SALMON A Scientific Memoir JUDE ISABELLA For my three muses: Tobin, Vaughn and Leo. One of the reasons we gave ourselves for this trip – and when we used this reason, we called the trip an expedition – was to observe the distribution of invertebrates, to see and to record their kinds and numbers, how they lived together, what they ate, and how they reproduced. That plan was simple, straight-forward, and only part of the truth. But we did tell the truth to ourselves. We were curious. Our curiosity was not limited, but was as wide and horizonless as that of Darwin or Agassiz or Linnaeus or Pliny. We wanted to see everything our eyes would accommodate, to think what we could, and, out of seeing and thinking, to build some kind of structure in modeled imitation of the observed reality. We knew that what we would see and record and construct would be warped, as all knowledge patterns are warped, first, by the collective pressure and stream of our time and race, second by the thrust of our individual personalities. But knowing this, we might not fall into too many holes – we might maintain some balance between our warp and the separate thing, the external reality. The oneness of these two might take its contribution from both. For example, the Mexican sierra has “XVII-15-IV” spines in the dorsal fin. These can easily be counted. But if the sierra strikes hard on the line so that our hands are burned, if the fish sounds and nearly escapes and finally comes in over the rail, his colors pulsing and his tail beating the air, a whole new relational externality has come into being – an entity which is more than the sum of the fish plus the fisherman. The only way to count the spines of the sierra unaffected by this second relational reality is to sit in a laboratory, open an evil-smelling jar, remove a stiff colorless fish from a formalin solution, count the spines, and write the truth “D. XVII-15-IV.” There you have recorded reality which cannot be assailed – probably the least important reality concerning the fish or yourself. —JOHN STEINBECK, The Log from the Sea of Cortez, 1–2 CONTENTS Preface Acknowledgements Points of Interest Chapter One The Salmon Doctors Chapter Two Noble Savages or Savvy Managers? Chapter Three Everything Eats Everything Else: Salmon in the Rainforest Chapter Four The Biological Black Box Chapter Five Life, Anthropology and Everything Notes Bibliography PREFACE My purpose in writing this story was to investigate a narrative that is important to the identity of the Pacific Northwest Coast of North America – a narrative that revolves around wild salmon. In the standard narrative, salmon are as central to our origins, desires and troubles as is the apple to the story of Adam and Eve. Salmon mean survival, health, pleasure and longevity. Yet this mythic narrative has always seemed too simple to me. We may dutifully exhibit our reverence for the fish that fed the First Nations of the Pacific Northwest, but how can the narrative guide us if all we really know is that salmon flood grocery stores in the fall and taste good? How can we – as consumers, as citizens, as neighbors of the ocean – more fully come to know the fish that supposedly defines the natural world of this place? I conducted my research as a science writer, inspired by John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez. The best way to achieve reality, Steinbeck writes, is by combining narrative with scientific data.1 So I went looking for something different from the story of constant conflict that most people read about in popular media. I searched for a narrative of the scientists who study the fish, either directly or indirectly, a story of the slow accrual of data and the sudden breakthroughs of insight that define our mounting, shifting, imperfect knowledge of salmon. Steinbeck was not writing about salmon in The Log from the Sea of Cortez, but his meditation on a fish called the Mexican sierra goes straight to my purpose here. He describes the way we would come to know the fish in a laboratory, a lifeless, colourless, stiff, evil-smelling thing with a number for a name. It would be easy to count the spines on such a fish, much easier than on a boat during an expedition, especially if the sierra “strikes hard on the line so that our hands are burned, if the fish sounds and nearly escapes and finally comes in over the rail, his colors pulsing and his tail beating the air.” In such a case, Steinbeck argues, a whole new “relational externality” comes into being – “an entity which is more than the sum of the fish plus the fisherman.”2 The “unassailable” reality of the lab is gone; counting the spines of a thrashing fish is undeniably difficult. But Steinbeck argues that the live encounter between fish and scientist or fisherman engenders a more important reality than the lab. Perhaps that is going too far; for most scientists, the lab and the field are happily entwined. But as a science writer, I tried to follow Steinbeck’s example and trace the narrative journeys – the encounters, planned and unplanned – of scientists and citizens as they struggle to understand the world around us. Such narratives rarely make it into scientific journals. I went on about a dozen field trips with biology, ecology and archaeology lab teams from the University of British Columbia and Simon Fraser University in Vancouver. I travelled with the federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans on board the Canadian Coast Guard ship the W.E. Ricker. I joined an archaeological crew from the Laich-Kwil-Tach Treaty Society on a dig in Campbell River, British Columbia. And while I journeyed with scientists, I was also reading up on fields as diverse as taxonomy, sustainability and folk biology. In particular, a 1938 PhD dissertation by anthropologist Homer Barnett from the University of Oregon, “The Nature and Function of the Potlatch,” was riveting. A concise 2011 treatise on sustainable Indigenous systems by economist Ronald Trosper at the University of Arizona, “Resilience, Reciprocity and Ecological Economics,” expanded my view of what “economy” means.3 And works by psychologist Douglas Medin at Northwestern University and anthropologist Scott Atran at the University of Michigan opened my eyes to the similarity between people who immerse themselves within an ecosystem for their entire lives and those who study it their entire lives. My conclusions, after about four years of on-again, off-again research, beginning in 2009, surprised me. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS My deep gratitude and thanks go to the First Nations who welcomed me to their territories: the Heiltsuk, Stó:lō, Sts’ailes, Tla’amin, and the Kwiakah, Xwemalhkwu and Wei Wai Kum (the Laich-Kwil-Tach Treaty Society). I want to thank Tyrone McNeil of the Stó:lō Tribal Council and his family for welcoming me to the family’s dry rack fishery – though not in the book, their hard work and knowledge set the tone of the story. There were also the scientists and knowledge holders who welcomed me into the field, lab and/or answered all manner of questions: Will Atlas, Megan Caldwell, Tim Clark, Dee Cullon, Brooke Davis, Randy Dingwall, Erika Eliason, Amy Groesbeck, Scott Hinch, Yeongha Jung, Dana Lepofsky, Quentin Mackie, Iain McKechnie, Duncan McLaren, Rhy McMillan, R.G. Matson, Heather Pratt, John Reynolds, Christine Roberts, Anne Salomon, Carol Schmitt, Mary Thiess, Brian Thom, Marc Trudel, Michelle Washington, Louie Wilson and Elroy White. Eric Peterson, Christina Munck and the Hakai Beach Institute hosted me and unknowingly provided me with access to some of the final threads of the story. I would like to thank David Beers at The Tyee, who said “yes” far more often than “no”; the Society of Environmental Journalists for travel funding; the University of Victoria’s anthropology department for providing funding, an academic home and proudly claiming me as one of their own; and the captain and crew of the CCGS W.E. Ricker. April Nowell and David Leach provided support, encouragement, comments and good-natured pressure to get the manuscript “done already.” I especially want to thank the ever-patient Tobin Stokes for answering frantic phone calls from a lost traveller and giving really good directions, and for packing a house and moving almost single-handedly, sometimes with only a bicycle as transportation. Finally, I want to thank my editor Margaret Knox, whose voice I now hear in my head every time I write (thank you, Meg). POINTS OF INTEREST My field trips took me to points along the British Columbia coast: the Fraser and Harrison rivers (see diamond on the map), Tla’amin territory (triangle), Quadra Island, Phillips Arm, Campbell River (square) and the Central Coast (circle.) I also travelled on board a Canadian Coast Guard ship that travelled almost the breadth of the province’s coastal waters. CHAPTER ONE The Salmon Doctors It is usually found that only the little stuffy men object to what is called “popularization,” by which they mean writing with a clarity understandable to one not familiar with the tricks and codes of the cult. We have not known a single great scientist who could not discourse freely and interestingly with a child. Can it be that the haters of clarity have nothing to say, have observed nothing, have no clear picture of even their own fields? —JOHN STEINBECK, The Log from the Sea of Cortez, 1–2 IT’S DRIZZLY, COLD AND MUDDY, and a folding table on the south bank of the Harrison River in British Columbia is no place to perform open-heart surgery. Yet Tim Clark is attempting it. His tongue sticks out in concentration as he leans over his delicate patient, who is sucking in anesthetics through a tube down its throat. The patient’s flesh is slippery, but he slices deftly into the chest cavity. Within minutes, he has stitched up the wound and handed off the patient to be carried away, slightly groggy but still kicking. Next please. The van full of medical supplies behind Clark – gauze, forceps, gloves – is a MASH unit without a war. To the sockeye salmon resting on the operating table – a Rubbermaid container – the process must seem more like an alien abduction than surgery. Clark is no alien, though he is Australian. His purpose is to insert a data logger into the cavity behind the gills of each fish, near the heart. Once the fish is released back into the Harrison River, a tiny computer will continuously record heart rate and temperature as the fish makes its final sprint to Weaver Creek, the natal stream where this population of sockeye will spawn before dying. Each surgery takes one to 15 minutes, depending on the fish’s sex; male salmon have thicker ventral tissue and need fewer stitches to close the opening. Clark and the rest of the scientists arrived early, in the cold mist of a September sunrise. Swaddled in fleece, rain gear and chest waders, they set up tents, tables, scalpels and tubes and waited for the fish. Then the fishers, men from the Sts’ailes First Nation’s fishery program, started running the beach seine to catch patients for Clark and his colleagues. It’s high drama to watch them pull it off. They fix one end of the net to a