The Boy With the U. S. Fisheries Part 17

"They are," was the quick response; "by far the larger number are caught that way, and as long as a certain proportion go up the stream there's no great harm done. But if every one of the salmon is caught, as happens when nets are put all the way across a stream, there will be none to sp.a.w.n, and in a few years there will be no fish in that river."

"Do the fish always return, when grown up, to the river in which they sp.a.w.ned?"

"That is disputed. But the large proportion of such fish do not travel very far from the mouth of the river in which they were born and the natural impulse for fresh water at sp.a.w.ning-time leads them naturally to the nearest stream. So, it is imperative that some fish be allowed to go up-stream, or in other words, that salmon-catchers allow a certain proportion to escape their wheels and nets."

"They ought to be willing enough to do that, I should think," said Colin; "it's for their own good in the long run."

"A lot of them want quick profits now, without any regard for the future," his host said scornfully. "Of course, there are laws for fishery regulation in many of the States, but inspectors have their hands full in preventing violations. In Alaska, which is a territory still, that supervision is done by the government through the Bureau of Fisheries."

"It must be a little aggravating to the salmon men, just the same," said Colin thoughtfully, "when they are trying to keep their canning factories going full blast, to have to allow half the catch to go on up the stream. But," he continued, "why don't they catch the salmon coming down the stream again? I should think that would settle the whole question."

"It would," said the professor, "if they came down! But they don't.

Every single salmon, male and female, that goes up the river in the sp.a.w.ning season dies up there. None of them ever comes down alive."

"I don't think they did that way in Newfoundland!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Colin in surprise. "When I was staying with my uncle there I saw lots of salmon, and it seemed to me that they went down the river again."

"They did," was the reply. "The Atlantic or true salmon does not die after sp.a.w.ning, but not a single fish of any one of the five different kinds of Pacific salmon ever sp.a.w.ns twice. Every yard of the sh.o.r.es of the upper reaches of Pacific coast rivers is covered almost solidly with dead salmon from September to December!"

"How awful!"

"It makes some places uninhabitable," the professor replied. "Where a market is near enough, the dead fish are collected and sold for fertilizer."

"Is it the fresh water that kills them?"

"No," was the reply; "that is one of the most curious features of the life-history of the Pacific salmon. As soon as the fish are nearly ready for sp.a.w.ning, all their digestive parts shrivel up, so that they can't eat. In the male salmon, too, the end of the upper lip turns into a sort of hook so that the fish can't even open his mouth wide enough to eat anything. Then in the fresh water their scales turn slimy and, as they often get injured trying to leap falls and rapids, all sorts of skin diseases attack them. A salmon in the upper reaches of the Columbia headwaters is a pitiful wreck of the magnificent fish that entered it to sp.a.w.n."

"Do they go far?"

"As much as a thousand miles," was the reply. "The quinnat and blue back--or the spring and the sockeye, as they are generally known, take the long journeys, but the silver or coho, and the humpback and dog salmon keep to the small streams near the sea. The young fry cannot live in salt water and the instinct of the salmon is to swim up-stream as far as possible, no matter what obstacle is in the way. When they have gone to the very limit, the salmon make pits and holes in the gravel and sand at the bottom of the stream for nests, and drop the eggs in these. The male salmon immediately afterwards floats over the nests and does his share in making sure that the eggs will hatch out."

"How big are the salmon?" asked the boy.

"You'll have a chance to see," the professor answered, as he swung the canoe in to the wharf, at the state hatchery station, "because we're going to measure the ones we tag this morning."

The foreman and one of the men of the station were waiting for them in a good-sized motor boat, towing behind which was a curious-looking affair composed of two small barrels fastened together by long slats.

"Don't you know what that is?" queried the professor, noting Colin's puzzled look.

"No, sir."

"That's a live car. The barrels at each end have enough water in them to sink them to a certain depth. Then the slats, as you see, are nailed two-thirds of the way around the barrels, leaving just enough s.p.a.ce for the water to flow in and out freely. They put the fish in that to tow them home alive. The slats are better than netting because sometimes the fishes catch their scales in the meshes and get hurt."

The run to the fish-trap was made in a few minutes, and the boat went inside to the 'pound,' the net was partly hauled up, and the professor took out his punch and the b.u.t.tons. Colin had put on a pair of rubber boots and oilskin trousers, as had all the rest of the party, and he was ready for anything that came along.

"Do you want my slicker?" the professor asked him. "You're apt to get splashed."

"I don't mind a bit, thanks," answered the boy, rolling up his sleeves; "a little shower-bath will feel good on a hot day like this!"

"All right, then," the leader of the party declared, "we'll give you a chance to make yourself useful. Here you are!"

Colin took the large flat-bottomed net and awaited further instructions.

"Catch one of the salmon," he was told; "never mind the rest of the fish. And," he was warned, "don't bring the net clear out of the water."

"Very well, sir," the boy replied, then his curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, "Why not?"

"Because if you do, the salmon will struggle against the meshes of the net, bruise himself, and probably sc.r.a.pe off some scales. I told you how easy it is for a fish to get diseased if he loses any of his scales. If you keep the net about four inches below the water, the fish has the resistance of the water to fight against, and it will tire him out quickly without doing any harm."

"All right," Colin answered, and commenced scooping for the fish. In a minute or two he had a large twenty-pounder in the net and he raised it until the bottom was a little below the water, as he had been told.

"You're right about getting wet!" cried Colin, laughing, as the salmon began to whirl and plunge and dance in the net, sending a shower of water all over him and nearly blinding him by the force with which the drops of water struck as they were splashed upwards by the powerful strokes of the fish's tail.

The instant the salmon stopped struggling, the hatchery boatman seized it by the tail with a strong grip, swung it clear out of the net and over his left arm, laying it immediately on the measuring platform. This consisted merely of a wide board with an upright at one end, a rule giving both metrical and standard measures being nailed to the side of the board. Instantly the measurer called out the length and the professor noted it down, the hatchery foreman--famous for his expertness in judging the weight of a fish--calling out the weight to be recorded.

Laying down his pencil, the professor then, with a small punch, made a tiny hole in the tail-fin of the salmon, the fish having been thrown over the captor's left arm again, slipped an aluminum b.u.t.ton through the hole, and riveted it securely. The entire process took less than a minute and a half, and by the time the salmon had been released and tossed into the water again, Colin was ready with another fish.

"I don't see why the fish don't die as soon as they come out of the water!" exclaimed Colin.

"For nearly a minute, some fish breathe better out of the water than in it," the professor answered, "but after that the gills stick together and the fish strangles. Two or even three minutes will not injure salmon, and some fish will recover if they are out of water for hours.

Indeed, there are some fish that live out of water most of the time."

"Live out of water?" the boy said in surprise.

"Certainly. Some kinds of fish, at least, can't stay in the water very long, but remain perched up on the rocks."

"Perching like birds?" Colin said incredulously.

"I know that sounds a little improbable, but it's true, just the same,"

the professor said, smiling. "This is a Fisheries story, not a 'fish story.' There's a difference. They come from Samoa and belong to the skippy family. Most of them live on the rocks, and they jump from rock to rock instead of swimming. Some of them even are vegetarians--which is rare among fish--and their gills are smaller and stouter. Plenty of them are only in the water for a little while at high tide, living in the moist seaweed until the tide rises again."

Colin was silenced, and he went on vigorously dipping up salmon.

"How many fish are you going to tag?" the boy asked, when a couple of hours had pa.s.sed by.

"Sixty," the professor answered, "and we must be nearly through, for I have only a few b.u.t.tons left."

Secretly the boy was much relieved, for his back was tired from stooping and netting heavy fish for two hours, but he would have worked to utter exhaustion rather than complain. However, within another quarter of an hour, the last fish was dropped over the side and the party was on its return journey.

"Why don't you stop and see the hatchery?" suggested the professor, in return to a host of questions put to him by the boy concerning salmon culture.

"I'd like to, ever so much, if I might," was the answer, and Colin looked up at the foreman.

"Come right along," was the latter's immediate response. "It isn't much of a place to look at, but you can see whatever there is to see."

The hatchery itself was simple and bare, as the foreman had suggested, consisting merely of a row of boxes arranged in such a way that water flowed through them constantly, bringing a steady supply of fresh water without carrying away the light eggs and tiny fry. Colin was thoroughly interested, and followed the foreman from place to place, eagerly watching the processes of hatching the fish and asking unending questions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HATCHERIES IN MAINE FOR LANDLOCKED SALMON.

_Courtesy of the U. S. Bureau of Fisheries._]