RED LAKE, MINN. -- Herb Mountain stood smiling in the boat's stern as it came off a placid Red Lake in late October. The 20-footer rode lower than it had when it went out because it carried the weight of three or four more men -- in fish.

It was like before, his grin said; good, like before.

Few examples illustrate the problems and potential of the unique "closed" status of the Red Lake Indian Reservation better than the big lake itself. Actually two large bodies of water connected by a narrow channel, they often are described as the band's "food store," a cherished hedge against dependency, tribal and individual. The band's claim to the resource has been rigorously protected -- and disastrously exploited.

The shallow basins of Upper and Lower Red Lake form a natural walleye fishery. Like Mille Lacs, they are well aerated top to bottom by wind and wave action, and for decades the tribal fishery ranked with logging as an economic mainstay for the Red Lake Ojibwe.

But in 1997, after years of poorly regulated commercial fishing, the fish were nearly gone.

Each year, the band's Department of Natural Resources counted fish in weekly survey nets. In 1987, the four test nets yielded 1,277 walleyes.

In 1997, the count was 12, and the band and state agreed to a 10-year fishing moratorium.

When the test nets were brought in again in 2005, the fish count was 1,230.

"The lake is back," said Pat Brown, a biologist hired to lead the restoration effort.

The debate now is whether to resume commercial fishing. "The tribal government sent a survey to all members, and we've had public meetings to talk about it," Brown said. The results were mixed, "but fishing the lake out again, we're not going to let that happen."

The lakes are closed to nonmembers except for the northeastern corner of the upper lake, where a strip of land was severed -- stolen, Red Lake maintains to this day -- when the reservation borders were set in 1889. Non-Indian resorts in and around Waskish are preparing for a resumption of walleye angling next spring, with special state limits.

'Our babies'

For 10 years in the 1980s and '90s, Mountain, 50, was a commercial fisherman. He rose at 4:30 a.m. to check his eight gill nets and haul his catch to the tribal fishery.

When he got his weight slip, his paycheck, he raced home to hang his nets to dry. Then he started over, returning to the big lake to reset the nets.

"Regardless of weather, you needed to get out there," he said. "It was a lot of work, but it was a lifestyle you picked up. When the lake closed, it was hard to give up that lifestyle."

He worked as a conservation officer after he put his nets away, then as a fisheries technician helping with restoration.

"As a game warden, I saw a lot of abuse of the lake," he said. "But it wasn't just Red Lakers' responsibility. People and restaurants from all over Minnesota bought those walleyes.

"And after taking part in this, bringing the lake back, I never want to see a gill net again," he said. "Those are our babies out there. We raised them."