Chippewa Fishing Rights Dispute Stirs Lake Country

At nightfall, deep within thick stands of white birch and pine, the one they call Eagle Woman burns sweet grass and waves feathers over a small band of Chippewa to purify them for the mission ahead.

The braves take drags off a ceremonial pipe, offer apologies to the fish they are about to spear and dip their boats into the icy, gin-clear waters of Rainbow Lake. Guided by bright lamps, they glide silently toward gravel-bottomed shallow waters where the tasty walleyed pike go to spawn shortly after the spring thaw.

Back on shore, the pristine atmosphere of the North Woods has turned more surreal than serene.

“Get a job!” someone shrieks from a pack of 100 or so hecklers kept at bay by riot-helmeted police with dogs.

“Hope you have fun out there, you big grease balls!”

“Equal rights for all Americans!”

“Timber niggers!”

“Spear an Indian, save a walleye!”

The protesters, local whites who resent special fishing privileges granted the Chippewa, try to rush the boat landing. Some are immediately arrested, while others defy orders to retreat behind police lines and sit down at the water’s edge. Eventually, they are dragged off to jail as well.

One night last week, 35 demonstrators were charged with disorderly conduct. One man, complaining of chest pains, was carried away by paramedics.

Such confrontations have become a rite of spring in these parts since a court decision in 1983 gave the Chippewa wide latitude to gather food throughout much of northern Wisconsin. The court held that the rights were guaranteed by two 19th-Century treaties in which the tribes ceded the territory to the United States.

Last month, a follow-up court ruling broadened the off-reservation prerogatives of thousands of Chippewa who live on five reservations in the area. As a result, the Chippewa are gearing up for a huge harvest of prized walleyed pike, and many non-Indian residents predict that the fishing season will be ruined. Arrests are running at a record pace since the Chippewa began spearing walleye a week ago, and a cherished getaway spot for millions of Midwesterners now crackles with wild rumors, paranoia and ugly epithets.

Most Tension Ever

Dave Kunelius of the Wisconsin Natural Resources Department said: “Tensions are higher than they’ve ever been.”

Although the treaty rights apply to all fish, the dispute revolves primarily around the walleye, a cold-water species prized by outdoorsmen and highly vulnerable to spearing because of its spawning habits. Shortly after the last of the winter’s ice melts, adult walleyes mass each night in clear, shallow waters of the lake to lay and fertilize eggs.

Instead of using rods and reels, the Chippewa shine bright lights into the water to catch the reflection of the light-sensitive “wall eyes” of the fish, then stab them with 14-foot-long spears. It is a highly efficient method of killing that is outlawed for all other fishermen.

Indian spearfishing was once confined to the reservations. With tribal rights newly upheld, Chippewa leaders have announced plans to spearfish over the next few weeks on 254 of the 861 tiny lakes in the region that are prime walleye habitat--nearly three times as many as last year.

Although the Indians have set voluntary limits on the size of their catch, they still are hauling in walleye by the bucketful. At Rainbow Lake the other night, 19 spearfishers came away with 375 fish, nearly half of what the state sets as the maximum safe take from that lake for the entire season.

Rod and Reel Limits

Once the regular fishing season gets under way Saturday, state conservation officials say that on many of the lakes, sportsmen may be limited to taking one or two walleye a day, down from the usual limit of five, to prevent overfishing.

And that has many non-Indian residents madder than a muskie with a lure in its jaws. Resort owners, fishing guides and others whose economic survival depends on the lakes see their security in jeopardy.

Celia Slonicker, one of those arrested at Rainbow Lake, said many anglers do not want to spend hundreds of dollars to catch only a few fish, and are canceling reservations for May and June. “We sunk everything we had into our business,” said Slonicker, who has rented only two of the seven cabins at her Squirrel Lake resort for the opening of walleye season. “I’m not hostile, I’m not a racist, but my livelihood right now is standing on the edge.”

Critics say the treaty provisions are antiquated, ecologically unsound and discriminate against non-Indians. And they charge that tribal leaders are pressing their claims primarily to fatten a multimillion-dollar buyout of fishing rights that state leaders hope to negotiate with the Chippewa.

Indians Under Guard

Meanwhile, protesters have threatened to harass Indian spearfishers, who are guarded on both land and water by large contingents of police and game wardens in an operation state officials estimate will cost at least $500,000 over the coming weeks. In a show of strength, more than 2,000 demonstrators turned out for a recent anti-treaty rally in the resort center of Minocqua. Last week, another 400 demonstrators descended on the state Capitol in Madison to demand that both state and federal officials pressure Congress into abrogating the treaties.

The Indians see it quite differently. Even with their special powers, they expect to snag only 25,000 to 30,000 walleye, a fraction of the catch of 800,000 fish expected to be hauled in across the state this year. And that, insist the Chippewa and their sympathizers, is vivid proof that many protesters have seized on the fishing issue as an excuse to vent deep-seated hostilities toward American Indians.

“This is a right we’ve had even before the treaties existed,” said Mike Allen, chief of the Lac du Flambeau tribe of Chippewa. “It’s something we’ve always done. It’s part of our life.”

Many prominent whites agree that the economic threat posed by spearfishing may have been blown out of proportion. “We had the same problems last spring, and most merchants will tell you that they had their best summer ever,” said Steve Semmelmyer, president of the Minocqua Chamber of Commerce. “ . . . This is a wrenching situation (for Indians) because every day, their whole heritage is being challenged and degraded. How many times can you be called a timber nigger and not strike back?”

At the very least, the situation highlights a gulf of distrust and misunderstanding that is even wider than the one that separates whites and blacks in many large urban centers. On the Lac du Flambeau reservation, home to the most militant of the Chippewa bands, more than 60% of the residents are unemployed. Whites in nearby Minocqua complain openly that the Indians are lazy and would rather accept generous government handouts than work. Many Indians, on the other hand, say the merchants in town and at the resorts will not hire them and do not respect their traditions.

One of those traditions is spearfishing, practiced in these parts since at least the 18th Century, when the first permanent Chippewa settlements were established. The Lac du Flambeau earned their French name for the torches they carried on the lakes while spearfishing at night.

Fished Off Reservation

After the treaties were signed in 1837 and 1842, the Chippewa confined spearfishing to the reservations, where they were not subject to state regulations. But in 1974, Chippewa activists decided to test their treaty rights. Two members of the Lac Courte Oreilles band in northwestern Wisconsin deliberately crossed reservation boundaries while ice-fishing. Game wardens arrested them for illegal possession of a spear.

That set in motion a long series of legal battles culminated in 1983 with a federal appellate court’s ruling that the treaties guaranteed to the tribes the right to “hunt, fish and gather” on public lands in the ceded territories. The U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal of the case, indirectly affirming the lower court’s decision.

While triggering a firestorm of protest from whites, the treaty-rights victory also has led to friction within the tribes as members battle over what to do with their new-found asset. Many want to cash in on the bounty and sell fishing rights back to the state, but traditionalists see spearfishing as a priceless tribal legacy.

“It took us a long time to get our rights back and I’d hate to see them go again, even if the price is good,” said John Thompson, a member of the Lac du Flambeau tribal council who said his walleye catch will feed his wife, six children and mother for months to come.

Other Resources Cited

Although the walleye is at the center of the dispute, protest leaders insist the controversy has far broader implications. Dean Crist, a Minocqua pizza parlor operator who heads a group called Stop Treaty Abuse, warned that the Chippewa eventually plan to claim other natural assets vital to the local economy.

“They’re pretty much holding us by the jugular,” said Crist. “After fish, they’ll go for timber.”

Tribal leaders do not flatly deny the assertions. “The old cliche is ‘if you don’t use it, you lose it,’ ” said Tom Maulson, a Lac du Flambeau tribal judge who heads an intertribal task force on treaty rights. “Hunting or trapping or timber or whatever, it’s important that the tribe go out and utilize the resources it has.”

Such statements infuriate some non-Indians, who insist the main goal of the Chippewa is to stick it to white people regardless of the consequences.

Discrimination Claimed

“They’re taking our mother walleye in the spawning beds and raping our lakes,” said Marilyn Cox, owner of the Estrold Resort on Little St. Germain Lake. “It’s discrimination against the rest of us, and they’re destroying the economy in the northern third of Wisconsin.”

Indian activists scoff at such suggestions. They see the treaty controversy as a tool that can be used to help rebuild the pride of a long-suffering people. “As Indian people, we only have one thing left, and that’s our identity,” said James Yellowbank, a native Winnebago who came to observe the protests on behalf of an Indian affairs committee of the National Council of Churches.

“The treaties are the legitimate and political protections of our identity.”

Times researcher Tracy Shryer also contributed to this story.

Battleground Over Walleys Chippewa Indians on five reservations have announced plans to spear spawning walleyed pike in up to 254 of the 861 lakes containing the fish in the northern third of Wisconsin. Under treaty rights, the Chippewa plan to take a major portion of the state’s allowable harvest in each lake, prompting confrontations with white fishermen.