Ready the skunk cabbage, it’s the great camas bake-off

But settling on the best method to cook camas— or more specifically, its starchy bulb — is another matter entirely. This is where both time-honored Native methods and modern innovation intersect for a community that is striving to reclaim First Foods.

On a recent Friday night, several members of the Traditional Ecological Inquiry Program (TEIP) — part of the non-profit ecological organization the Long Tom Watershed Council — took to the outskirts of Junction City, Oregon, to navigate a marshy patch of farmland. There they gathered bushels of large leafy plants, namely sword ferns and skunk cabbage, to help make up the layers used in baking camas. A typical camas oven consists of fire-heated rocks, moist vegetation or foliage, and an insulating layer of soil or materials, such as canvas or burlap, nestled into a shallow pit.

Among the group was Joe Scott, a member of the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians and the TEIP coordinator. For the past eight years, he’s done annual camas oven projects with Native youth with a mix of wonderful successes — and devastating disappointments.

“We used to call it the camas burns,” Scott said, laughing. One year, the fire was too hot, and the pristine morsels that were once camas bulbs got rendered into hard, blackened nuggets.

“I got a good feeling this time,” he said, carrying an armful of skunk cabbage leaves. “Years of experience are educating this effort.”

The group then drove along an old county road outside of Eugene, and parked at a dry meadow. Here, they unearthed several dozen camas bulbs for an informal bake-off the next day. Whether using traditional digging sticks or metal shovels, everyone marveled at their luck as they dug up ones the size of golf balls (and a few pea-sized ones that were returned to the earth).

By dusk, they had roughly ten pounds of camas bulbs gathered for the big event.

My 17-year old, Sam, is a senior intern for TEIP, and the only person other than Scott designing and leading a camas bake. In the spirit of innovation, my kid mixed traditional materials from the immediate area, including stones, ferns and maple branches, with a modern twist: a large roll of canvas.

“The fire will heat up the rocks for a 24-hour bake, the leaves will be watered heavily to generate steam and the canvas will keep that steam and heat trapped in to cook it all,” he explained. His face reflected both excitement and uncertainty, as many variables determine if the camas cooks sufficiently or gets destroyed.

“It’s such a hard thing to cook,” said Chris Rempel, a cultural consultant who came to the camas bake. Of Kalapuya, Chinook, Klamath, German, Chinese and Hawaiian heritage, Rempel has experimented with multiple ways to make camas. This includes using a more modern appliance that he says gives him better insights.

Earthen ovens don’t really show much in terms of what’s happening inside all those layers, explained Rempel. “With a crockpot you can see how it’s cooking,” he said. “So I’ve been using that to understand the length and heat for how I want my camas to turn out.”

Rempel says his benchmark is the camas a Cayuse friend once made in eastern Oregon.

“‘Wow, that’s delicious,’ I said. ‘That’s how I want my camas to taste.’ But he’s obviously not going to give away their secrets,” said Rempel.

Indigenous foodways

In September of 1805, the Nez Perce Indians spotted the Lewis and Clark expedition straggling through the Bitterroot Mountains. Cold and hungry, the Corps of Discovery was on the brink of disaster. Their hosts served them berries, salmon and buffalo, as well as a bread made from camas root. William Clark described it as “tolerably good,” “sweet” and nourishing. (Later, however, the newcomers all became ill. It’s theorized that their systems weren’t prepared for this new type of food on an empty stomach.)

Entire generations of Nez Perce — as well as Indigenous people in southern Alberta, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, California and Montana — gathered camas.

Researchers with Oregon State University have found that Indigenous people carefully cultivated the plant more than 3,500 years ago through selective harvesting. They also found earthen ovens near present-day Veneta, Oregon, that were made 4,400 years ago.

As elders in my tribe have told me, camas fields were always watched over by the Nez Perce. The distinctive blue to deep violet flowers made the landscape look like a vast lake, and wary tribal members were sure to note any white flowers in the mix. Eating any part of white-flowered camas, known as “death camas,” can be fatal. Harvesting of mature camas, those three-to-five years old, usually took place in late summer, with the bulbs being baked and then eaten, or dried and ground into a flour. This was part of the traditional-food staples for many Natives, helping them get through the lean winters when vegetation was scarce.

Access to camas fields is also said to have fueled many disputes. The Bannock War of 1878 began in part because settlers were letting their cattle graze and trample over camas fields. Today, though, many tribes have modest fields they maintain so members can practice the “old ways.”

A tale of two sandwiches

On Saturday afternoon, we found two freshly dug shallow pits atop a small mountain south of Eugene, at a 293-acre site TEIP members called Chalamali. Two fires burned steadily away, warming up rocks that would serve as the heating element for the camas ovens.

Nearby, several people washed, peeled and wrapped camas bulbs inside skunk cabbage leaves and twine. That’s where the similarities ended for the camas oven projects.

In discussing the recipes for the two bakes, Scott called them “sandwiches.”

“Lots of crazy stuff we found on the shelf of the land,” he said, describing the materials he’d use in his oven. “I’m going to throw the wet sword ferns on top of this, a bunch of water, maple leaves. And then a layer of skunk cabbage.We’ll put the camas packets on top of that, then the alder branches and more ferns. Hazel, bracken ferns, and — oh! — and a little bit of mugwort in there too.”

As if not eclectic enough, Scott’s camas oven also sported a bright yellow wire that spiraled out from the earthen mound. It went to a handheld temperature probe, held by TEIP ally Heron Brae. Like Scott, she’s long experimented with different ways to bake camas. But on this day, she was helping check the oven’s internal temperature.

“Looking like it’s hovering around 109, 125 degrees,” said Brae, reading the device’s monitor. “The camas is heating up right now. This is the temperature inside one of the camas packets. I wonder if it makes sense to put a little fire on there.”

Thirty feet away, leaning into the sandwich analogy, my kid Sam was making less a Dagwood and more a standard PBJ. After letting a fire burn on top of the rocks for 90 minutes, he placed a layer of sopping wet ferns over them, followed by several bundles of camas wrapped in skunk cabbage leaves (and, as an experiment, some carrots and potatoes). He then added more ferns, with a generous covering of maple branches with leaves. A wide roll of canvas was then placed over those elements, which in turn was covered in dirt. Four buckets of water were poured into each corner for good measure. TEIP members checked for loose vents of steam, which were tamped down with more dirt.

“I have a bit of a worry that maybe it’s not hot enough,” said Sam, eyeing the earthen mound shrewdly as it hissed and bubbled. “But I think it’s going to turn out pretty well. If it’s undercooked, we’ll take it home and put it in our oven.”

Checking the time, Sam said the outcome of this bake wouldn’t be known until 4 p.m. the next day.

A gathering of curious Natives

The TEIP program has been operating in the Eugene area since 2017. It encourages Native students and their families to join and explore the world through an Indigenous lens, with Chalamali serving as an outdoor classroom.

Among the newer faces at the bake-off were 14-year-old Daniel Morrison, his two-year old brother Ira Witcraft, and their mom, LeeAndria Witcraft. The family is learning all they can about camas and said this weekend was their first time harvesting it.

“Joe [Scott] told me it’s like the Native potato,” said Morrison, a high school student of Klamath, Paiute and Oglala Lakota heritage. He said one thing that really helped was his digging stick, made of madrone and hardened over a fire. “I’ve learned a bit about my own culture and history, and now that includes cooking camas. That it tastes really good. I’m hoping it goes really well, and we don’t charcoal them.”

Witcraft (Klamath/Paiute) said she majored in American Indian Studies while at Eastern Washington University but felt that the camas bake project enhanced her knowledge more than any lecture or textbook could. “This hands-on stuff is really educational,” she told me. “I love that it gives us an opportunity to learn more about our traditional foods and medicines.”

Meanwhile, her toddler, Ira, held onto a freshly-peeled camas bulb and smiled.

Another TEIP newcomer, 12-year-old Asher Coburn, helped chop wood for the fires. Of Klamath and Apache heritage, Coburn initially said that he was just sitting around and eating (the snack table was a few paces away), but after a moment, he added that the gathering made him feel “very important to this land.” His legal guardian, Patrick Decelles, and sibling Freeya Coburn, helped tend the fires.

The remaining TEIP members began setting up tents for the overnight camp, as stars began appearing in the clear sky above. Several people stayed awake to keep an eye on the ovens and the small active fire on top of Scott’s camas bake.

The big reveal

At exactly 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon, Sam and my wife, Margaret, began scraping away at the dirt, and then pulled the canvas away from the first camas oven. The skunk cabbage leaves and fern fronds were wilted and a dull brown, owing to the intense heat that essentially cooked them too.

“Something nice and sweet in there,” said Scott, as more layers were removed. “Nice that it’s so clean.”

The carrots and potatoes were the first items seized by the crowd. The carrots were soft and had a surprising sweetness, while the potatoes had a smoky flavor. Both were cooked to perfection.

“OK guys, let’s focus on the camas?” chided Sam.

Moments later, the bundles were unwrapped, exposing the tender and ivory camas bulbs to everyone’s delight.

“Look at those beauties!” said Margaret.

The moment of truth had arrived: placing a glistening and slightly translucent bulb into his mouth, my kid chewed it gradually. A satisfied smile emerged.

“It’s really good,” he said. “Soft, sweet, starchy.”

And in this corner…

An hour and a half later, attention shifted to Scott’s camas oven. Looking at the temperature gauge, Brae jiggled the wire.

“We stopped the fire around noon, right?” asked Scott.

“Yes, and this is stable,” replied Brae. “It’s stable, been between 200-210 for five hours, with no fire on top.”

While Sam’s camas oven ran for 24 hours, Scott’s ran nearly 26. His also had an active fire on top of the mound through early Sunday afternoon to generate way more heat for a longer time. Helpers with rakes and shovels descended upon the remaining oven. They carefully removed rocks and dirt, with many noting a sweet aroma coming out from the corners.

“I’m going to welcome everyone to the second reveal,” announced Scott, as roughly a dozen people circled him. After carefully maneuvering some charred branches, he saw a few camas bulbs that were darker and a bit hard to the touch.

“Oh, jeez, that one’s hot! Ow!” he said, hurriedly putting a few on a tray. “This one’s burned up, I thought we had it perfect.”

Several long-time TEIP members fell quiet, remembering the past incidents where camas bulbs had gotten incinerated. I remember one was as hard as a marble and a curious dark blue color.

“Oooh, I see some right there!” yelled Freeya, pointing.

Scott removed a few more bundles, opening up the leaves to reveal more bulbs. And these — as well as the rest in Scott’s oven — were a rich, chestnut brown with pliable flesh and gooey finish.

“They’re perfect — they’re like a sweet gumdrop!” exclaimed Scott. “This one’s got dirt, but they’re smoky and delicious.”

Scott had also added yampah — known to many as “Indian carrot” — to his oven. The thin, starchy roots had been cooked to firm crispness, with a sweet aftertaste.

“They’re really good, similar texture to the camas. But much sweeter, it’s actually sticky.”

Everyone wins

While the two ovens worked with different timeframes, heat and foliage, the end result — soft, sweet, and chewy camas — was achieved to much fanfare. High fives were exchanged, and plenty of bulbs devoured.

It’s worth noting that with everything foodie, preferences vary greatly. A 24-hour bake is considered short by some standards, with some Natives preferring a camas oven that goes for between two and four days. And that creates some distinct textures and tastes.

“I like a deep, deep brown, almost a black,” said Rempel. “And to me it’s like a sweet potato, soft and chewy but a bit more savory. Almost candy-like.”

Rempel, Sam, and Scott all agree that a truly successful camas bake is one that creates community.

“The only wrong way of doing it is to waste all your camas by burning it up,” said Scott. “But even then, it can be a good time.”

As the event wound down, TEIP members and supporters celebrated with a communal dinner. Conversation swirled around future camas bakes, and an appreciation of a First Food that connected past with present.

As Sam had said while standing over his camas oven: “This isn’t mine, it’s ours.”