El bruch del Gran Hotel Inglés es una delicia.
Pink Salmon Are Thriving In Warmer Waters, Affecting Other Species, Scientists Say
Pink salmon returning to Prince William Sound, Alaska, hatcheries contributed to record-setting abundances in recent years and to impacts on other marine species. (Photo by Preston and Teresa Cole) A new scientific paper published this fall shows that the pink salmon population is booming in the North Pacific Ocean — and global warming is helping it happen. The new evidence suggests that pinks are not just outcompeting other salmon species but they're affecting the whole ecosystem — from the microscopic to large marine whales.
"Pink salmon are one of the winners in terms of climate change," said Greg Ruggerone, a salmon researcher and lead author of the new 40-page paper published Sept. 21 in the scientific journal, Marine Ecology Progress Series.
But for every winner, there is a loser — or in this case, several. The new research shows that the spike in pink salmon in recent decades is affecting the ocean's fragile food chain. Pink salmon run on an every-other-year cycle. The population in the odd number years is 25% greater than even number years. And when pink numbers are up, other species are down.
"From phytoplankton, zooplankton, forage fishes, all five species of Pacific salmon, and so forth and marine birds. It all points to pink salmon," Ruggerone said.
Scientists don't know all the reasons that pink salmon are doing better in warmer waters. But they do know that pinks are better than other salmon species at finding prey and growing from their nutrients. In fact, they're the fastest-growing salmon, ready to spawn in just two years, three times faster than kings.
Plus, hatcheries are bolstering their population — pumping roughly 5 billion salmon annually into the Pacific Ocean, mostly pink and chum.
The general assumption is that the ocean has sufficient capacity to support them all. But Ruggerone said his new paper proves that's not the case.
"I think the evidence that we provided leads to the observation that the ocean has a limited carrying capacity to support both wild salmon plus massive numbers of hatchery, chum and pink salmon released into the North Pacific," he said.
His new research shows that when pink salmon are especially abundant, that's when other species suffer. Pinks eat a ton of prey from zooplankton to small fish. In turn, this creates:
The study also connects the pink salmon cycle to nearly a dozen species of seabirds.
"They laid more eggs on even years, good years than they did on odd years, bad years," said Alan Springer, co-author of the study and a seabird researcher with the University of Alaska Fairbanks.
Springer said they got data from scientists all over the world who had found biennial patterns.
"A variety of associated reproductive kinds of parameters all varied in lockstep with that even-odd year pattern in pink salmon," he said.
Things like emaciated and starving shearwater birds on an every-other-year cycle.
The scientists say there is no evidence for other explanations for the biennial patterns that have been recorded.
"You know, sea surface temperature or wind speeds or these atmospheric indexes of, whatever, failed to show any kind of similar patterns," said Springer. "So that's kind of what for us is the bottom line."
The Alaska Department of Fish and Game is skeptical of the paper's findings. Commissioner Doug Vicent-Lang, in a written response, called the paper a "hypothesis" and said it's "the subject of an ongoing debate among scientists."
"The conclusions put forth are stated as more definitive than the strength of the evidence that backs them up," he wrote.
The researchers agree that it's a hypothesis — but a strong one. The data shows connections but doesn't answer all the reasons why.
"More research is certainly needed," Ruggerone said. "But again, with the synthesis paper, an important part of it is just the consistency in the relationships across all these different taxa."
Taxa meaning a biological group.
The authors hope that other scientists take their findings and dig deeper into all the ways the large pink salmon population could be affecting other species in the North Pacific. And timing is of the essence as ocean temperatures are expected to rise.
In WA's Northern Waters, Lummi Keep Sustainable, Ancient Salmon Fishing Techniques Alive
The production of this article and accompanying photographs are the result of a collaboration between environment and science news platform, Mongabay, and McClatchy News.
"Some mornings, the sun's hitting that reef net just right and it's like I know it's talking to me," said Ellie Kinley, a member of the Lummi (Lhaq'temish) Nation and the last Indigenous permit holder of an ancient salmon fishing practice. Her reef net rig, parked on the shore of Lummi Nation Stommish grounds, serves as a reminder of a once-thriving Indigenous fishing tradition that, for now, sits idle. "It's saying, 'I'm sitting here. Don't forget about me.'"
Ellie Kinley, a member of the Lummi (Lhaq'temish) Nation, stands on her fishing boat in Bellingham Bay's Squalicum Harbor on Nov. 17, 2023. Kinley is the last Indigenous reef net permit holder of the ancient salmon fishing practice but didn't use her reef netting rig this year due to economic realities.
For centuries, Indigenous people of the Salish Sea relied on reef netting as a sustainable salmon fishing technique, but colonialism has left the tribes disconnected from a practice that once defined their cultural identity. Now, many find themselves balancing day-to-day economic realities with an ardent desire to revive reef net fishing and restore this vital link to what they say is their sacred heritage.
Reef net fishing intercepts chinook, coho, sockeye, chum and pink salmon as they travel from the Pacific Ocean to spawn in the Fraser River near present-day Washington state and British Columbia.
Rather than chasing the fish, this technique relies on a net stretched between two anchored boats. Long lines of rope run from the boats, creating an artificial reef that corrals the fish into the net. (Hence the name reef net). Once the salmon reach the net, the lookouts sound the alarm, and the crew quickly pulls the catch into the boat. Traditionally, Lummi built these rigs from cedar wood and fiber ropes and anchored the rigs along the salmons' path using large boulders.
Fishermen on one of several reef net fishing boats anchored off Lummi Island pull their nets to catch salmon on Sept. 14, 2023. Reef net fishing is considered one of the most sustainable fish-catching methods, resulting in minimal bycatch.
On the reef net, any non-target fish are tossed back into the water, resulting in almost no bycatch. In the old ways, a circular opening was built into the net to allow some salmon to pass through and continue their genetic line.
This ultra-selective and small batch harvesting method has been described as the most sustainable commercial salmon fishery practice. But for the Native people of the Salish Sea, a diverse group of independent nations with territories on both sides of the U.S.-Canadian border who created and perfected reef netting, the practice was more than a way to make money or even to put food on the table. For millennia, the reef net played a central role in their spirituality and community structure.
The reef netting techniqueLummi people passed reef net sites from generation to generation. "It was a private property right, not written down but passed like your bloodline," Steve Solomon, a lifelong Lummi commercial fisherman and traditional knowledge holder of the reef net practice, told Mongabay. Many of the Lummi place names are tied to reef net sites, and "everyone in the village played some role in the harvest or preparation of salmon. Even the children and elders participated by praying in the salmon ceremonies."
"As a knowledge system, the Reef Net in many ways defined our existence and relationship to our homelands, and to one another as a people, and as a nation," Nicholas XEMŦOLTW̱ Claxton a member of the W̱SÁNEĆ a First Nations who neighbor the Lummi to the north, in modern day Canada, wrote in his doctoral dissertation on reef netting.
Riley Starks watches for salmon from a high tower on his reef net fishing boat off Lummi Island on Sept. 14, 2023.
However, centuries of colonialism and fishing laws enacted by the US and Canadian governments separated Native people from the reef nets. Now, just 12 permits exist, and only one belongs to a member of the Lummi Nation. Ellie Kinley inherited that permit from her late husband, the highly respected Lummi elder and fisherman, Larry Kinley. This year, Ellie and her sons didn't set the reef nets, saying it didn't make sense financially.
In 2023, just 8 of the 12 permitted reef net rigs anchored in the Salish Sea. One of these is owned and run by Riley Starks, director of the Salish Center for Sustainable Fishing Methods, who has worked on reef nets in Legoe Bay off the shore of Lummi Island since 1991.
In mid-September, when Mongabay and McClatchy visited Riley's rig, the crew was motley, composed of a couple of software engineers, a former puppeteer turned ferryman, and a farmer. Some said they worked other jobs to support their fishing habit.
A crew member holds a live fish caught using reef netting and rips one of its gills before placing it back in a holding pen where it bleeds out swimming in the saltwater off Lummi Bay on Sept. 14, 2023.
The reef net is a peaceful operation, quiet enough to still hear the cows mooing from the shore — until the salmon come. The modern reef net rigs use underwater cameras, sonar and lookout towers to spot the fish. Once spotted, the rig uses solar-powered winches to lift the net, guided and assisted by the crew. Fish are quickly funneled into a holding pen alongside the boat, leaving them alive and immersed in seawater. Any unintended catch is thrown back to swim another day.
The 2023 salmon fishing seasonOnce it's time to end the day's fishing, a crewmember holds each live fish and rips one of its gills before placing it back in the holding pen. The fish bleed out swimming in the saltwater. The resulting fillets are pristine and command a premium price at market due to this handling and the high-fat content of the fish coming back from the cold ocean. But this year's poor salmon runs show that salmon fishing can be an uncertain business.
"This year, Fraser River-origin sockeye and chum salmon came in quite poor and below the historical average," Mickey Agha, statewide salmon science and policy analyst at the Washington Department of Fish & Wildlife, said in an interview. Pink salmon returned "well above expectations," but the price was too low to make commercial fishing worthwhile. Like corn, wheat and oil, salmon is considered a commodity. Prices fluctuate with the market, and this year, prices bottomed out.
In a good year, reef nets can catch hundreds of salmon a day. One day this year, Riley's crew caught only thirty fish, the next only 12, all pinks. Within a few weeks, they shut the operation down.
Lummi Island Wild, the largest commercial reef netting operation, didn't set their rigs this year.
Lifelong fisherman Steve Thatcher's rig scooped up just over 4,000 fish in eleven days. "It's a terrible year," he said, noting that some years they've brought in more than 20,000 salmon over just a few weeks. Still, Thatcher said, he goes out because he loves the reef net.
The crew on Riley Starks' reef net fishing boat off Lummi Island pulled in about a dozen salmon in one catch, pulling about 75 fish total on Sept. 14, 2023. It's a slow day. In a good year, reef nets can catch hundreds of salmon a day.
"Current reefnetters hold this practice very dear. Some of these guys are third-generation reefnetters," Thatcher said. "The fleet is how it is today because of people who have fought for it at the political level and cared enough about it to be sure managers knew and understood how it worked."
Preserving reef netting for allBoth native and non-native fishers Mongabay spoke with said there is room for Native and non-Native people to practice reef netting. "It's not a competition," Ellie said.
"In my mind, we are keeping the practice going until the Lummi are able to join," Starks, of the Salish Center for Sustainable Fishing Methods, said.
More time in the water could make the reef nets commercially viable, but in response to salmon declines, "commercial fisheries have been reduced in recent years to allow as many fish as possible to reach the spawning grounds and to meet escapement targets," salmon science and policy analyst Agha said. This includes reef nets.
A drawing by Richard Perenyi shows a diagram of a reef net fishing rig. A net is stretched between two anchored boats. Long lines of rope run from the boats, creating an artificial reef that corrals the fish into the net. Once the salmon reach the net, the watchmen sound the alarm, and the crew quickly pulls the catch into the boat.
Nowadays, when there are enough fish for the reef net to be in the water, Ellie said she and her two sons need to be out purse seining instead, a fishing method that follows the fish and uses a large net to scoop up everything that it surrounds. This method tends to be more profitable, but is not as selective.
"The big boat's the only chance we have to make money," Ellie said. "As a fisher that chases fish, it is really hard to go back to a set-in position, just hoping the fish come to you. That's a real adjustment."
The separation of the Lummi from the reef netting practice began with white settler colonialism, Lummi commercial fisherman Solomon said, and has a complex history. The 1855 Point Elliott Treaty brought a big change to the fishing landscape when it formalized fishing rights. The treaty did not "give" rights to the tribes, Solomon clarified, but rather formalized the rights they already had. It also extended rights to non-natives, who, in turn, began to encroach on Native traditional fishing grounds. In 1890s, the Alaska Packers company put fish traps in the path of Lummi reef nets, intercepting nearly all incoming fish and depriving Lummi of their catch. During this mass trapping era, many Lummi reef netting sites were also destroyed by white settlers including at Village Point on Lummi Island.
In 1987, reefnets were essentially outlawed. A new law stated that "fixed appliances" including reefnets, could not fish within the limits prescribed by law for the protection of the commercial fish traps.
"The state enforcement arm looked at all Indians as fishing criminals," Solomon said. In response to violence and competition from trappers and fishing boats, Lummi communities adopted different techniques, such as purse seining and gillnetting, which they continue to this day.
A reef net fishing rig is anchored off Lummi Island on Sept. 14, 2023. The practice is an ancient Indigenous salmon fishing tradition that has been separated from the tribes due to colonialism, government policies, habitat destruction and declining salmon populations.
Fish trappers continued to overharvest for decades until, in the name of conservation, Washington state officially outlawed all fish traps in 1934, including reef nets. A few years later, non-natives petitioned for an exemption to allow reef netting, which was granted. However, by this time the Lummi had been forced out of their traditional sites and non-native fishers had moved in.
Although the landmark Boldt Decision in 1974 affirmed the Lummi's treaty rights to half the salmon catch, the ruling came after habitat loss, overfishing and pollution had already damaged salmon populations fishing laws had separated the tribes from the reef net.
"50% of nothing is nothing," Solomon said.
The future of reef net fishingIn the U.S. Pacific Northwest 28 populations of salmon and steelhead are listed under the Endangered Species Act and around half of BC Pacific salmon populations are in decline.
The biggest threat to Fraser River-origin salmon today, Agha said, is a rapidly warming marine climate, which causes a lack of food resources and reduced survival. Additionally, droughts in the salmon's freshwater habitat have reduced river flows to historic lows, causing mass die-offs on spawning grounds or isolating salmon so they can never reach their spawning grounds to lay eggs.
Some research indicates that salmon farming has also played a role in salmon declines by transmitting sea lice and viral loads to wild salmon, including juveniles as they exit from the mouth of the Fraser River into the Ocean. In February, Fisheries and Oceans Canadian Coast Guard announced their decision not to renew licenses for fifteen open-net pen Atlantic salmon farm sites in the Discovery Islands, stating that "many First Nations along the Fraser River were not able to access wild salmon needed to sustain their FSC [food social, and ceremonial] needs."
The crew on Riley Starks' modern reef net rig use solar-powered winches to lift the net after underwater cameras, sonar and lookout towers help them spot the salmon off Lummi Island on Sept. 14, 2023.
But the salmon still stand a chance. "Researchers have identified that large-scale habitat protection and restoration are key factors to Fraser River-origin salmon recovery," Agha said. Salmon need shade from vegetation along the streams and creeks where they come to spawn and where the young hatch and develop for months before heading back to sea.
Some of this restoration work is underway. The Nooksack Salmon Enhancement Association (NSEA), an NGO in Whatcom County, Washington, for example, plants vegetation to enhance river, creek and riparian habitat to reverse the trend of declining salmon runs.
For the Lummi Nation, who call themselves "salmon people," the salmon decline has cut to the core of their cultural identity, said Solomon. "Without fishing, something is missing from our way of life."
Some suggest subsidizing Indigenous participation in reef netting until the practice can support itself. In Italy, for example, the traditional Trabucco fisheries in the Adriatic Sea are subsidized by the government for their cultural and historical value and because they draw tourism and still provide some income.
"We don't need to reinvent the wheel," Solomon said. "The federal government already has farm and agriculture services… They just need to open those doors up to fishing. Reef netting should be on top of that list."
"In the fishing industry, we all know how much the farmers are subsidized. And we're left to starve some years," Ellie said. "The only reason we're starving is because of government decisions."
Ellie Kinley, a member of the Lummi (Lhaq'temish) Nation, sits on her fishing boat in Bellingham Bay's Squalicum Harbor on Nov. 17, 2023. Kinley is the last Indigenous reef net permit holder of the ancient salmon fishing practice but didn't use her reef netting rig this year due to economic realities.
As for the reef net, unpredictable and dwindling numbers of salmon, limits on fishing days, and a lack of workers make it an unreliable livelihood. And for some of the Lummi, sheer survival often forces focus away from preserving cultural practices.
Steve Solomon and his son, Troy Olson, another lifelong Lummi fisherman, said reviving reef net fishing is essential to restoring their cultural identity, the path towards cultural resurgence, and a path to sustainable salmon harvest. They hope to one day reestablish reef net fleets across their ancestral waters and teach new generations this sacred way of harvesting salmon.
This was also Larry Kinley's vision. "His dream was to use it as a teaching platform, because it's safe," Ellie said. "He had really hoped that the Northwest Indian College would take it over…because there are generations who don't know fishing at all, which makes me so sad. But everyone who goes out on the reef net falls in love with it. So, we need to get them out there… It's their home and their heritage."
For many in the Lummi Nation, reviving reef net fishing remains the vision, but the path there is still unclear. Until then, Ellie said she looks out at the rig in the mornings. "I know you're there," she said. "And I know I've got to continue that work. But for right now, I've got to make a living."
Fish Out Of Water: North American Drought Bakes Salmon
One after another, salmon leapt out of the water and hurtled themselves at the falls, propelled by instinct to move upriver. They, like all Pacific salmon, were born in freshwater, migrated to the ocean and were now returning as adults to their natal streams to spawn and die. But the Fraser River was running low after months of drought. At this stretch near the Bridge River Rapids in southwestern British Columbia, Canada, the water was so low in mid-October that the salmon couldn't access their usual passage up the fish ladder. Instead, they were desperately trying to find another way over the rocks, but they couldn't make it.
For these fish, help was at hand. For days, members and friends of the Xwísten, an Indigenous group that is part of the St'át'imc Nation and whose territory encompasses this traditional fishing spot, scooped up salmon with large dip nets, passed them hand to hand in a human chain up the rocks, and released them above the falls. In all, they moved more than 7,000 fish. Eventually machinery was brought in; an all-terrain excavator chiseled out rocks to ease the salmon's transit over the falls, and a helicopter dropped sandbags to raise the water level near the fish ladder.
"The project to save the fish is important to not only our community but to the St'at'imc Nation and many other Nations along the Fraser River," says Xwísten Chief Ina Williams via text. "There are many animals, four-legged and winged, that also rely on the fish."
After months of drought, the Fraser River was running extremely low. At Bridge River Rapids in southwestern British Columbia, Canada, salmon were unable to access the fish ladder on the west bank of the river (left) in early October, and couldn't navigate the strong current in the main channel. Image courtesy of Brandon Deepwell. 
Members of the Xwísten, an Indigenous group whose territory encompasses Bridge River Rapids, and others spent days lifting salmon over the falls by hand before a helicopter and excavator were brought in on Oct. 13 to try to redirect the flow so that salmon could move upstream. Image courtesy of Department of Fisheries and Oceans Canada. Five species of Pacific salmon live in North America: chinook (Oncorhynchus tshawytscha), coho (O. Kisutch), sockeye (O. Nerka), chum (O. Keta) and pink (O. Gorbuscha) salmon. Their life cycles are similar, though the timing and duration of stages varies. Steelhead trout (O. Mykiss) also move between freshwater and the ocean but don't die after spawning. All species are adapted to cool, well-oxygenated water; temperatures above 17° Celsius (63° Fahrenheit) are stressful, and above 23°C (73°F) can be lethal.
But this year, across British Columbia (BC) and down into Washington and Oregon states in the U.S., cool water was in short supply. The winter snowpack melted early in an unseasonably warm spring, and scant summer rain left rivers low and streams dry. By August, 80% of BC water basins were at the two highest levels of drought, and all of Washington was under drought advisory. Summer 2022 was hot and dry, too, and climate modeling shows more is on the way.
About half of BC Pacific salmon populations are declining, and 28 populations in the U.S. Pacific Northwest are listed under the Endangered Species Act. That's because dams block migrations, logging and other developments degrade spawning channels, hatchery fish erode genetic diversity, overfishing decreases abundance, and more. Now climate change is compounding existing pressures and adding urgency to recovery efforts.
Pink salmon return to the Indian River in southwestern British Columbia, Canada, to spawn in September. Image courtesy of Brandon Deepwell. Difficult decisions The Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island in southwestern BC is renowned for salmon and steelhead, which members of the Cowichan Tribes have fished since time immemorial. At the head of the valley sits Cowichan Lake. A meter-high (3-foot) weir built at the outflow in 1957 allows managers to store water from spring rains and release it into the Cowichan River during the drier summer months for communities, farms, a papermill and fish.
But Tom Rutherford, the Cowichan Watershed Board's strategic priorities director, says in 15 of the last 20 years, it's been so dry that doling out the water has entailed gut-wrenching decisions.
This spring, they had to cut the water flow to 60% of what's normal, hoping it would be enough for the steelhead to lay eggs in the riverbed gravel, the newly emerged chinook fry to find refuge along the river's edge and the year-old coho smolts to move downriver to the ocean.
But as summer progressed, temperatures rose and still the rain didn't come. The river grew too low and hot. Along an 8-kilometer (5-mile) stretch, about one-fifth of the river, hundreds of salmon and trout died.
By early September, chinook were staging in Cowichan Bay, and early counts indicated a bumper run, 10,000-20,000 fish, Rutherford estimates. The watershed board switched on 20 industrial pumps in mid-September, to push enough water from the lake into the river so the chinook could move up to spawn, followed by coho. That brought the lake level down lower than it's probably been in geological time, Rutherford says, and sucked water away from important shoreline habitat. For weeks, he was up early each morning, checking hydrographs and hoping the pumps wouldn't fail.
"That's what climate change looks like for us," Rutherford says.
Industrial pumps push water from Lake Cowichan into the Cowichan River in September so returning salmon could make it upriver to spawn. Image courtesy of Barry Hetschko. Drought is also impacting salmon recovery programs. The Simpcw First Nation's Dunn Creek Fish Hatchery in southwestern BC has been raising coho for 40 years, and it's had some success rebuilding the population. That's of huge cultural importance, says Tina Donald, the hatchery manager. But, she says, because of low water levels, only 626 coho made it back to spawn in 2022, about one-tenth of what came the year before. This year, hatchery staff took preventive measures by digging sediment out from the creek's mouth to improve flow — sediment that's been washing down from the hillslopes since a large forest fire in 2017. And because Dunn Creek's water has become too warm over the last decade to raise young fry, they've had to channel cooler water into the hatchery from a nearby creek and put in a well.
Although salmon are adaptable, Jason Hwang, vice president of salmon at the Pacific Salmon Foundation, a BC-based environmental nonprofit, says many biologists worry conditions like this year's may be too far outside of normal. Species that spend a year or more in freshwater can be trapped in drying pools, and because the juveniles are small, that mortality may go unnoticed. For those that spawn far inland, lower and warmer water makes it like "swimming a marathon in a sauna," Hwang says, and the stress makes them susceptible to disease or parasites.
"Their biology is really optimized to get into their home streams during certain periods of the year, because that's the best time to lay the eggs, which ties to the best time for the juveniles to emerge, which gives them the best chance of survival," Hwang says. "So the whole life history is potentially affected by things that are going to delay the salmon's timing or affect the fitness of the adults that are spawning."
Things aren't any better in the ocean, where salmon gain most of their biomass. Marine heat waves like "the Blob" in 2013-15 can cause mass salmon deaths. Climate change is also altering ocean food webs, favoring some salmon species, like pink salmon, over others.
The prolonged drought meant that by September, portions of rivers and creeks had dried up, and returning salmon couldn't reach their spawning grounds. An excavator cut a channel through sediment buildup at the mouth of the Tranquille River in southern British Columbia to reestablish flow into Kamloops Lake and let thousands of salmon move upriver in time to spawn. Image courtesy of Peter Olsen. Restoring habitat Experts say to counter the effects of drought on salmon, we need to restore a diversity of habitats and rebuild populations. The idea is to have more salmon, with a variety of life history strategies, in more places, so they are best able to respond to changing conditions.
In the mid-20th century, construction of large dams on the Columbia River in Washington state — the Grand Coulee in 1942 and the Chief Joseph in 1955 — prevented fish from reaching 40% of the watershed's salmon and steelhead spawning habitat. The impact was devastating for Indigenous peoples in the U.S. And Canada.
"Salmon are the core of who we are as people," says Jarred-Michael Erickson, Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation's chairman. "I can't tell you how much or how important that is to us."
In September, long-standing efforts to bring those salmon back got a $200 million dollar boost when Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, the Coeur d'Alene Tribe and the Spokane Tribe of Indians signed a funding agreement with the U.S. Government to advance their plan to reintroduce salmon and steelhead into the Upper Columbia Basin.
With climate change, that's more urgent than ever. "The higher you go up the Columbia [River], the cooler the water is, and so we're trying to get them up into those headwaters where they actually have a chance," Erikson says.
This funding comes alongside another $106 million for salmon recovery the Biden Administration announced in August, and the start of the largest dam removal project in U.S. History, to open 480 km (300 mi) of spawning habitat on the Upper Klamath River in California and Oregon.
Pink salmon return to the Indian River in southwestern British Columbia to spawn in September. Image courtesy of Brandon Deepwell. 
In an emergency response to the drought, an excavator is used to reestablish flow on the Indian River in southwestern British Columbia in September, 2023. Image courtesy of Brandon Deepwell. Relieving fishing pressure Predicting the long-term impact of a drought is tricky; the effects may not be clear for many years, until that year's cohort returns to spawn. To make sure runs aren't being overfished, Will Atlas, a biologist with the Oregon-based nonprofit Wild Salmon Center, says fisheries need to "keep their finger on the pulse,"so that they can respond to changing conditions like droughts.
Working with two First Nations in BC's central coast, Atlas and other researchers developed a deep-learning method for analyzing video data to count returning salmon as they pass through weirs in the river. Their paper, published in September, demonstrates how the technique can improve in-season monitoring and management.
"We need to say OK, salmon are resilient. They still in many years will produce returns of fish that can support a harvestable abundance. But in some years, they won't. And if we go into those years with blinders on pretending like the status quo is going to work that year, we run the risk of extirpating small populations or driving these populations down to a level that will no longer produce a sustainable abundance to harvest," Atlas says.
For Hwang, events like this year's drought underscore the need to make long-term changes.
"I think the takeaway is that we should really start thinking about revisiting how we manage water, how we manage our land use, how we manage our salmon habitat, how we manage our fishing and our fisheries, because we need to recognize that we're likely to see difficult conditions along these lines [again]."
Banner image: Salmon attempt to make it up the falls at Bridge River Rapids on the Fraser River in southwestern British Columbia. Image by Brandon Deepwell.
To keep track of salmon migrations in real time, First Nations turn to AI
Citations:
Atlas, W. I., Ma, S., Chou, Y. C., Connors, K., Scurfield, D., Nam, B., … Liu, J. (2023). Wild salmon enumeration and monitoring using deep learning empowered detection and tracking. Frontiers in Marine Science, 10. Doi:10.3389/fmars.2023.1200408
Cheung, W. W., & Frölicher, T. L. (2020). Marine heatwaves exacerbate climate change impacts for fisheries in the Northeast Pacific. Scientific Reports, 10(1). Https://doi.Org/10.1038/s41598-020-63650-z
Price, M. H., Moore, J. W., Connors, B. M., Wilson, K. L., & Reynolds, J. D. (2021). Portfolio simplification arising from a century of change in salmon population diversity and artificial production. Journal of Applied Ecology, 58(7), 1477-1486. Https://doi.Org/10.1111/1365-2664.13835
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