Effortlessly Slice Salmon (or Anything Else) with an Ulu

My first job involved cleaning humpies, or pink salmon, caught by my dad, brother, and uncles. I'd wade into the river, knee-deep, to prepare them before taking them to the plywood cutting tables, draped in gunny sacks stained dark with years of fish remains. My mom and aunties, clad in rubber aprons or black garbage bags, would slice them into hundreds of pieces for drying. Afterward, I’d wash the fish again and hang them on cottonwood poles tied with string.

In Unalakleet, a coastal town in western Alaska, salmon is a vital part of our identity. From June to September, we enjoy fresh fish while also preserving a significant portion for the year ahead. The season kicks off with king salmon from the ocean, which we prepare for smoking — a delicious treat for ice fishing or ugruk hunting later — and we grill the bellies, heads, and collars after a rewarding day of preparation. This season flows into humpies, then silvers, or coho, which we filet for freezing or prepare for smoking.

When I was 13, I quietly expressed to my mom, “I want to learn now.” She handed me her ulu and selected a small female humpie. The knife, with its long, curved blade, felt unwieldy in my hands, but I had observed her perform the task countless times. With my left hand steadying the fish, I pressed the curved edge against the soft white belly with my right. I sliced down, leaving the filets attached at the tail while removing the head, guts, and bones. My mom guided me through the process. Finally, I made tirraqs, angled cuts toward the tail, ensuring the meat dried properly and was cut into ideal portions for later meals. “Papa, look,” she called to my grandpa. I proudly held up the fish by its tail. “Wow,” Papa Ralph said. “You even left the heart on. That’s the best way!” I stepped into the water, emerging with my first cleanly cut fish. A week later, my parents took me to see John Auliye, the town’s oldest resident, who gifted me my very own ulu, complete with an elegant ivory handle.

Throughout the seasons, the ulu is indispensable, whether for filleting fish or chopping greens for fermentation. It’s an ergonomic hero, saving your elbows when there’s a lot to cut. Nowadays, my daughter Sidney and I share my ulu, and I hope she feels a connection to those who cherish her when she uses it. Anyone who learns to wield an ulu quickly discovers how essential it becomes.

Reasons to Own One

While many Inuit tools have been supplanted by Western technology—such as bolas, seal oil lamps, and bone needles—the ulu remains the cutting tool of choice in Inuit households. This is not only due to its cultural significance but also its remarkable ergonomic design.

The blade's half-moon curve allows the slicing motion to come from the wrist rather than the elbow, as with conventional knives. This design significantly reduces fatigue, especially when preparing hundreds of fish for hours or cutting seal blubber for oil. Additionally, the handle’s placement in the center of the blade enables grMytour force when cutting down, which is useful for breaking through fish heads or frozen meat.

Traditionally, ulu blades feature a single bevel. This design is particularly effective for skinning animals, as the long, shallow bevel helps remove fat without damaging the valuable hide used for winter garments. It also enables the blade to smoothly glide over fish bones and slice through meat or blubber at an angle. Moreover, single-beveled ulus tend to maintain their sharpness longer.

The ulu is still essential for processing food sourced from the lands and waters of northern Indigenous peoples, but its versatility extends to nearly any type of food. In addition to fish and seal, we use our ulus for chopping vegetables, herbs, nuts, and even pizza.

Many families possess between five and 25 ulus, often given as gifts and displayed as functional art. Today, the blades are typically made from saw blades, unlike the slate blades crafted by our ancestors, while the handles are carved from materials such as ivory, wood, or caribou and moose antlers. I have one ulu with a handle made from blue and pink resin, but my favorite is a treasured gift from my dad: an ulu crafted from an old patinaed saw blade, with a handle made from rich, dark wood, created by a man living 90 miles north of us.

How to Use an Ulu

Indigenous communities across Alaska, northern Canada, Greenland, and eastern Russia create and use ulus, which differ in design based on region, available materials, and the type of meat being processed. Some handles, particularly in eastern Inuit areas of Canada and Greenland, connect to the blade with one or two stems, while ulus made in Unalakleet feature a half-moon blade that connects directly to the handle. Regardless of design, their functionality remains consistent.

To cut meat for stir-fry or herbs for salad, simply rock the blade back and forth using your wrist. For tougher cuts or frozen meat, apply strong downward pressure on the center of the handle. Turn the blade sideways to reach the belly of a fish or to carve the perfect slice of prime rib for New Year’s Eve.

Like any well-used cutting tool, the ulu requires regular sharpening and maintenance. In my upbringing, the women in my family used sharpening stones collected from river beaches. Nowadays, we use commercial sharpening stones and files. After cleaning, be sure to dry the blade immediately to avoid rust.

Where to Find One

Commercial ulus are available at tourist shops across Alaska and from knife manufacturers like Wusthof, but many Indigenous chefs recommend purchasing directly from an Indigenous artist such as Classic Uluaq, Arctic Spirit Gallery, or Urban Inuk. At the very least, choose a company that recognizes the knife's cultural significance.