By Thorin N. Tatge
In
the First Age of Salmon, a bygone time, I ran with a school whose habits
were fine.
My
school was fit, and their habits were fine—my school was fed on advice
of mine.
Advice
of mine, telling how to live, that only I was equipped to give:
The
only salmon with any guile, I taught them well and we lived a while...
…Though
of eight thousand in every redd their mothers dug in the riverbed,
Five
thousand alevin only thrived, and of them, six hundred fry survived.
Two
thirds of them failed to make the bar, so just two hundred were marked
as parr,
And
three in four would turn out a dolt, all dead before they were silver-smolt.
Which
left just fifty to have a care for flying talons and claws of bear,
And
few were able to learn and bank the signs of danger and when to tank,
To
dive for cover and break from rank—and those who did all had me to thank.
They
wouldn’t listen to lessons taught, and full four dozen were swiftly caught.
So
of eight thousand in every nest, on average, two would outlast the rest.
O
how I came to distrust, detest, these two who reckoned themselves the best!
They
seemed to think if they lived to spawn, they had no purpose in moving on:
They’d
shown themselves to be of some worth, upheld their species and given birth.
They
passed the buck along to their fry, and felt like they were allowed to
die.
I
ask you: what could I do but sigh?
Yet
we lived a while, until one week, a spinner came to Chinook Creek;
A
dappler sat there with his jig, a gigger with his grisly gig;
A
trawler seined the broadest brooks; a troller trailed two dozen hooks;
A
spearer speared, a setter set, a netter crouched and bunched her net,
A
snagger snagged, a gaffer gaffed, an angler flyfished from a raft,
A
bowman bowfished from the shore...and we were safe, I knew, no more.
I
told my school, in soothing tones, to seat it deep in their prickly bones,
That
if we wanted to save our line, our future lay in the distant brine.
The
westward sea to which rivers flow was where, as one, we would have to go.
These
lures would soon make an end of us—unless we all turned anadromous!
We’d
split our lives between pool and bay, the ocean’s coast and the river’s
spray,
And
though we might return here to play, for years at once we must course away!
With
those who listened I met success, and carved a life in that wilderness.
I
told them, “Remedy every fault! Retain your water, expel your salt!
Avoid
predation, find things to eat, grow large like oceans, become elite!”
And
at the end of this voyage grand, at last, returning as one inland,
We
tried the waters on every hand, and found our journey had gone as planned!
Our
instincts having grown strong and pure, no longer were we so quick to lure,
So
quick to catch or so quick to snare, so quick to die in the open air,
So
quick to reel or so quick to ground—and this bade well for our price per
pound!
Our
price per pound, our price per pound—
Our
rising, rising price per pound.
And
for a while, my mind was sound,
As
long I dwelt on my price per pound,
My
personal, personal, price per pound,
That
glorious price per pound!
The
land is brief, by waters bound; the ocean flows the whole world round.
On
land each dwells in his domain; not so for our aquatic strain!
There
are no walls beneath the waves, and given how our kind behaves,
Before
too long, the sea was filled with salmon of our pliant guild.
The
ages rose and fell, though I alone remained too sharp to die,
And
it was not much later when I found myself displeased again!
As
Sockeye, Coho, Steelhead, Pink, our bodies filled the briny drink;
As
Chum, Chinook, Atlantic, King, our species all were flourishing!
So
while it seemed that man’s demand held mainly constant on the land,
Here
in the ocean, our supply was boasting numbers far too high.
No
longer could we try or hope to sideskirt every baited rope;
No
longer could we all evade the traps that those above had laid.
Without
the space to swim away, our numbers made us easy prey,
And
this, to my dismay, I found, had pulverized our price per pound!
Our
price per pound, our price per pound,
Our
price went plummeting down and down,
And
down, and down, still farther down,
And
I grew rash, and tightly wound
To
hear the news of my price per pound,
That
pitiful price per pound!
Enough!
Adapting my strategy, I cast my school away from me!
If
I would always by them be gauged, I’d make them sorry! And so, enraged,
I
bared my motives and spoke my cause, I took my leave and revoked my laws—
If
only I could avoid the snare, and only I could eschew the air,
Then
best that I should be spanking rare, and worms to those who would cry “Unfair!”
And
so, my school, no longer bound by regulations both wise and sound
Became
much easier prey to ground, and farther still fell our price per pound!
I
winced to witness this drop in price—but all was part of my grand device!
I
knew, although it would take some time, that salmon hauls would begin to
climb,
No
matter whom they had given rights, to Chilkat, Makah, Coquille or Whites,
No
matter what kind of lines or boats or jigs or trappings or baits or floats,
I
knew my brethren would soon forget how not to die in a fishing net,
Which
estuaries were safe to cross, which times of year bore the smallest loss,
The
safest rivers where eggs were laid—the ins and outs of the salmon trade!
Indeed,
I’m certain it won’t be long before this thinning affects the throng;
I
surely won’t have too long to wait before they meet their predestined fate:
To
wander stupidly through the brooks, those brainless Steelheads and coarse
Chinooks,
The
mindless Sockeye and witless Pink, the dullard Coho too slow to think,
The
fool Atlantic and dimwit Chum, the King, not regal so much as dumb—
Their
rightful fate I have now returned, in grim accordance with what I’ve learned:
The
course of nature is hard to steer, and if I’d have that my course be clear,
The
only way is to go alone, and leave all other fish on their own.
With
any luck, in some era soon, they’ll tap the fish from their last lagoon,
They’ll
drain the last of their creeks and bays—they’ll likely keep at it anyways!
And
what will come when they realize they’ve caused the fishes’ morose demise?
Demise,
that is, of all but me; and when I flit by mockingly,
And
leap the crest as I dart by, and when they gaze in awe at my
Evasive
actions, swift and deft, and learn that there is one fish left…
Why,
I expect they’ll have me crowned with a practically infinite price per
pound!
My
precious, precious price per pound,
The
most ridiculous goal around,
Per
pound, per pound, per perfect pound,
And
yet, the best that I’ve ever found,
And
when all others have long since drowned,
These
words forevermore shall resound:
“All
heed my wonderful price per pound,
My
fabulous Price Per Pound!”