The Salmon: The Extraordinary Story of the King of Fish. Michael Wigan

side, they were flopping and swishing, listlessly lunging at each other, indifferent to our presence just feet away.

      Across the current played out another enactment. Here was a long ridge of freshly churned gravel, and from its whiteness and lack of algal covering it was clear the gravel had been recently ploughed. Gently finning in the few feet of water above it were hundreds of bright crimson sockeye salmon – another, smaller species of salmon from the Pacific. The fish were stacked in layers, like wine bottles in an invisible rack. If I had got out and stood on that gravel-bank I would have surmounted millions of eggs promising the next generation of sockeye in this fecund river. Patiently awaiting our departure perched bald eagles looking huge in the spindly pines and gloomy light, preparing to compete with the patrolling grizzlies for the dying salmon. Compute the volume of fish-protein in that modest body of water and the mind boggles.

      None of that protein richness would leave this environment; it formed part of the ecology – sea refreshing impoverished land far from the coast.

      Out of interest I procured facts from the government website which records annual runs of salmon at a fish-pass just below Lake Meziadin. We drove there and saw salmon leaping in futility against the dam walls, others catching the faster water on the side where the fish-pass laddered its way up past the dam. The number of Chinooks that ran this branch of the Meziadin River was around 500, the number of sockeye around 200,000, and the coho run around 4,000. The River Meziadin is small – my fishing partner and I easily cast line across the central river-flow – yet the fish biomass on the redds in the autumn, acre for acre, must approximate to a beef feed-lot in the American Midwest.

      What we witnessed was fish abundance from another epoch. It was part of a wider picture; that year, on the heels of scientific predictions of a diminished sockeye salmon run, in fact some 24 million fish showed up. Scientists sucked their thumbs. Fish are a jump ahead. It is tempting to wonder how close that scene with Pacific salmon in British Columbia paralleled in abundance what occurred in western Europe with their Atlantic cousins over 10,000 years ago, before human impact.

      It may not only be the soil and avian predators that benefit from this transport of protein from the sea. In British Columbia, amply funded for fisheries research, it has been found that in their first year of life out of the egg, young steelhead a few inches long subsist largely on ‘spawner-derived’ feeding. After one year of age, 95 per cent of stomach content was proven to be from salmon eggs and carcases. This was discovered by tethering 400 dead salmon in a river and testing the stomach contents of young steelhead living downstream of them. In other words, they too were nourished on dead salmon at a critical development time. Related to salmon but not the same species, these migratory co-habitants would seemingly struggle if the big salmon runs disappeared.

      Is this the case with Atlantics, our European species? Do their descendants subsist on their shredded flesh? No one knows.

      The charm of the Atlantic’s salmon is that a small percentage do not die; having spawned, some survive. It is thought that around one in twenty live to spawn twice, and they are mostly females. This simple fact changes their whole definition from that of their Pacific cousins. Their softened bodies roll with the current towards the sea. Able to move pigment around their bodies, they have changed colour throughout their lives – in sandy-bottomed streams parr colour up sandy; put a cock salmon in a dark tank and cover the top and it darkens, faster towards spawning, but take him out and he pales. Now the sea-seeking fish silver up, fresh-minted; their bodies carry a latent promise of recovery, return and procreation again. Ancient Egypt’s Pharoahs would understand: they have an afterlife.

      The passage to recovery is far from safe. Otters find them easy prey. Raucous gulls tug their barely sentient carcases from the shingle and devour them. Crows patrol the river edge for prey, squabbling over the rotten bodies. If any fortunate fish do manage to reach the ocean they run smack into hit-squads of patrolling sea mammals, in the form of grey and common seals. These far larger creatures can catch salmon by slashing them senseless with their flippers, and in a copy of sea-lion acts in the zoo, they flick them into the air, strip off the skins and swallow them as they fall.

      The two seal species have protection in Europe, enjoying an almost complete prohibition on culling. Not consonant with the heavily managed catch quotas for all commercial fish, this status of sanctity and exclusion from management has its origin in the excesses of the whaling industry long ago. Whaling desecrated the populations of one of the world’s largest and most miraculous beasts in a hell-for-leather (sic) war on natural resources that has no historic parallels for goriness and intemperance. In the case of the American buffalo, one species was hunted down; in the case of the whales, several species were decimated. For whales are ocean mammals which have to surface and can therefore be seen. The oceans were raked and re-raked until almost none of the species with value were left. The scars from that era have entered Western psyches and will be a long time healing.

      Seals are the major predators of fish close to the coast. Commercial fishermen have shown that they eat far more of the fish in the North Sea than fishermen are catching. However, for the time being the images of whiskered recumbent lumps straddling offshore rocks, doe-eyed saltwater Labradors, is forceful: they are sacrosanct. The only shots they have to put up with are from cameras. There is no public appetite for the resumption of anything that could look remotely like whaling, with any sea mammal. No one wants to risk a repeat of those haunting consequences.

      As in some other stories we will come to, the reason for selective management is the secrecy of the sea. Beneath the waves, all is hidden. If the waters were peeled back from coastal north Scotland and the hundreds of thousands of large seals were made visible, attitudes might change. The fish would look miniature and vulnerable by comparison, their attackers gross and greedy. But we see what we see, and what we see, we believe.

      Seals have trouble catching fast-moving salmon in open seas, but weakened by reproduction and their starvation in freshwater the post-coital ghosts drifting from river-mouths make easy pickings in late winter. Early spring salmon in colder waters move slower, and they are easier prey too.

      A few salmon survive. No one knows what predestines these few fish to survive their ordeals, but they do. Maybe they are just the fortunate ones. Many species cling to existence with only small numbers of breeders. They say the fecund rabbit can breed a million descendants in its own lifetime. Adult ‘hen’ salmon produce some 800 eggs for each pound of their body weight, so a good fish of fifteen pounds would squirt from her quivering flanks into the redds some 12,000 eggs. If she beat the odds and returned to spawn twice, she might have grown and be able to produce more eggs the second time. The egg output, though, depends on seasonal and physical factors and can vary widely.

      The most times any salmon returned that I have heard of was a fish that negotiated survival for eight re-runs, which was netted off Newfoundland and aged by scale-reading – a cross-cut scale being interpreted like the rings of a tree. This one must have been up near the rabbit in terms of prolific genetic legacy! Similar return rates have been recorded in some of the glorious rivers of New Brunswick. On the eastern side of the Atlantic, a fish analysed in Wales had returned to the redds five times.

      It is in the northern oceans that depleted salmon rebuild their condition. If you were to catch and eat these salmon before they had reconstituted themselves, they would be oily and disagreeable, like cod or mackerel after spawning.

      For a long time pundits tried to work out where salmon winter; it was akin to the mystical quest for the end of the rainbow. Somewhere a fish as long as your finger grew exponentially to become a fish as long as your arm. Where was this fabulous larder? It is known now that a proportion of British salmon winter off western Greenland, where Greenlanders in small boats net them close to the coast. These salmon stay more than one winter. They are a minority here; many larger salmon from North America fatten off Greenland too. A little further north, the salmon of the Russian Kola Peninsular and the salmon connected to rivers on Norway’s long coastline winter in the North Atlantic off Norway.

      The salmon of eastern North America winter in the Labrador Sea and on the northern Grand Banks, as well as western Greenland. It can be overlooked: the distance across the Davis Strait starting from northern Newfoundland is only 600 miles. Greenland’s seas are a neighbourhood bouillabaisse.