Written by: Sydney Dixon Interview by: Natasha Wehn
When the herring return to spawn on the west coast of Vancouver Island, the entire ecosystem pulses with life—from eagles and sea lions to humans who have harvested k̓ʷaqmis (herring roe) for generations.
We sat down with Kadin Snook, Fisheries Coordinator at the Ha’oom Fisheries Society, to talk about the cultural and ecological importance of herring, and what it means to shift toward a sustainable, rights-based approach through commercial spawn-on-kelp (SOK) fisheries.
From Legal Battles to the Water: Building a Rights-Based Fishery
The Ha’oom Fisheries Society represents the five Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations of Ahousaht, Ehattesaht/Chinehkint, Hesquiaht, Mowachaht/Muchalaht, and Tla-o-qui-aht. The five Nations are part of the greater Nuu-chah-nulth Nations, a group of 14 First Nations within what is now named the west coast of Vancouver Island that share similar dialects with historical trade routes. Each year, the fishers fish within the ha-houthee (traditional territories) of their ha’wiih (hereditary chiefs).
As Kadin explains, Ha’oom was created to implement rights-based fisheries that recognize Indigenous priority access under Section 35(1) of the Canadian Constitution.
“Fishers from our Nations weren’t just looking for economic access,” Kadin tells us. “They were asking for recognition of rights that have been repeatedly upheld in court but rarely honoured in practice.”
Legal decisions like the Garson decision (2009) and the Humphries decision (2018) paved a complicated road. While these rulings acknowledged Indigenous rights to fish, they also imposed limitations—like restricting access to “artisanal” gear or small boats—that Nations had to challenge further. Even today, the collaborative process with the Department of Fisheries and Oceans (DFO) remains a work in progress.
“DFO says it’s collaborative, but we often feel the burden of proof falls on us. It’s like we’re constantly having to justify our existence on the water.”
Ha’oom Fisheries Society provides a vital link between Nuu-chah-nulth fishers and DFO. Kadin explained, “The in-season planning, preseason meetings, the gear setup—it’s all about translating what our leadership envisions into operational plans. It’s a language translation, really. We speak from the heart, and then we have to respond in bureaucratic English.”
Community Licensing and a New Commercial Model
Unlike conventional fishing licenses that go to individuals, rights-based licenses are held by communities. This structure shifts priorities.
“Our goals are threefold,” says Kadin. “Economic viability, community-wide participation, and honouring the priority right to access. But I’ll be honest—it’s hard to meet all three.”
Take halibut, for example. The Nations collectively share just 50,000 to 60,000 pounds among all five communities. Costs to participate are high, and DFO’s frameworks often don’t account for the economic realities or the cumulative impacts of other sectors, especially recreational fishing.
Still, there’s a growing sense of resilience.
Why Spawn on Kelp?
Spawn-on-kelp isn’t new—it’s been practiced by coastal First Nations for thousands of years—but commercializing it in a rights-based context is. Unlike the Western herring roe fishery, where the fish are killed and their roe extracted, spawn-on-kelp allows fish to spawn on blades of kelp, which are then harvested—leaving the adult herring alive.
“It’s a lower-impact fishery,” Kadin explains. “You’re not removing the spawning stock. And culturally, it’s more aligned with our values—you’re taking what’s needed, but not the whole being.”
Spawn-on-kelp also has culinary appeal. The salted, brined kelp blades with sticky layers of herring eggs offer a savory, umami-rich delicacy popular in Japan.
Spawn-on-kelp and spawn-on-bough are both traditional Indigenous harvesting methods that collect herring roe without killing the fish, but they differ in technique, cultural usage, and commercial viability.
Spawn-on-kelp involves collecting herring eggs that are naturally deposited onto blades of kelp—typically Macrocystis (giant kelp) or Nereocystis (bull kelp). The harvested kelp, coated in sticky layers of eggs, is brined and sold primarily to Japanese markets. Spawn-on-kelp is highly sensitive to quality: the kelp must be clean, free of sand or contaminants, and harvested at the right stage of maturity to ensure the eggs stick and the blade remains intact. It’s more labour-intensive and requires specialized handling, making it more suited to commercial sale.
Spawn-on-bough, on the other hand, uses branches (traditionally hemlock) that are placed in the water to collect herring eggs. This method has deep cultural roots and is primarily used for food, social, and ceremonial (FSC) purposes. The eggs are harvested and shared within communities, often without preservation, offering a more “pure” herring egg flavor. According to Kadin, gray whales tend to avoid boughs but are attracted to kelp, making spawn-on-kelp more vulnerable to predation and requiring more care during deployment.
Both methods are ecologically sustainable compared to roe fisheries that kill the fish, but spawn-on-kelp is the only one currently recognized for commercial sale, whereas spawn-on-bough remains a vital part of community food systems and cultural identity.
This year marked the first pilot spawn-on-kelp commercial fishery for the five nations. It was both a learning curve and a success: over 30,000 pounds landed out of a 48,000-pound target, despite most fishers having little to no experience with spawn-on-kelp methods.
“You could tell which crews were adapting quickly and which were still relying on food, social, and ceremonial (FSC) fishing habits,” Kadin says. “Commercial fishing demands precision, but I think there’s value in slowing down—waiting for the right moment, not rushing it.”
Ecology, spirituality, and connection
For Kadin, herring are more than a commodity—they’re an anchor for ecological balance and cultural identity.
“In a healthy ocean, herring are everywhere. Sea lions aren’t crowding into one spot, salmon aren’t starving. You can feel when it’s right.”
His connection to fishing runs deep—rooted in his First Nations grandfather on one side and Norwegian-Newfoundland heritage on the other. “Fishing is my release,” he says. “I’m not buying a boat to get rich. I’m doing it because being on the water is the closest I get to home.”
He sees modern society’s detachment from nature as one of its greatest downfalls. “We’re nutrient transporters,” he says. “We’re meant to be part of the cycle, not separate from it. But we’ve lost that sense of interconnection.”
On Conservation, Capitalism, and Collective Responsibility
When asked why it’s so hard to find unity between DFO, industry, and communities, Kadin doesn’t mince words.
“It’s fear. Everyone knows their fishery has an impact, but nobody wants to be the first to sacrifice. We should be asking: How do we all work together to make every fishery viable and sustainable?”
He’s skeptical of the word “conservation” itself. “It’s reactive. It’s like realizing you’ve shot too many ducks and deciding to stop. We need to talk about preservation and reciprocity instead.”
At the heart of his philosophy is a deep commitment to the future—one that doesn’t pit people against ecosystems, but re-embeds people within them.
“If you’re taking 100,000 pounds of fish, what are you giving back? That’s the principle. That’s stewardship. That’s the teaching.”
Final Thoughts
What began as a conversation about herring quickly became something larger—a reflection on governance, generational knowledge, and how we choose to live on this coast. Kadin’s voice is raw, layered, and refreshingly unfiltered. The pilot spawn-on-kelp fishery might be just one piece of a much bigger puzzle, but as he reminds us, it’s a step toward something more human, more connected, and more sustainable.
Because, as he says, “The spawn is life—for the fish, the people, the land, everything.”
