I’ve had a few hangups with my Martha Washington Park posts and am still getting my bearings, apologies for the delay. I hope to finish that series soon. In the meantime, there is some great news coming out about the local salmon recovery happening in the Elwha River. This Fall will be the first Coho harvest by the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe in over 10 years since the Elwha Dam and Glines Canyon Dam removal.
This had me thinking about salmon and watching them spawn, and I decided to share a (rather long) short story I wrote last Summer in Ketchikan. Despite the tone of this story, I am absolutely not attacking salmon fishing, especially when it’s done respectfully. My whole life, I have had a complicated personal relationship with hunting and fishing and eating meat, and it’s not something I take lightly, on either side of the argument.
Salmon are a critical resource to our communities and ecosystems, they are ancient and ancestral and their drive to continue their species is otherworldly. On a personal note, I firmly believe my 16 year old dog is still alive because he eats smoked salmon from the fishmongers at Pure Food Fish Market in Pike Place Market every day. For me, the most important thing is respect for these ancient creatures and their lifecycle, regardless of your stance on fishing or eating them.
“Some salmon species have been on the planet since the time of dinosaurs. They all hold a very dear place in my heart.” - Mariza Ryce Aparicio-Tovar, The Gentle Tarot, @mariinthesky
Arguably my most vulnerable post, this was probably the first time I felt compelled to write when in nature. I tend to alternate between hands off spectator and putting myself in (what I imagine to be) the salmon mindset. This is intentional and confusing but I am keeping it as is because it was my reality in the moment.
Trigger Warning: some scenes are difficult to read if you are sensitive about animals. Some may call it animal cruelty, others call it fishing. Take care.
Watching the salmon spawn is a magical experience that feels like life or death, because it truly is. It is just as religious as the overwhelming power felt watching the waves at hide tide, or the lightning strikes in the distance, the sheer quiet magnitude standing under the prehistoric redwoods. You feel very small and out of place yet also so connected.
I have never felt such empathy before. I am the salmon, single-focused determination, amping myself up to fight against powerful tons of gravity. A fight not just for my life but for the continuation of my species. We are heroes, going off to battle the elements for the survival of our future generations.
We are a force to be reckoned with, and we will succeed. At the bottom of the rocks, we do not anxiously await our fait. We are not just building up the courage or the strength. We are silently lying in wait, dangerous, ready to strike when the time is right.
I am proud and relieved when we make it through to another rung in the ladder. Crashing against my brethren as we compete for space in the small puddle of solace. Breathing a small sigh of relief before leaping headfirst into the next skirmish.
We soar into the abyss, beautiful and free for a brief moment, hoping it is enough, flapping our fins wildly in preparation in case it is not, lest we are brutally wrenched downstream. Tears run down my face as they tumble down each level, the current carelessly thieving their progress and jerking them back to the beginning, as though the hours of assault were all for naught. Waterfallen.
Death is imminent, and she may come too swiftly, as I see at the top of the falls where a salmon is lodged between rocks, face upward, mouth open like a hunting eel, eyes glassy and vacant. Yes, there will be collateral damage, however cheerfully less than one would think.
The water is treacherous. Missing the next ledge, getting carried away by the stream, my heart leaps when one holds their ground, pushing back. We will not be flung aside like garbage, thrown downstream to the starting line. We will stand our ground and keep fighting, an inspiration, having learned from past falls.
At once my perspective shifts and it is no longer a waterfall of rocks and water. We are a storm of salmon troops, pressing upward towards victory. Our bodies are the rocks, and the stone can no longer be seen. We salmon work together as one, pounding against the water, not pounded. Slipping through each current like ghosts, sporting generations of instructions in each cell of our DNA.
To be continued…