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                                                                                ENVIRONMENT, Page 59

A Race to Rescue the Salmon


Farmers, fishermen and others in the Northwest will have to
change their ways under a federal plan being designed to save
the region's cherished fish

By JEANNE MCDOWELL/CHINOOK


    For Leslie Clark, 63, salmon fishing was a birthright --
a livelihood that has sustained four generations of his family.
As a boy he learned from his father and grandfather the art of
casting vast gill nets on the teeming waters of the Columbia
River. After years of practice, he says, "you understand the
fish and his ways. You know what he's going to do before you see
him."

    In Clark's youth, glistening 27-kg (60-lb.) silver
Chinooks and red-fleshed sockeyes would leap into the nets. The
commercial salmon season was 137 days long, and a day's catch
would often exceed a ton. But now the sockeyes have vanished and
the silver Chinooks have dwindled. The season is one-third as
long, and Clark and his two sons are lucky if they catch 136 kg
(300 lbs.) each day. Soon they may have to quit the business
altogether because of a broad effort to rebuild the salmon
populations on the lower Columbia and its main tributary, the
Snake River. "Everyone who uses the river's water," he says, "is
going to have to share the burden and pain."

    Last fall the Snake River sockeye was added to the
nation's endangered-species list, and this spring the National
Marine Fisheries Service is expected to take similar action on
behalf of most races of Chinook. These actions pave the way for
an extensive salmon-recovery plan to be put forth by the
fisheries service in September that will affect not only
commercial and sport fishing throughout a four-state area but
also mining, farming and other industries that depend on the
river and the power it generates. "There is no better barometer
of the health of the Northwest than salmon," says Bill Arthur
of the Sierra Club. "If we can bring back the salmon, we can
demonstrate that we have learned to manage the natural systems
in a way that perpetuates the bounty."

    Before the roaring Columbia River began to be tamed by
dams 59 years ago, it teemed with 16 million wild salmon a year
as it cut a 1,930-km (1,200-mile) swath from its headwaters in
British Columbia to its mouth at Astoria, Ore. Today its
streams and tributaries are inhabited by only 2.5 million salmon
a year, nearly 75% of which are spawned in domestic hatcheries.
Logging and grazing on public lands have eroded soils and buried
spawning grounds. Delicate habitats have been dried up by the
pumping of hundreds of millions of acre-feet of water to grow
crops in eastern Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Montana.
Overharvesting by commercial fishermen -- both on the rivers and
in the ocean, where the salmon spend two to five years of their
life -- has drastically reduced populations of several fish
stocks.

    But the most ferocious enemy of the fish is eight
hydroelectric dams on the lower Columbia and Snake rivers that
harness water behind massive walls of concrete. On their journey
upstream every year, the salmon are aided by fish ladders that
allow them to bypass oncoming currents. But the trip downstream
from the spawning grounds to the Pacific is a treacherous
1,450-km (900-mile) journey that obliterates up to 11 million
juvenile salmon, called smolts, a year. Slack pools created by
reservoirs behind the dams have slowed the smolts' traveling
time from seven days to six weeks. This increases their exposure
to predators and to higher water temperatures that make them
susceptible to disease. The combination can be fatal, throwing
off the delicate biological clock that allows the salmon to
adapt miraculously from fresh to salt water once they get to the
sea. The smolts that survive face a grisly threat: the majority
end up ground to a pulp in the deadly turbines that create the
cheapest electricity in the country.

    Saving the salmon will require a far-reaching plan to
restore habitat, reduce the number of commercial fish harvests
and limit the number of hatchery salmon released in the river.
But the crucial element will be changing operations at the dams
to increase the velocity of the waters so that young fish are
quickly flushed seaward. Biologists say this can be achieved by
releasing vast amounts of water from upstream reservoirs or by
lowering water levels in the pools behind the dams during the
spring migration.

    While the Endangered Species Act has given a sense of
urgency to the salmon's plight, a number of efforts have already
been made to increase the runs. In 1980, Congress passed the
Northwest Power Act, which required federal power authorities,
who oversee the dams, to give salmon protection equal priority
with electricity production. The act also created the four-state
Northwest Power Planning Council, which aimed to double the
number of salmon to 5 million to make up for those lost in the
dams. To meet this goal, the council established fish hatcheries
and installed screening devices at many dams to prevent smolts
from being sucked into the turbines. The council has also
ordered barges to transport smolts around the dams and has
increased the flows by releasing water from storage reservoirs.

    But 12 years and a billion regional dollars spent on such
efforts have failed to rebuild or even stabilize the salmon
populations. Optimism about hatchery techhas waned, and many
scientists now believe that domesticated salmon lack the genetic
robustness of wild ones. Environmentalists complain that the
planning council is too weak to take on the utilities that have
dominated the river for decades. "The fish got what utilities
were willing to give them," says Bill Bakke, of the Oregon
Trout, a fish-conservation group. Instead of doubling, the
number of salmon has continued to decline steadily.

    The forthcoming plan from the National Marine Fisheries
Service is likely to be much stricter in requiring increased
water flows at the dams. Farmers, manufacturers and utilities
are worrying about the consequences. In Lewiston, a port 748 km
(465 miles) inland on the Snake River in Idaho, port director
Ron McMurray says barge traffic may be halted several months a
year, forcing farmers to transport cargo by rail or truck. Ron
Reimann, who farms 1,295 hectares (3,200 acres) in Pasco, Wash.,
estimates that it will cost him $1.3 million if he has to move
his irrigation pumps to accommodate lower water levels. In
addition, electricity rates are expected to rise as much as 8%
because of the decreased efficiency of the hydro electric
plants. Aluminum manufacturers, lured to the region by cheap
energy, could be hit, as well as the small towns they support.

    Officials at the fisheries service insist that the
recovery plan will spread the burden among all the divergent
interests, but a power struggle is already under way. "Fish
advocates" blame the Army Corps of Engineers, which runs the
dams, for not assuming responsibility for the diminished salmon
runs. Idaho farmers, on the other hand, want to protect their
water-guzzling crops. Meanwhile, four Native American tribes are
sure to go to court if their rights to half of all fish in the
Columbia River basin are taken away.

    Even so, the battle to save the salmon has generated far
less rancor than the struggle between environmentalists and
loggers over the northern spotted owl. In addition to its
contribution to the Northwest economy -- $52 million a year in
commercial fishing-related income alone -- the salmon has
deep-seated symbolic value. Names of towns such as Chinook and
White Salmon reflect the place of the cherished fish in the
region's soul. In religious ceremonies, Native American tribes
thank their Creator for the life-perpetuating salmon.

    Salmon lovers call completion of Grand Coulee Dam in 1941
one of the darkest moments for the fish. As 27-kg (60-lb.)
"June hogs" made their summer migration upstream that year,
following their unwavering instinct to return to the streams
where they were born, thousands perished when they flung
themselves against the unyielding concrete. But even the
staunchest fish advocates realize that the June hogs are gone
forever and the dams are here to stay. Biologists are
optimistic, however, that a strong recovery plan can bring other
salmon species back from the brink within 20 years. Leslie
Clark, the third-generation gill netter, is willing to put his
beloved livelihood on hold to achieve that end. "Fishing has
been good to us," he says. "But watching these fantastic fish
go down to little or nothing has been very sad. If you depend
on a resource, you've got to take care of it."