Spawned Out.
“Death is Inevitable, Extinction is not.”
The year 2038:
We walked along the banks of the Columbia, a river I fished when I was a young man. A river I grew up on, in the small town of White Salmon, aptly named after an extinct species of salmon (Johnson et al.). I was accustomed to the changing times at home. I can remember when White Salmon had restaurants rotating through, when the primary resident was blue-collar, when I knew most everyone in the grocery store. The change that was not there to remember, was the last of the salmon.
Myself, Hiking above White Salmon. 2020
I am now 44 years old, revisiting a place I once called home. I am here showing my two teenage kids, Forest and Susa, where I came of age. They have learned to appreciate the outdoors at a much younger age than I did, thanks to their mother and I wrapping them up in adventure from a young age. We hiked the trails of Indian Heaven Wilderness, camped in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, and we fished.
Fishing holds some of my earliest memories, time in the boat with my brother and dad. Late at night, we would fish the confluence of the White Salmon and the Columbia. Small glow sticks taped to the end of our poles. Nestled in our jackets, watching our breath as we waited for the slightest quiver of the glow stick before it was nearly pulled under by the silvery creatures swimming below. The whole night would explode in excitement as one of us shrieked out “Fish on!” and contended with the finned warrior on the far end of the line.
Grandpa helping out my brother and I rigging a fishing pole. - late 90’s
Historically salmon fishing had been, not only an activity, but a lifestyle of the Columbia River. The salmon lifestyle was around well before its “discovery” by Europeans or the Corps of Discovery aka Lewis and Clark. Indigenous peoples had inhabited the watershed for more than 15,000 years and have had a lifestyle revolving around salmon the last 3,500 years (National Research Council, 2004). As the westward expansion began taking hold in the Pacific Northwest, the Indigenous peoples way of life would forever change.
The Salmon run in the Columbia supported thousands of Native peoples, from the Chinook People at the delta of the Columbia, Klickitat People from my home, and the Shuswap people residing at the headwaters in Canada (Pryce, 1999; Cooperman). It wasn’t until the mid-twentieth century, many decades after white settlement, that everyone noticed something was wrong. The salmon became less plentiful, the river suffered several permanent anthropogenic changes, and the lack of proper management created a trend for the returning salmon.
Before my grandfather passed while I was young he would tell stories of his salmon fishing back in the “good old days”. Salmon were to be caught nearly every time one went on an outing. Eventually, regulations on catch limits were tightened, allowing for less and less fish. My grandfather grew up in the Columbia River Gorge and experienced the change first hand, especially as an avid salmon fisherman. When the salmon decline was prevalent and regulations were tight, he blamed it on the Indians for still being allowed to use drift nets. Nets that span some far distance out from the shore towards the middle of the river that entangle salmon to later be pulled up by people in a skiff. I used to believe him, back before I was a little more educated, seeing the boats pulling loads and loads of fish in from the nets. Now that I think about it, the netted salmon make up for such a minute percentage of the salmon run, the Native Americans were simply an easy target to blame. I can understand his perspective “why am I only allowed to catch two fish a day while the Indians can use nets and pull out hundreds of salmon?”.
Long before myself, my grandfather or any other white folks there were the local Native tribes who would catch salmon as sustenance. Salmon fishing was an annual tradition for nearly all people along the Columbia River and any river containing salmon (Source: Indian Fishing). Salmon would be caught, processed by hanging and smoking and preserved for the winter months to come. Then came the day of white settlers, land theft, war and disease. The Native peoples were reduced to reservations and their culture nearly destroyed. Allowing Native peoples to continue in their traditions is more than acceptable and not an issue in declining salmon populations.
Salmon runs in the Columbia have not been closely monitored like they are today, where individual fish are counted as they pass through fish ladders at the dams. Fish monitoring began in 1938 at Bonneville dam, nearly a century ago. Since records began the largest run of the six cumulative Oncorhynchus species (five species of salmon and steelhead) was in the year 2014, with 2,705,015 returning fish. Without knowledge of pre-historical runs, the number of returning fish may seem astonishing and leave one thinking, “there are plenty of fish, what’s the problem?”. According to the Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission, historical Oncorhynchus returns are estimated at a conservative 10-16 million salmon annually, nearly four times the salmon return in 2014...at the low estimate (George & Grohman).
Damn. The thought crossed my mind, “What did this place look like?” as we looked over what used to be Northwestern Lake. I could remember fishing from an aluminum boat here, trolling around the shores with little jigs. I saw now a wild place, trees where water was hundreds of feet deep, a clear line of new growth indicating the previous body of water. I watched the Condit dam removal from my computer, the horns sounded, the base of the dam shook, then millions of gallons of dark sediment and water came surging out. Goosebumps.
Dams. Dams have been created by man to power our lifestyles, to show our power over nature in an all-out wrestling match. Like ice cream and side walks, fish and dams don’t mix, and concrete always wins. Dams impact Oncorhynchus species in a number of ways, some being: Spawning area inundation, change of river flow patterns, rising water temperatures and complete inaccessibility to spawning habitat (Source: Dams). In the White Salmon river alone “According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Condit Dam blocked more than 30 miles of potential steelhead habitat, 4 miles of fall chinook salmon and nearly 10 miles of spring chinook habitat (Pesanti, 2016). In the Columbia Basin dams have removed more than 55% of Oncorhynchus spawning and rearing habitat (Source: Dams). That would be like removing over half of your bed, couch, counter...you get the picture, that would suck.
We sat on the Washington side of the Columbia River, a dozen miles upstream of The Dalles, where I was born. Forest and Susa could not see what I knew was there, what I had not seen myself, but what once was a sacred and spiritual experience. Celilo Falls. Celilo Falls was drowned, despite all opposition, all culture lost, all lives changed. Drowned. Celilo Falls was the oldest continually inhabited area in the North American continent until 1957 when The Dalles Dam was constructed (Dietrich, 2016).”The stretch of river between The Dalles and the falls was said to be the greatest fishery on the entire Columbia, greater even than Kettle Falls miles upstream, and it drew Indians from far and wide to share in the bounty.” (Caldbick, 2012). The falls were the sixth-largest by volume in the world and the largest by volume in North America, while it still existed (Source: Celilo Falls). We sat there attempting to imagine the silenced roar, the fisherman scooping salmon with dip nets, and the complete awe-inspiring scene.
Celilo Falls pre-dam. Credit: Percy Kramer
“Dad, when are we going salmon fishing?” Susa asked me in an excited tone. Although I knew Salmon fishing was prohibited due to their marginal numbers, I replied “Someday”. It was October and the fall Chinook run was straggling on. Forest wanted to go see the kings in their spawning attire wearing a gnarled hooked nose, red patterned side, and black speckled back. What a hunt it would be to see one of these near-mythical warriors return home to pass on its genes and give himself back to the river. “Let’s go!” escaped my lips with childish excitement. Back to the White Salmon River we would go, to see a fish whose lineage was considered at high risk of extinction 30 years ago (Source: Chinook Salmon). Looking down into the river from the mouth the clear glacial flow joins the dirtied Columbia. “Where do you think we will find a king?” asks Forest. After a long thought about the curves of the river, I replied “We’ll go to the old dam site”.
Spawning King Salmon. Credit: Flickr.
We walked down the old boat launch, where my dad, brother and I would push off. We followed a trail through the maple trees and young grand fir, the air cool in the shade. The river slowly got louder as we descended, hopping down rocks that were once deeply submerged. There it was the naturally flowing White Salmon, a reborn again pristine river, birthed from a glacier. The water is characterized by riffles, eddies, and deep pools. Looking at it from within the trees we felt like spies, in complete silence, gathering intel. Minutes had passed, our six eyes had yet spotted a fish of any kind. I could see the kids getting restless. “There!” Shouted Susa, pointing slightly upstream to a shallow quick pool, a glimmer of ruby wavered in the current. “I see it too!” Forest added. Two long silhouettes, gently holding place in the current. Moving quietly and surely upstream, we were now looking down onto the Kings. The ruby-red sides, bright against the gravel redd, shining like rubies in a crown. The hooked nose of the male, a kype, ready like a warriors sword to remove any challengers from the hens’ eggs. A prideful warrior past his prime, ready to pass on. The female, referred to as a hen, finished constructing her breeding grounds, a redd. Then and there thousands of little fiery orange roe were released from her belly, her eggs deposited into the redd. The Male, a Cock, swiftly moved in to fertilize the eggs. A milky ejaculate drifted downstream. The deed was done, a new generation fertilized and ready to begin life. The percentage of a fish returning is miniscule, but a percentage nonetheless. The Oncorhynchus of the Pacific Northwest lives on, the Kingdom of Oncorhynchus persists.
Citations
Caldbick, John. “Celilo Falls Disappears in Hours after The Dalles Dam Floodgates Are Closed on March 10, 1957.” Celilo Falls Disappears in Hours after The Dalles Dam Floodgates Are Closed on March 10, 1957., 10 Feb. 2012, www.historylink.org/File/10010.
“Celilo Falls, Oregon, United States - World Waterfall Database.” , Oregon, United States - World Waterfall Database, www.worldwaterfalldatabase.com/waterfall/Celilo-Falls-5475.
“Chinook Salmon.” National Wildlife Federation, www.nwf.org/Educational-Resources/Wildlife-Guide/Fish/Chinook-Salmon.
Cooperman, Jim. “Shuswap: What's in a Name.” Shuswap Market News, http://www.shuswapwatershed.ca/pdf/Shuswap_the_Name.pdf.
“Dams: Impacts on Salmon and Steelhead.” Dams: Impacts on Salmon and Steelhead | Northwest Power and Conservation Council, www.nwcouncil.org/reports/columbia-river-history/DamsImpacts.
Dietrich, William. Northwest Passage: the Great Columbia River. University of Washington Press, 2016.
George, Phil, and William Baillie Grohman. “Columbia River Salmon, Pacific Northwest: Chinook Salmon.” CRITFC, www.critfc.org/fish-and-watersheds/columbia-river-fish-species/columbia-river-salmon/.
“Indian Fishing.” Indian Fishing | Northwest Power and Conservation Council, www.nwcouncil.org/reports/columbia-river-history/indianfishing.
Johnson, Thom H., et al. “Status of Wild Salmon and Steelhead Stocks in Washington State.” Pacific Salmon & Their Ecosystems, 1997, pp. 127–144., doi:10.1007/978-1-4615-6375-4_11.
National Research Council. 2004. Managing the Columbia River: Instream Flows, Water Withdrawals, and Salmon Survival. Washington, DC: The National Academies Press. https://doi.org/10.17226/10962.
Pesanti, Dameon. “Condit Dam: Life after the Breach.” The Columbian, 23 Oct. 2016, https://www.columbian.com/news/2016/oct/23/condit-dam-life-five-years-after-breach-white-salmon-river/.