Damn

Salmon and steelhead go home to  spawn.  The best guess is that salmon navigate to their river mouth magnetically, then go upriver by smell or road signs or whatever. It’s no random river either. It’s their natal river, and often their natal stretch of gravel.

There are lots of bad things that can happen to salmon in the ocean. They’re predators, but they’re also prey. There are things bigger than them, including our nets, but if they make it to freshwater their problems are only beginning.

Of course some salmon go astray and end up in the wrong river, which is genetically a good thing, but there are strong ties between a particular salmon and  a particular river. Pacific salmon populations are generally healthy, but salmon populations are often discussed in terms of specific rivers, and even specific river segments.  The Sacramento River chinook population and the Snake River sockeye population are each endangered, while chinook or sockeye as a species are not.

A hen steelhead will contain from 200 to 12,000 eggs, so there’s plenty of redundancy.  Individual casualties happen without hurting a river’s overall population. That said, in Oregon population trends are not upward. There are plenty of natural predators, but we’re the real problem.  We harvest salmon a-plenty, both commercially and for sport. We’ve destroyed habitat by lumbering and farming and development. We’ve hurt the health of populations by introducing hatchery fish into the wild. All of those things have decreased the Oregon salmon population.

And we’ve built dams.

Well, the world has seven wonders, the travelers always tell
Some gardens and some towers, I guess you know them well
But the greatest wonder is in Uncle Sam’s fair land
It’s that King Columbia River and the big Grand Coulee Dam

Woodie Guthrie, Grand Coulie Dam, 1941.

According to the Northwest Power and Conservation Council, there are more than 400 dams in the Columbia River drainage. There are 14 on the Columbia alone, and five on the Deschutes. Construction began around the turn of the last century, and continued for 70 years. The Columbia is not a free-flowing river. It’s drainage is not free-flowing.

Roll on, Columbia, roll on
Roll on, Columbia, roll on
Your power is turning our darkness to dawn
So roll on, Columbia, roll on

Woodie Guthrie, Roll On Columbia, Roll On, 1941.

Corps of Engineers, Dip-netting at Celilo Falls, before construction of the Dalles Dam in 1957.

The dams provide flood control and irrigation, but most importantly they provide electric power. In an odd stroke, Woodie Guthrie, unemployed and broke in Northern California, was hired for one month by the Bonneville Power Authority  to narrate a film about the Columbia River dams. He’d never been to Oregon before. He wrote 26 songs in 30 days, and among them are some of his best. He knew the value of elctricity to Depression-era laborers and farmers.

Yes, Uncle Sam needs wool, Uncle Sam needs wheat,
Uncle Sam needs houses and stuff to eat,
Uncle Sam needs water and power dams,
Uncle Sam needs people and people needs land.
Don’t like dictators not much, myself,
But I think the whole country ought to be run
By electricity!

Woodie Guthrie, Talking Columbia Blues, 1941

Federal law required fish migration to be considered in dam construction, and fish ladders and bypasses were built into the dams. While the bypasses may have worked well enough for the adult salmon, salmon migration is a two-way street. Juveniles must go to the ocean. Originally that was supposed to occur via the turbines and top-dam discharges, but turbines are fish killers, and spilling off the top left fish stunned and easy pickings or dead.  Dam operators and builders have tried other methods, including bypasses and capturing and trucking juvenile fish. It’s expensive. Maybe some of the methods work.

In recent years some smaller dams have been removed, but there are no plans to remove any of the larger dams.

Fish Ladder, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.

Deschutes river advocates, notably the Deschutes River Alliance, believe that a 273-foot tall water withdrawal tower constructed by Portland General Electric in 2010 at the Pelton Round Butte dam has destroyed the fishery in the lower Deschutes, right about where we’ll be fishing. The tower was intended to capture fish for transport around the dam and to help restore the river below the dam by controlling discharges. Before construction of the tower, PGE had released only cold, oxygen-rich water from the bottom of Lake Billy Chinook. The Alliance argues that the top water that’s now part of the discharge is contaminated agriculture runoff that violates standards for water temperature, pH, and dissolved oxygen. They believe the contaminated water creates algae blooms in the lower Deschutes, kills insect life, and ultimately decimates trout, salmon, and steelhead.

It’s all a bit Lake Okeechobie.

The Alliance sued in 2016, and in August of 2018 the court ruled that the Alliance presented no evidence that PGE was violating its discharge permit. The Alliance says it will appeal.

Sex and Death

Chinook Salmon, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.

Once at Whole Foods I asked for salmon, and the fishmonger pointed out steelhead. I said steelhead aren’t salmon. He said yes they are. I said no they aren’t they’re trout and he said no, that wee little pale-fleshed thing over yonder is trout and that mighty steelhead right there is salmon. Things went on like that until I gave up, knowing full well I was right and he was wrong, but here’s the thing: I wasn’t right either. People more knowledgeable than me, people with their masters in science, often refer to steelhead (and sea-run cutthroats) as salmon.

Pacific salmon are genus Oncorhynchus, and depending on who you talk to Northwest Pacific salmon includes five major species, excluding Steelhead and sea-run cutthroats, or seven major species, including steelhead and sea-run cutthroat trout.  To make matters more confusing the Northwest Pacific salmon species, five or seven, are not that closely related to the Atlantic salmon, Salmo salar: Different genus, different species. Resident rainbows (which are never referred to as salmon), are Oncorhynchus mykiss, which of course is the same genus and species as steelhead. And the same genus as Pacific salmon . . .

Ocean Steelhead, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service

It’s all very confusing, and to confuse things more there is also an Asian Pacific salmon species,Oncorhynchus masou. It’s been suggested that steelhead should be called Pacific trout, not Pacific salmon, because they can survive a spawning run and return to spawn again. Ok. That’ll sure clear things up, particularly since Atlantic salmon can also survive a spawning run and return to spawn again. Maybe steelhead should be called Pacific Atlantics.

The fly-fishing literature suffers the same confusion, but in reverse. It doesn’t ever call steelhead salmon, but it clearly distinguishes between steelhead and resident rainbows.  No angler would ever say “I’m fishing for trout!” when the angler was fishing for steelhead. No flytier would say “I’m tying up a bunch of intruders for trout!” For the fly fisher, trout and steelhead are day and night, night and day. Sort of. Anglers know that steelhead and rainbows are more or less the same, but they’ll never admit it. Steelhead are glamorous, and in comparison, even rainbows are not.

Spawning Steelhead, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.

Steelhead, like their kinfolk salmon, are that holiest of fly-fishing prey, an anadromous fish. That’s what makes steelhead different from the run-of-the-mill resident rainbow. You think permit are special? Tarpon? They ain’t in it. Oh sure, Ted Williams was proud of his 1000 bonefish and his 1000 tarpon, but it was his 1000 Atlantic salmon that were his first love. To heck with all that saltwater stuff. It’s anadromous fish plucked from a river that get the heart racing. It’s the best of both worlds.

Anadromous. Steelhead (like resident rainbows) hatch in the spring or early summer in the gravel of freshwater rivers, and then (unlike resident rainbows) work their way to the ocean. The steelhead’s genetic sibling, the resident rainbow, might reach five pounds. The ocean-dwelling steelhead, growing huge on ocean shrimp and baitfish, might reach 20 pounds. After two or three years of growing larger than inland rainbows, steelhead get romantic notions and go home to party. After spawning, salmon die. Steelhead don’t. Theoretically the same steelhead may make the ocean/river spawning trek several times, though only about 10 percent of the population survives for return trips. Of course instead of heading back to the ocean steelhead sometimes hang out in their home river and become resident rainbows. It’s a lifestyle thing.

Sockeye Salmon, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service

The biggest differences between steelhead and the other five salmon, other than the whole sex and death business, is that steelhead feed in freshwater, unless of course they’re winter steelhead and then they don’t eat much. Steelhead also don’t run the river and spawn in one swift motion, unless of course they’re winter steelhead and then they don’t dawdle. Steelhead may (or may not) take their time, but those five-species salmon stop feeding when they start their spawning run, and they all move in and move up. Then the salmon, the five-species salmon, don’t ever go back to the ocean. Who hasn’t marveled at that  tragedy?  And what fly fisher isn’t a bit repulsed by the notion of a flesh fly?

So there are two distinct runs of steelhead. There’s the summer steelhead, the fish we’ll be fishing for in a bit more than a week. They’re smaller than the winter steelhead, they need a bit of time before they’re ready to spawn, and they feed in freshwater. They start showing up in rivers in May for the next spring’s spawn, and continue to come into the rivers through October.  They then hang out getting ready for the next spring spawn. I suppose that along about Halloween the summer steelhead by general accord stop and let the winter steelhead begin. Things are always precise in nature.

I have a mental image of the Oregon winter steelheader standing in the sleet and snow, spey-casting to a fish that isn’t interested. “During the winter I only work two days a week,” my imaginary steelheader tells me, “so I fished for 67 days last year and landed three fish. It was my best season ever.” He has a steelhead tattoo, and another of an intruder.  He doesn’t know that the Astros won the World Series.

Pink Salmon, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

The winter steelhead have the same ultimate goal as the summer steelhead, but they’re bigger fish, physically ready to spawn, and they’re not lollygagging in the summer pools eating caddis or whatever. They have to be provoked into yelling the salmonic equivalent of get off my lawn.

That guy? That Oregon winter steelheader? Don’t tell him, but he’s salmon fishing.

Ephemera & Young, A, The Book of Salmon in Two Parts, frontispiece, 1850.