Dave H
Well-Known Member
I may have posted this before but it's 20 plus years old so I hope someone new might enjoy it.
It was the year of the big El Nino, and the spawning channel inside the Lower Island of the Campbell was dotted with small sockeye, sparkling like an assortment of Christmas ornaments, all red bodies and bright green heads. Scattered amongst them were chum and Chinook, and it was one of the Chinook that caught my attention.
She had a growth of fungus on her head that gave the distinct impression of a skullcap and made her easy to spot. She was outstandingly huge, much larger than any of the others guarding their redds in the channel. I guessed her to be over 40 pounds, maybe even 50. For some reason, she captivated me and, as I was unemployed at the time and had lots of spare time, I decided to watch her through the end game of her life.
I retreated to the Chevron Town Pantry, built on what was once prime coho rearing habitat, and purchased a large coffee to go.
Returning to the spot on the trail that afforded the best view of her I settled in. Because the gravel in the channel was new and loose, having been replaced after BC Hydro inadvertently blew out all the gravel that had been placed there the year before, her redd was easy to see, and it was huge. I judged it to be near eight feet in diameter and hollowed out a foot or more deep. She hovered over it, barely moving a muscle, watching for interlopers. A pair of joggers huffed past me. Neither glanced at the river.
Every few minutes she swam upstream of her redd and turned on her side. She would dig vigorously with her huge, tattered tail, backfilling the large depression she had created before she had dropped her eggs. Then she would slide back into position. I wondered how big the male was that had fertilized her eggs, and where he was now. Had he left to join another female, or had he expended all his milt with her?
Or had he already died, as they all do?
It was interesting to watch the interplay between Old Skullcap, as I came to call her, and the other salmon in the channel.
The sockeye were all on the far side, busily digging away under the overhanging branches of the trees that cover the island, but chum were still moving around, and it was the chum that seemed to vex her the most.
It became apparent that she had a well-developed sense of personal space, as we all do, and she would only move if a chum invaded that space or tarried just a bit too long near the boundary of it. When one entered her space you’d see her body tense, quivering from agitation. If it quickly moved away, she would relax, but if it stopped for even an instant, anywhere near her redd, she bolted after it and chased it off.
Sometimes she would chase for 50 feet or so, scattering innocent salmon in all directions, and other times she would turn quickly after but a brief pursuit. There was no way any other salmon was going to deposit anything in her redd, at least as long as she was alive.
I marveled at her sense of duty and then, damp, cold, but not miserable, went home.
The next day I returned, and she was still there, vigilant and on guard. I settled in and watched her carefully. She continued to back fill the huge depression wherein lay her eggs, the promise of salmon to come, and she continued to chase off anything that ventured too near.
And the hikers passed by, huffing and red-faced, never noticing what I was looking at, or even seeming to care. I pondered the fact that every day quite a good number of people passed this spot, either hiking or jogging. I wondered if any of them even knew what was going on right there in front of them, or whether any of them ever stopped to look at such things. None did while I was there, and I spent quite a few hours watching each day.
Here was a spawning channel full of sockeye, a very unusual sight itself, given they don’t normally spawn here at all. With them were numerous chum salmon, all busily engaged in pairing up, digging redds, fighting and spawning, and Old Skullcap, an outstanding fish, and acting every bit the concerned Mother; although I knew it was only by instinct and without any consciousness as we know it. And all these people, hurrying by, exercising their bodies, trying to get fit, or stay fit. Did they ever exercise their minds? Were they out of touch with the workings of nature, so readily evident if one only stopped and looked?
I left, leaving her alone again. The following day I came back, and she was still there, but noticeably weaker now. Her backfilling attempts were fewer, and less vigorous. Her chases of trespassers were shorter, and not as intense, yet still she guarded her spot, barely moving a muscle to maintain her station. Her skullcap seemed bigger. The fungus was spreading, and I could see clearly a few new spots where it showed. Her tail looked more tattered, worn from digging and backfilling and digging some more. She wouldn’t last much longer now. She couldn’t.
And yet she still had a magnificence about her, a stateliness that spoke of her size and her power, and of what she had once been, just a few weeks past. She was one of those salmon that spends the maximum time at sea, probably six years in her case, or maybe even seven. Despite the lean El Nino year just past she had obviously found sufficient food to grow to such a size, unlike the sockeye who were strangers here, and destined to spawn in vain.
They had not found good pasture at sea and tarried far to the north until the very last instant, when the urge to migrate home to reproduce overcame all other urges.
Sadly, many of them had not attained size enough to complete their journey to the Fraser and then upstream to whatever tributary they originated in. Small tails just don’t have the same propulsion capability as large tails relative to distance and time, and they simply ran out of time.
The urge to enter fresh water drove them up a host of streams that rarely see a sockeye.
Thus, they were there, doing their best in a channel designed for Chinook.
She didn’t know that, of course, but many of us who follow the course of fishy things did.
And still I was captivated by her.
I returned the next day, and she was there still. I spent a couple of hours with her, knowing I might not see her much longer, and wishing she could talk to me. I wanted to know when she had hatched out herself? How long had she stayed in her natal stream before migrating to sea as a smolt?
I wanted to know where she had gone? How far had she ranged? How close had she come to being caught? Had anyone ever hooked her…..and then lost her? Did they lament the loss of such a beauty? Had anyone else been charmed by her? It was impossible to know the answers to these questions, and yet I wanted to know. She meant something to me now, and she was somehow important too. I was frustrated at having no answers.
I’ve always wished salmon could talk.
I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated what she was doing. How much I admired her sense of responsibility to her unborn progeny. I wished she didn’t have to die, although I knew she would and that her body would then add to the nutrients in this system so that other things could survive, maybe even her own babies. I felt a deep sadness for her.
I couldn’t visit her the next day, as I was busy with a job interview and some other business, yet I thought of her several times and wanted to see her. That evening I felt an emptiness within me, like a clenched fist in my stomach. I had a feeling.
The following day I returned yet again, cup of coffee in hand. I settled in, nodded to a now familiar face that belonged to one of the joggers and scanned the water for my old friend.
She wasn’t there.
I moved downstream a bit, hoping she might have just slipped away from her redd as her strength failed, but I couldn’t find her. I knew there was little sense in expending much energy in searching for her, and it was raining too, creating a grey and sombre atmosphere that somehow seemed fitting, given the circumstances. My coffee was cold now, but I finished it as I stood there, taking one last look just in case I had missed her the first 20 times.
But………… she was truly gone.
As I turned to go, I noticed the reflection of the huge Douglas Fir across the river. It seemed to move as I moved, slipping across the surface of the river as easily as she had done beneath it.
I wondered then if she had ever noticed the shadow on the bank; the shadow that appeared for only a few hours each day; the shadow that died a little as she herself had died; the shadow that had just wanted to know her.
And I think of her still.
Take care.
It was the year of the big El Nino, and the spawning channel inside the Lower Island of the Campbell was dotted with small sockeye, sparkling like an assortment of Christmas ornaments, all red bodies and bright green heads. Scattered amongst them were chum and Chinook, and it was one of the Chinook that caught my attention.
She had a growth of fungus on her head that gave the distinct impression of a skullcap and made her easy to spot. She was outstandingly huge, much larger than any of the others guarding their redds in the channel. I guessed her to be over 40 pounds, maybe even 50. For some reason, she captivated me and, as I was unemployed at the time and had lots of spare time, I decided to watch her through the end game of her life.
I retreated to the Chevron Town Pantry, built on what was once prime coho rearing habitat, and purchased a large coffee to go.
Returning to the spot on the trail that afforded the best view of her I settled in. Because the gravel in the channel was new and loose, having been replaced after BC Hydro inadvertently blew out all the gravel that had been placed there the year before, her redd was easy to see, and it was huge. I judged it to be near eight feet in diameter and hollowed out a foot or more deep. She hovered over it, barely moving a muscle, watching for interlopers. A pair of joggers huffed past me. Neither glanced at the river.
Every few minutes she swam upstream of her redd and turned on her side. She would dig vigorously with her huge, tattered tail, backfilling the large depression she had created before she had dropped her eggs. Then she would slide back into position. I wondered how big the male was that had fertilized her eggs, and where he was now. Had he left to join another female, or had he expended all his milt with her?
Or had he already died, as they all do?
It was interesting to watch the interplay between Old Skullcap, as I came to call her, and the other salmon in the channel.
The sockeye were all on the far side, busily digging away under the overhanging branches of the trees that cover the island, but chum were still moving around, and it was the chum that seemed to vex her the most.
It became apparent that she had a well-developed sense of personal space, as we all do, and she would only move if a chum invaded that space or tarried just a bit too long near the boundary of it. When one entered her space you’d see her body tense, quivering from agitation. If it quickly moved away, she would relax, but if it stopped for even an instant, anywhere near her redd, she bolted after it and chased it off.
Sometimes she would chase for 50 feet or so, scattering innocent salmon in all directions, and other times she would turn quickly after but a brief pursuit. There was no way any other salmon was going to deposit anything in her redd, at least as long as she was alive.
I marveled at her sense of duty and then, damp, cold, but not miserable, went home.
The next day I returned, and she was still there, vigilant and on guard. I settled in and watched her carefully. She continued to back fill the huge depression wherein lay her eggs, the promise of salmon to come, and she continued to chase off anything that ventured too near.
And the hikers passed by, huffing and red-faced, never noticing what I was looking at, or even seeming to care. I pondered the fact that every day quite a good number of people passed this spot, either hiking or jogging. I wondered if any of them even knew what was going on right there in front of them, or whether any of them ever stopped to look at such things. None did while I was there, and I spent quite a few hours watching each day.
Here was a spawning channel full of sockeye, a very unusual sight itself, given they don’t normally spawn here at all. With them were numerous chum salmon, all busily engaged in pairing up, digging redds, fighting and spawning, and Old Skullcap, an outstanding fish, and acting every bit the concerned Mother; although I knew it was only by instinct and without any consciousness as we know it. And all these people, hurrying by, exercising their bodies, trying to get fit, or stay fit. Did they ever exercise their minds? Were they out of touch with the workings of nature, so readily evident if one only stopped and looked?
I left, leaving her alone again. The following day I came back, and she was still there, but noticeably weaker now. Her backfilling attempts were fewer, and less vigorous. Her chases of trespassers were shorter, and not as intense, yet still she guarded her spot, barely moving a muscle to maintain her station. Her skullcap seemed bigger. The fungus was spreading, and I could see clearly a few new spots where it showed. Her tail looked more tattered, worn from digging and backfilling and digging some more. She wouldn’t last much longer now. She couldn’t.
And yet she still had a magnificence about her, a stateliness that spoke of her size and her power, and of what she had once been, just a few weeks past. She was one of those salmon that spends the maximum time at sea, probably six years in her case, or maybe even seven. Despite the lean El Nino year just past she had obviously found sufficient food to grow to such a size, unlike the sockeye who were strangers here, and destined to spawn in vain.
They had not found good pasture at sea and tarried far to the north until the very last instant, when the urge to migrate home to reproduce overcame all other urges.
Sadly, many of them had not attained size enough to complete their journey to the Fraser and then upstream to whatever tributary they originated in. Small tails just don’t have the same propulsion capability as large tails relative to distance and time, and they simply ran out of time.
The urge to enter fresh water drove them up a host of streams that rarely see a sockeye.
Thus, they were there, doing their best in a channel designed for Chinook.
She didn’t know that, of course, but many of us who follow the course of fishy things did.
And still I was captivated by her.
I returned the next day, and she was there still. I spent a couple of hours with her, knowing I might not see her much longer, and wishing she could talk to me. I wanted to know when she had hatched out herself? How long had she stayed in her natal stream before migrating to sea as a smolt?
I wanted to know where she had gone? How far had she ranged? How close had she come to being caught? Had anyone ever hooked her…..and then lost her? Did they lament the loss of such a beauty? Had anyone else been charmed by her? It was impossible to know the answers to these questions, and yet I wanted to know. She meant something to me now, and she was somehow important too. I was frustrated at having no answers.
I’ve always wished salmon could talk.
I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated what she was doing. How much I admired her sense of responsibility to her unborn progeny. I wished she didn’t have to die, although I knew she would and that her body would then add to the nutrients in this system so that other things could survive, maybe even her own babies. I felt a deep sadness for her.
I couldn’t visit her the next day, as I was busy with a job interview and some other business, yet I thought of her several times and wanted to see her. That evening I felt an emptiness within me, like a clenched fist in my stomach. I had a feeling.
The following day I returned yet again, cup of coffee in hand. I settled in, nodded to a now familiar face that belonged to one of the joggers and scanned the water for my old friend.
She wasn’t there.
I moved downstream a bit, hoping she might have just slipped away from her redd as her strength failed, but I couldn’t find her. I knew there was little sense in expending much energy in searching for her, and it was raining too, creating a grey and sombre atmosphere that somehow seemed fitting, given the circumstances. My coffee was cold now, but I finished it as I stood there, taking one last look just in case I had missed her the first 20 times.
But………… she was truly gone.
As I turned to go, I noticed the reflection of the huge Douglas Fir across the river. It seemed to move as I moved, slipping across the surface of the river as easily as she had done beneath it.
I wondered then if she had ever noticed the shadow on the bank; the shadow that appeared for only a few hours each day; the shadow that died a little as she herself had died; the shadow that had just wanted to know her.
And I think of her still.
Take care.
