* Whitefish have survived and fed Michiganders for centuries
* ‘It’s synonymous with Great Lakes food and Great Lakes living,’ one says
* But celebrations of the celebrated fish have taken a bittersweet tone as they near collapse
Way back in 1710, French explorer Antoine-Denis Raudot raved about Great Lakes whitefish, writing that it “must be the best fish in the world, since all those who have eaten it say they never grow tired of it.”
If anything, the affection has only grown since. A staple in this corner of the world for thousands of years, lake whitefish is practically revered: Michigan has bodies of water named after it, festivals in its honor and a commercial fishing industry based upon it.
“It’s synonymous with Great Lakes food and Great Lakes living,” said Maureen Abood, a cookbook author who spent childhood summers eating baked whitefish during family visits to Harbor Springs.
Tasty, resilient and bountiful, whitefish were first netted and speared by Native Americans and remained an important protein source for families well into the 20th century.
“It was almost omnipresent in just incredible numbers,” said Great Lakes historian Matthew Daley, adding that “as a culinary piece, it is, I have to confess, delicious.”
The fish is also on the brink of collapse in lakes Huron and Michigan, mainly due to invasive quagga and zebra mussels that filter away nutrients and microorganisms, starving the fish that spawn on shoreline reefs.
That’s changing our relationship with whitefish, transforming it from a mainstay of daily life to increasingly a source of nostalgia for the past.
Fond memories, bleak future
That nostalgia is why when Danielle Lynch launched a festival in 2020 to kick off summer in the Up North village of Alden, she named it the Torch Lake Whitefish Fest.
“Everybody has summertime memories connected to it,” she said. “I mean, who doesn’t stop on a side road when there’s a smoked fish sign?”
Torch Lake, where Alden sits, is named for the torches Native Americans used to lure whitefish ashore.
Michigan is also home to Whitefish Point, Whitefish Bay, Whitefish Lake, Whitefish River, Laughing Whitefish Falls and Whitefish Township, among other places named after the fish.
The fish were once among the most abundant species in the Great Lakes, where they spent much of their lives in deep water before coming into the shallows to spawn.
“They were our relatives, and they helped feed us, and we helped take care of them,” said Frank Ettawageshik, executive director of the United Tribes of Michigan.
But by the time the Alden festival got started in 2020, things had begun to change.
The whitefish catch in lakes Michigan and Huron is down 72% since 2009. Recreational fishing for whitefish is growing less popular, too, as anglers grow tired of spending all day at the pier with no catch to show for it.
At Whitefish Fest, visitors still snacked on smoked pâté from the Straits of Mackinac — but most booths offered wares like Petoskey stone jewelry or sunset paintings rather than tributes to the iconic fish.
Artist Leif Sporck’s booth was the exception: Two handcrafted tiles depicting the whitefish were arranged among dozens of others featuring beloved Michigan landmarks, political figures, fish and wildlife.
“There’s no other fish like it,” he said. Losing it would be “awful.”
Hoping against hope
The deepening loss has prompted an effort to preserve Michigan’s fishery heritage, even as the fish themselves grow so scarce that few can make a living catching them.
The epicenter of that effort is Fishtown, an historic waterfront where wooden shanties line the docks along the Leland River and a boat named Joy still docks in-between trips to harvest whitefish from Lake Michigan.
At one time, “there were fishtowns all over the Great Lakes,” said Amanda Holmes, executive director of the nonprofit Fishtown Preservation Society.
While others have died out amid declining harvests, this one perseveres through the efforts of the preservation society, which in 2007 bought up the shanties, boats and fishing licenses to keep Fishtown alive.
On summer weekends, the docks swarm with tourists who snack on smoked whitefish while learning about Michigan’s fishing history.
“But to me, quite honestly, the most important part is that we’re still actively fishing,” Holmes said.
“I don’t want people to think it’s a museum.”
That’s getting more difficult. This year, the preservation society’s harvest limit is 10,500 pounds — enough to support only a few days’ worth of sales at the dockside fish market. The rest is imported from elsewhere in Michigan and Wisconsin.
Deeper cuts are likely on the horizon.
Holmes is determined to keep commercial fishing in Fishtown, but lower harvests make it hard to cover the cost of maintaining and operating the boat, nets and other supplies.
So the preservation society is retrofitting one of Fishtown’s shanties to serve as a processing facility, where perhaps a portion of the Joy’s catch could be sold at a premium price to customers willing to pay more to keep Fishtown’s legacy alive.
The nonprofit is considering other ways it could play a role in the future of Great Lakes fishing. Perhaps a facility where visiting researchers could conduct science aimed at recovering whitefish populations, or an apprenticeship program where aspiring commercial fishers could train aboard the Joy.
It may seem counterintuitive, given that more people are exiting Michigan’s fishing business than entering it these days. But Holmes sees it as an act of hope.
Whitefish have bounced back before, she reasons, and it could happen again.
“One of the biggest things we need,” she said, “is to not despair.”
