Nostalgically Bringing the Spirit of the Salmon into Fall

As fall creeps in, I get nostalgic. Wistful for the peak of summer, when in Alaska sunlight is a given, and abundance seems to pump as the heartbeat of each day. I am especially nostalgic about this past summer, during which we traveled to Bristol Bay, a place that I had previously visited a handful of times, but whose storied presence in the life of my husband Arron (WAC founder + CEO) and his family I had yet to really grasp. But something awoke in me this summer. Perhaps an appreciation. Or an understanding. Or a connection. Or all three.

You see, my entire life I thought I knew what salmon was — until I married into the Kallenberg family. 

Arron first brought me to Naknek, a small community in Bristol Bay in the far reaches of Southwestern Alaska, many years ago. It’s where his family has always fished — him, his father Walt, his grandfather Robert, three generations of Kallenbergs who have centered their whole existence around the rhythm of salmon — and he has always wanted to share that connection with me. To be completely honest though, I left Bristol Bay back then with the vague impression that it was a giant mudhole, a dreary weather pattern of misty rain and silver skies. 

But then, on one particular evening this past summer, as dusk started to settle in the way it does in the rare balminess of a late-July night, Arron and I were driving across the tundra on the Alaska Peninsula Highway, headed to King Salmon from Naknek, as the infinite vastness of coastal shrubland whizzed by. Looking over the dash, I saw nothing in particular — but I felt everything. We were three weeks into my first real deep dive into Bristol Bay, and after spending so much time in this remote, enigmatic place, I, like the dusk, began to settle in. Driving down that highway, it felt as though a truth was slowly coming into focus, one in which the salmon shone brightest, around which all else revolved. 

I’d been on boats many times before in Alaska — including, of course, the Mary K, the aluminum gillnetter designed and built by Arron’s father Walt. But this summer was the first time I actually got to go commercial fishing in Bristol Bay. Suiting up in the gear I’d seen Arron wear in so many photos of his past, I personally operated the hydraulics on the back deck of a gillnetter. I was able to closely experience the wonder of salmon being reeled in from the water, pick the fish from the gillnet with my own hands, and feel the fullness of its vitality and the upwelling of respect that comes along with such an event.

While on land, I had the great fortune of being in Naknek for an event known as Fishtival, a whole festival dedicated to the celebration of salmon. There are myriad other salmon festivals along the coastline of Alaska in the summer, but Fishtival honors the singular magic of Bristol Bay, a place that was finally taking root in me. I saw parade floats made of boat nets and buoys, attendees dressed in the party version of the typical commercial fishing foul-weather gear, and children in the streets reveling in the sheer joy and pride with which their community brims — simply because of the salmon. As if the people know that they themselves — just like the salmon, who only has one chance to complete its journey and spawn forth — have but one opportunity, their own lives, to uplift and revere the salmon for the benefit of all future generations.

Communities across the world, and especially those in places like Bristol Bay, Alaska — the largest sockeye salmon run on the planet — have long built culture and ceremony around this one-of-a-kind journey. In this way, the salmon has been a teacher of endurance, reciprocity, and respect. It reminds us that survival is not solitary but collective — that we are meant to move in harmony with the tides and to honor the abundance that flows from the waters. The salmon’s path is both literal and symbolic, showing us that life is shaped by struggle, resilience, and ultimately by giving back.

As we step into autumn, I invite you to carry the spirit of the salmon with you. Because this mighty fish is so much more than a fish. It is a reminder that strength lies in connection. Its journey is a lesson written in water and flesh, in resilience and return. And if we choose to honor it — to truly see the salmon not only as food but as kin — we step into a story and a cycle larger than ourselves. One of trust, reverence, and belonging.

Live Wild!

Monica

Pictured above: A montage of so many moments this summer in which the salmon showed up, delighting not only my palate, but mostly my sense of connection.