Fall Fish Count

Laurel Luddite


            Every year at the Fall salmon count trainings the rains come. Veteran counters expect it. The Chinook salmon in the upper reaches of the Salmon River depend on it to provide them with cover as they travel by, and to raise the river over the rocks to a navigable depth. Last year had been dry, and we set up camp along a river that was broken into small riffles, where the salmon beat their bodies against the exposed rocks.

In the rain’s absence it was easy to feel the cold of early October. The would-be fish counters stood around Coleman stoves heating water for coffee. There was the usual talk of a crew that has worked together before: in-jokes and well-intended insults. There were introductions of new volunteers. The sun had yet to hit the narrow river canyon, taking its time rising behind the Trinity Alps wilderness.  

When the sun finally peeked over the mountains there was a sudden change in temperature. The group gathered on the lawn of the Petersburg Fire Station near Cecilville, California, on the south fork of the Salmon River. People had come to this remote spot from all directions. The California Department of Fish and Game sent people from the coast cities. A couple of high school groups came in from Yreka. Some people had made a shorter trip down the perilous Salmon River Road from their homesteads in these mountains. The training ultimately included people from the Forest Service, DFG, Karuk and Yurok Tribes, Siskiyou County schools, and Salmon River Restoration Council, as well as local volunteers. Everyone had come for the required training before taking on the slimy, stinking, and ultimately rewarding task of counting the Chinook salmon as they spawn in the Klamath River Basin.

 Fish count has been an ongoing project for ten years. It began in response to the earlier methods used by the California Department of Fish and Game to estimate the number of salmon returning to spawn each year. The method used on the Salmon River since the 1970’s was a weir stretched across the main stem of the river. Trapping the fish, handling them, marking them, and slowing their progress upriver all took a toll on the already stressed-out salmon. Local residents wanted to offer an alternative that was less intrusive while still giving accurate data.
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