commissioner, and it absolutely included them.
I didn’t want to just “check the box.” I wanted to learn how to do it right, and I was fortunate to find two patient teachers in Willie Frank III of the Nisqually Tribe and Dustin Klatush of the Chehalis Tribe. Over time, they’ve become more than colleagues, they’ve become friends.
Learning from leaders
Earlier this summer, I joined the Chehalis Tribe at T-Mobile Park, where Willie Frank III threw out the ceremonial first pitch on Native American Heritage Night, representing all of Washington’s tribes. It wasn’t just a baseball moment. It was a recognition of presence, history and ongoing leadership in our state.
I also have the honor of serving on the Billy Frank Jr. Statue Committee, planning for the placement of a 10-foot statue of Billy at our state capitol and another in the U.S. Capitol’s Statuary Hall in D.C., where he will stand tall for as long as this nation endures, looking over future generations of leaders and projecting the values he fought for. To me, that statue is more than bronze. It’s a reminder that the fight for treaty rights, civil rights and environmental stewardship isn’t abstract. It’s local. It’s here. And that together, as one community, we changed our nation’s treatment of our Indigenous neighbors.
In 2024, I attended the Boldt Symposium with Willie to mark the 50th anniversary of the Boldt Decision, which affirmed tribes’ treaty rights to fish. There, I listened to living participants of the Fish Wars share their stories of standing up against beatings, arrests and ridicule for the right to feed their families and practice their traditions. That history isn’t ancient, and those stories were as raw and violent as anything you’d see in today’s global headlines. It’s living memory, and it continues to shape the values of today’s leaders.
At the river
Some of my most profound lessons haven’t come at ceremonies or symposiums. They’ve come on the Nisqually River, at Frank’s Landing, where Willie’s family has fished since long before my family arrived into the region as settlers just 150 years ago.
I’ve spent afternoons watching them fish with the same techniques their ancestors used, stone net-weights and all.
And, recently, I took home four bright king salmon from that river. When Willie asked if I wanted the heads, I hesitated, skeptical this might be some firefighter-style prank (after decades in firehouses, I’m always on alert). Willie explained how his dad, Billy Frank Jr., would stew them up with potatoes and carrots, using the whole fish, head, skin and roe. He assured me this wasn’t an attempt to trick the commissioner, but in fact that using the whole fish is about respect.
Respect for the salmon. Respect for the cycle of life. Respect for tradition.
So, I took the heads, and with some guidance from the folks at Frank’s Landing, I cooked salmon head and roe stew for the crew on my next shift. I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure how my colleagues at the firehouse were going to react. I decided to gamble by simply texting everyone: “I got dinner tomorrow night.” The next morning, I woke up a little anxious about how the surprise of fish heads on the menu might land.
But when I told them what I had planned, I was met with nothing but curiosity and excitement. That night, every member of the crew loved it. The stew was rich, nutritious and full of true Northwest flavor.
Around the firehouse table, a place deeply rooted in its own traditions, where we laugh, vent and decompress after tough calls, that meal took on deeper meaning. It wasn’t just food. It was connection. A reminder that respect for the whole fish isn’t just about cooking it. It’s about honoring what sustains us and sharing that with the people we serve alongside through hardship.
Sovereignty, reciprocity and shared community
It’s important to remember tribes aren’t just community partners and neighbors. They are also sovereign nations. For too long, they weren’t even recognized as U.S. citizens. Native Americans couldn’t even vote until 1924, and in Washington, Jim Crow–like structural barriers kept them from casting ballots until as recently as 1957.
Final thoughts
Respect for history. Respect for culture. Respect for the salmon. And respect for reciprocity.
The lesson I carry forward is simple: when we honor traditions that have endured here since time began, and when we invest back into each other, we all grow stronger.
And if you’re still skeptical about salmon head stew, trust me, it’s delicious. I’ll post the recipe on my commissioner Facebook page in the comments of this article along with some pictures.
So, here’s my call to action: support tribal enterprises, visit cultural centers, attend public events, and most of all, listen. The stories told here since time immemorial are not just history. They are the foundation of our present and the future we are building together.
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Wayne Fournier is a Thurston County commissioner, former Tenino mayor, firefighter and lifelong community advocate. He believes that small towns are the last frontier of big ideas. He shares stories of civic creativity, leadership and community-building in his regular column.
