Kingdom of Oncorhynchus

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/.

Consumed

Photos by Jake Murie - Hotshot Wildland Firefighter

The crackle of the wood calls to me. It calls to me like a siren singing her song of temptation. Smoke hangs and curls, freely entering my nostrils to return nostalgic memories from my summers. The flames dance and spit embers. I am spellbound by primitive fascination. Fire stokes up memories in the minds of everyone from summer camping trips, winter bonfires, or an autumn burn pile. A memory is there. A select few not only remember fire but live it every year, every summer, nearly every day. 

I was one of those people. 

Right out of high school I was lucky enough to land a job with the Washington State Department of Natural Resources where I was introduced to the unique world of wildland firefighting. I was engulfed by fire, totally consumed, until I burnt out. Long hours, longer days, dust, dirt, smoke, debris, sweat, MREs, comradery, hardships, discipline, friendships, and the unknown of tomorrow. As a fresh-outta-school young man, I was loving everything to do with the seasonal job of wildland firefighting, so much so that I decided, from a mountaintop on lookout, that I was going to follow this path and study it at school. I was going to spend my off-season studying wildland fire and environmental sciences in an educational setting. In the summer I would spend my time hands-on with fire suppression, travel around the country where assigned, and make some damn good money while I’m at it. 

The adventures were bottomless. Morning briefing had me crossing my fingers that R1 had popped some starts and raised their preparedness level, requiring more resources in the region, meaning that I could be on the crew to show up in the wilds of Idaho or Montana to fight some fire. And, again, get paid a lot to do so. With the help of the US Forest Service, I have been to every state in the Western US and fought fire in most of them. I’ve flown in helicopters above Yellowstone National Park on its centennial and spent multiple nights in the backcountry of Crater Lake National Park fighting lightning busts day and night - being flown in supplies. But it’s not all fun and glory in the fire game. There were many times when I simply wanted to finish the day, and the following one, and the one after that to put in my 14 days of grinding and be rewarded with some sweet, sweet R&R. 

I have been to the middle of nowhere Oregon, a wasted, blackened grassland, in 100°+ temperatures, gridding for smokes for a week. The act of gridding involves a squad or crew lined out with equal spacing in from the black edge of the fire slowly walking, sometimes crawling, scanning the burnt area for any sort of residual smoke or heat. Imagine doing that all day for a week, it can drive a person a little mad. I’ve also been the swamper of a saw team, the one to carry the fuel and oil, spare parts and tools, and the falling axe for the sawyer. I tossed their freshly cut debris for hours on end only to find there’s no alternative route around the massive poison oak patch and have had to hug the oily leaves like a long lost friend. I’ve been called the “poster child for trench foot” because of the rash from my ankle down and wearing open blisters on nine of my toes.

Through my experiences in wildland firefighting, one specific assignment stands out most to me. I was a “phil” or fill-in for a veterans crew out of Billings, Montana. I was incredibly intimidated by the idea of me, a laid-back, easygoing young man, filling in with 18 of America’s veterans. I thought my two weeks were about to be dictated by rough, tough, stubborn, and hardcore military personnel who I’d feel almost guilty around for not serving as well. Simply put, I didn’t want to go, but needed the money. As I pulled into the work center, I was met by the hard stares of men with short hair, beards and combat style sun-glasses. Shit, shit, shit, here we go…

I was wrong, completely wrong. Those guys were rough and tough, but they were incredibly kind, grateful to be outside on a mission, and were laughing all the time. The two week assignment on their crew was great. I got to know my squad really well while gridding for smokes in Hell’s Canyon. One guy wanted to open a brewery, another would flip houses in winter down in Colorado, and another wanted to one day be a smokejumper. Just normal guys with normal goals. After being released from Hell’s Canyon, we headed to Yellowstone to be involved in the complex of fires that were burning away at the dense high elevation lodgepole pine stands. This is where we got into some real exciting activities. 

The crew had the responsibility of protecting a historical structure in the backcountry. We hiked three miles in to set up a sprinkler system and to wrap it in a tin foil like material. While we were observing the fire across the valley up on the hill, we noticed a pack of wolves at the base of the hill darting in and out around a herd of buffalo, teasing for the calves. 

Our next mission was to protect a series of structures with a sprinkler system from start to finish. We were able to measure out the area and make a detailed map of where each sprinkler would go, the necessary hose and fittings for the system, and then build and test the system. After a couple days, the arrangement was completed. When the pump was fired up and the hoses began to swell, subsequently firing each sprinkler, filling the air with the repetitive and familiar sprinkler sound chk, chk, chk, chk, chchchchchchkk. For us, this moment was as glorious as the christmas tree lighting in Times Square.

The fondest memory I have of that two weeks was a sudden plan to burn out under a raging hillside at night. The plan was so sudden that we crossed the stream with rolled-up pants and carrying our boots above the water. On the other side, we laced up as quickly as possible, cut off a bough from a tree, and used it as a flapper to beat out the fire that was back-burning. Damn that was fun. Running back and forth frantically to catch and extinguish all rebellious flames, relying on our branch’s needles not to burn so the “tool” would remain effective. The burn took off towards the bottom of the hill where the two fronts would meet and extinguish. We retreated some distance away and sat with our backs on an old downed tree watching as our fire show lit up the valley. Hunger rapidly approached and we happily opened up our MREs and ate dinner.

I wouldn’t trade back a single day. People become whacky versions of themselves in tough times when morale is low but there is always one of us keeping a smile about and who’s good for a laugh. During the moment, it may have sucked, but I cherish the memories and they have made me who I am today. Fire consumed my summer. Working 14 days straight, then two days off, and repeating the process until the temperatures dropped and the fall rains arrived to end the season.

The end of the season brings a time of joy to all who dedicate their summer to the fireline. We take a much needed rest after working upwards of 2000 hours in six months (the average full-time job in America works 2000 hours for the entire year). Finally, we are free to do whatever we please. The options are abundant with several zeros at the end of our bank account balances. We travel abroad and spend summer in the southern hemisphere or experience an exotic culture. We invest in that new vehicle we’ve been dreaming about driving all summer. Some of us wait around for winter to hit and become one of the many ski bums to shred the slopes. Hard work pays off with the reward of six months of fun, enjoyment, and opportunity.  

Fire exists all over the world and although it is a natural process, it is viewed by many countries, agencies, and people as a natural disaster. The way the world is heating up, fire will become more prevalent and destructive than it already is. More personnel will be needed to help prevent and suppress wildfires. This opens up opportunities for individuals to travel overseas and fight fires year-round. It’s possible to jump from one fire season to the next fire season, even moving to other countries like Australia where the fire season is opposite that of the United States. This is a wonderful opportunity to experience new tactics, fuel types, and operating procedures all while travelling to a new part of the world. 

Published! Thanks to The Seasonals Magazine!

Connect with Jake and see more of his photos here.

I CAN’T HEAR THE BIRDS

I can’t hear the birds is what she said to me, although they were clearly present at my end of the phone. I asked her if she was outside in a forest because the varied torrent of chirps was so prominent. “No” she replied, “I’m in my room”. I thought this to be so amazing that all of those birds could be heard from no further than the window of her room. I was not in her position of hearing them every day from sun up to sundown, hearing their proud songs was new and exciting to me. She had been there for many months and had become used to the songs, the birds had become just another day.

This idea of not being able to hear the birds really struck me as odd, to me they were so vivid and foreign, yet to her, they were nothing more than average. This chord had been struck within me firing off all sorts of thoughts as I attempted to sort out a world without bird songs. I came to realize I had been plenty guilty of this in the past, not necessarily about birds but of other aspects of my life. The keyword of my findings was complacency. A position of such comfort that you let your awareness down and events, actions, or sounds can slip by without second thought. 

Complacency was introduced to me before I was aware of the word existed, I simply said “taking things for granted”. The two are very closely related, if not the same, depending on your definition or context of the two. I was complacent about the fact that I grew up in a wonderland of the outdoors, The Columbia River Gorge. I took it for granted, all of it. The mountains, sunsets on Mt. Hood and down the Columbia River from the front porch, access to lakes, rivers, forests, small-town life. All taken for granted. I suppose I thought that everywhere had similar features, except for the midwest, particularly Kansas. When I moved to Idaho to go to school, I was thrown dab smack into the Palouse, treeless rolling hills, agriculture fields and a town bigger than I had ever lived. I missed home, I missed my 35-minute drive to one of two national forests for recreation, I missed a lot. Unfortunately, it was not my last time being complacent.

Complacency was introduced to me through my work as a wildland firefighter where it is hammered into your skull “Complacency Kills”. The slogan is serious and just as easy as it is to say, it is easy to forget and once again be complacent. In that line of work, complacency has a different ring to it because it implies that one is being lazy, letting down their awareness, and complacent errors can have much higher repercussions in a high stakes environment. Luckily for me, I saw nothing serious happen although the complacency bug had struck me or my crew on multiple occasions. I never thought I’d look back on those days and miss them, for one, I thought I would always be an employee of the Forest Service, working my way up the GS scale until….well until something. Plans change, injuries happen and it sort of resets the declination on your life compass. 

Taking for granted is the term I will use for my summer spent on Kodiak Island in Alaska. I enjoyed it, sure, but there was some grungy feel about it that wore on me like a wet coat. I was a bear tour guide on Kodiak Island and in Katmai National Park, it was and still is the best job I have ever had. As long as the weather would allow the planes to fly, we would be out in it, downpours, howling winds, bright sun, you name it. I would guide clients through mud, rivers, streams, forest, and fields so that we could get a nice close and personal look at Coastal Brown bears and Kodiak bears. I was six feet away from a thousand-pound plus bear as it waded upstream past me. Work was what I lived for, back in town, on the other hand, was my demise. 

The Island of Kodiak limits your driving to approximately seventy miles of roadways, not all of it paved. The 13,000 people that live there are packed into these areas and solitude is often hard to find. Garbage litters the roadways and parking areas, the beach after the 4th of July is left in a shameful state, and more than once was a changed diaper left on the park picnic table. The bars were filled with the fisherman who’d been out for weeks, looking to get a fix as they lit up cigarettes at the bar and played pool. I even once found a crack pipe on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Kodiak was not the place for me, yet here I was, stuck on the island wanting nothing more than to be working amongst the bears or road-tripping back home. 

They say you only remember the good times that were had even though a majority of your experience may have been rough. I find that to ring true in my memory as I sit here now. How lucky I was to have so many amazing memories from my time spent fighting fires or guiding clients amongst some of the largest bears in the world, but when I really have a good critical thought about those times I find an error. Throughout my time at both seasonal jobs, especially my last two years with the forest service and my year in Kodiak I drank heavily, smoked a lot of weed and smoked hundreds and hundreds of backwoods cigars. It would not be uncommon for me to drink a bottle of wine, smoke some weed and a few cigars at night after work and do it again the following day. My self-medicated lifestyle was numbing, and at the time it was exactly what I thought I needed. 

I now have changed my ways since my seasonal grind, although I still am semi-transient, I have a steady job that I have held longer than my previous jobs. I no longer use substances to get me through my weeks and I appreciate things in a more wholesome manner. I have lost 30 pounds since I stopped binging substances and have taken up hobbies that I probably would have never gotten into. I appreciate when I am alone or with friends and don’t feel the need to drink or smoke. I have a new perspective on sobriety and how it impaired me in the past. 

Be aware, be present and take notice. I like to think about this every day because there is so much stimulus that I would overlook while being in my own world. I unplug my headphones and listen to the birds, close my laptop and watch the setting sun, or simply enjoy a meal in silence. I have missed out on too much in my past and I have now come to realize my mistakes, my complacency, and I now strive for a better, lasting experience. As it is said, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone”.