death on the beach
wayside park, juneau, alaska
I smell death before I see it, stepping off the bus and looking left and right for the source in the middle of an industrial office complex. Yesterday the swaying pines reflected from serene pools of glacier water. Today the construction tug boats hammer into the abyss and cement trucks honk and grumble incessantly, the majestic mountain backdrop becomes an afterthought.
The smell grows stronger as I turn a corner and am greeted by the ocean. The bodies rove and twist in the chaotic surf. I trip down precarious boulders to the beach, distracted by their synchronized pacing and splashing.
I look up just in time to avoid stepping on someone, eyes vacant, mouth agape, staring up at me. Shock turns to disgust as I try to get my bearings, narrowly avoiding someone else. I lose my footing and stumble, having trouble finding a path without a scaly corpse. Giant flies snack on a lone head at the edge of the beach as a light current flows by.
A dismembered tail flung haphazardly against a rock, a bony carcass at the base of a tree, an uneaten fully decomposing body a few feet to my right. And another. And another. Everywhere I look, the beach is littered with salmon carcasses, all at varying degrees of decay and mutilation.
Delayed comprehension rises to the surface as the hatchery comes into view. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies and baby salmon growing up safe in their tanks, ready to see the ocean and the world. This is where they began, where they were raised. This is where they return home, to spawn. This is where it ends for them. This is the salmon graveyard.
They surge in the harbor beyond the shore, all at varying stages of spawning and death. Females fly out of the water jubilantly, readying their eggs to disembark, while the dead and dying float idly by. Some are equally as hyped as others are wearily slipping away, the juxtaposition unnerving. They are battered and bruised and literally flaking away as they make their way towards the hatchery, some coming, many going. The water stays still and calm in allegiance. I suppose this is as peaceful as any place to die.
One has a large piece of scale stuck to their fin, theirs or someone else’s, I couldn’t say. They are swimming in a pool of death. I am surrounded by a mist of flies. Trucks haul gravel along the bank of construction, backing up with alarms screeching, off putting but appropriate in this dismal setting. It fades into background noise, an industrial symphony lulling them to final sleep.
Sounds of cheerful banter between the fisherman wafts up to my rocky summit.“These are all Chums right now, I haven’t seen any Kings.” “Well, I heard they’re coming’ up right now! Be here in a few hours!” They tap their cans of Coors.
A seal pops their head to the surface opportunistically, glances around, then retreats towards the action, or lack thereof. Floating leisurely along, cruisers at a buffet.
One dying friend is stuck in some weeds and pitifully bats them away, hardly making an effort. After a few hours, the tug boat and construction barge head out from their port, the truck noises halt, the workers leave for the day. All is pleasantly still aside from the plopping of those leaping to spawn and the occasional annoying young screaming tourist. Their parents quickly whisk them away - this is no place for a child.
As I write, somebody succumbs to the darkness and quietly floats by. Another comes up close to me, perched on the rocky surface, looks right at me, while opening and closing their mouth as if gulping their last breaths. One final goodbye. Then slowly, quietly, drifts out to sea, out of sorts, out of steam, while their more determined brethren march onward single file towards their mission. More bodies slowly rise to the surface and scatter about the harbor, returning to rest in peace.
The spawners rush past speedily, in a frenzied fashion. The spawned float hauntingly past, dazed and oblivious to the others, alone and out of sync, their scales barely skimming the surface. Chills come as I watch them simultaneously fighting for life, if not their own, and chills as I watch them slowly die. This is a sacred place, a place of life and death and transition.
I’m torn from my melancholy by the sounds of splashing. The occasional salmon slapping the surface reminds me why we’re here. Even now as I write, two fly through the air across the surface in tandem, once, twice, three times, like rocks skipping together, perfectly synchronized.
More seals bob to the surface, tailgaters at the show, while an otter sleepily rides the current, a tuber floating a lazy river. My heart is heavy with sadness and enamored with wonder. Bubbles pop along the surface as the schools coordinate below, forming ripples like raindrops scattering in reverse. Every now and then a dorsal fin swims towards me eerily, like a sea monster. A tail appears and flops, a nose surfaces pleadingly, like a dog begging for scraps, searching for what I don’t know. I wish I could give them anything to make this moment easier.
But perhaps it is only me who feels this is a tragedy and not a celebration of life.
This is the end of their cycle yet also the beginning. A transformative event for me as well. The end of my travels but perhaps the beginning of a new cycle, a new journey. Can I be the salmon following so blindly my intuition into the unknown ventures of life, selfless and connected to the earth? Could I be their voice, as they are mine?
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If you enjoy posts about salmon spawning, see also:
A little bit of additional reading if you're interested about how dead salmon contribute to ecosystems:
"While maturing at sea, salmon accumulate marine nutrients. When they return to freshwater to spawn they transfer that stored biomass to the stream habitat. The decomposing carcasses contribute food for the entire ecosystem." - Dead Salmon Bring Life to Rivers, Coowe Walker and Tammy Davis https://www.adfg.alaska.gov/index.cfm?adfg=wildlifenews.view_article&articles_id=97#:~:text=While%20maturing%20at%20sea%2C%20salmon,food%20for%20the%20entire%20ecosystem.
Wow, so heart wrenching and beautiful all at the same time. Thanks for sharing your experience and the pictures and videos. I waited to watch the videos until I had finished listening to your post, and I felt like I could see and hear the world you had already been explaining. A cool kind of echo, helping me sink more into the moment again while also sharing a little of your experience. Thank you for sharing and for your writing - the way you help us to ask the big questions in the midst of life and death and transformation. Not trying to sound dramatic. I really appreciate it.