Baranof Island, Alaska
Everyone is after salmon. Harbor seals and sea lions chase them and tear them apart. Some killer whales enjoy salmon almost every day. Bald Eagles swoop down to skim them from the surface. Commercial fishermen catch them for the market. Sport fishermen try to catch them, but usually end up buying them from the market. And bears? Well, they simply love them!
This mother Grizzly (Brown) Bear and her three small cubs were on Chichagof Island this morning, surprisingly not very close to a salmon stream. Judging by their playful behaviour, they were probably just enjoying the sheltered beach, the warm sun and a chance to tug at a long piece of bull kelp. But mother will soon move her youngsters to banks of the nearest river. The salmon are running. Huge numbers are returning to the countless rivers and streams of southeast Alaska, carrying within their sleek bodies the rich proteins and fats they have gleaned from two to four years of feeding in the north Pacific Ocean. Those that have made it this far have managed to evade endless threats of natural predation and have avoided disguised hooks and unforgiving nets set out by man. If they can continue to escape and can reach their rivers of origin, they will deposit their “seeds” into clean beds of gravel. Then they will die—every one of them. Their death will signal the start of a new generation.
Excessive predation and harvest may seem like a threat to the future of the five species of Pacific salmon, and it can be. But salmon are resilient. A female sockeye may carry within her some 2000 eggs or more. If she spawns successfully, only two of these eggs must survive and grow to become mature returning spawners. With that, a stable population is assured.
There are other creatures here in Alaska that seek salmon as well. As we kayaked on the estuary of a small salmon stream on Baranof Island this afternoon, we encountered a mother bird with her young. These were Common Mergansers, members of that branch of the duck family that has evolved to eat fish, including young salmon. This mother eyed our little boats carefully, but quickly led her four fledglings from one shore to the other. She was not going to relinquish her claim to the young coho salmon and steelhead trout—last year’s offspring—that were still rearing in this river.
It was a day out of a picture book. We awoke as Sea Bird inched into a serene cove. The sunrise glistened on snow-patched mountain peaks. Eagles perched and seabirds dove. A huge humpback whale launched itself repeatedly into the morning air in an attempt to concentrate its breakfast of herring and krill. Dall’s Porpoises rooster-tailed across the choppy waters of Chatham Strait. Our kayaks slipped silently through salmon-choked waters. And our new boots oozed into shallow mud. As Southeast Alaska continues to bask under blue skies, both the mud and the maturing salmon are waiting for rain. But we will take the sunshine any day.
