Stunning And Stocking
The first volunteer
day occurred in April, doing the annual fish census on the Eagle River. It’s
part of an annual fish count that’s over twenty years old, designed to monitor
river health after a Gold King Mine-like spill that occurred in the 1980s. The process of doing a river census involves
spanning the river from bank to bank with three rows of netters. The members of
the first row (usually the biggest, burliest guys) hold a device called an
electrode in one hand, and a long-handled boat net in the other. Each member of the first row are connected to
each other by an electric cable, and they have by far the toughest job, since
both of their hands are occupied and they have no way to steady themselves in
the swift current flowing over slippery round river rocks. The second row follows right behind, trying
to snag the stunned fish who tumbled past the knees of the first row. The third row catches those the second row
misses, and also drags floating fish corrals behind them. Eventually all of the netted fish get brought
to another corral-type enclosure that’s set up near the bank, where the fish
are counted and their sex and species noted. This is something I help out with
every year, since I find it pretty interesting to see what everything that is
swimming in a river. As a fly angler, I
only get to see that which will take a well-presented fly. But when you electroshock the river, you get
to see everything in there that swims, and not just the trout. These include whitefish, chubs, dace and my
personal favorite, sculpins. Its often
said that healthy trout populations are a good indicator of a healthy river,
like a canary in a coalmine, but that is even more true of sculpin.
The Eagle River that
day was as cold as it usually is in early April. I was glad to have my hands free, for I was
constantly having to use my net to steady myself. At one point one of the Parks and Wildlife
officers in the front row stumbled back, and I rushed forward to catch
him. He was a big guy, but I was able to
just keep him from going under and overtopping his waders. On one previous river census I had done that
myself, and it made for a cold, miserable rest of the day.
By the end of the
day there was just enough time left to make some runs at Beaver Creek. The ski season was down to it’s last couple
of weeks, and when it comes down to the end like this I don’t want to miss any
opportunities to make some turns on the hill. Living in Eagle County one is
constantly reminded of how much everything related to water is tightly tied
together, from the frozen snowpack to the creeks, streams and rivers it
transforms into later in the year. The
snow we ski on in February becomes the whitewater we crash through in June, and
the habitat we try and fool trout in come August. The well at our home beside the Colorado
River is very shallow, for the water table sits only a couple of feet below
ground. That frozen water we play on in the winter becomes that water we drink
and nourishes our garden in the summer.
Its all one and the same thing taking different forms, and living here you
are constantly reminded of just how connected by water everything is.
My next opportunity
to help Parks and Wildlife came in May. This
would involve electroshocking again, but this time on the Colorado River not
far above my home. Shocking a river the
size of the Colorado involves doing it from a boat, and not standing in the
cold water. The rafts themselves have
frames that are purposefully designed for this exact task, with diamond plate
decks and railings that extend out over the front so that the two netters in
the bow can lean over and capture the stunned fish. The electric shock is delivered by an
electrode mounted on the end of a boom that is lowered into the water. Electric
power comes from a gasoline generator mounted under the seat, and the gas tank
is located in the rear of the raft which helps weigh down the back a little. But the whole boat is still very front-heavy,
especially with two big guys leaning out over there. Between the netters and the rowers sits a
live well, and as fish are netted the netters swing the nettees around and into
the live well. When the live well gets
full, we row over to the bank, where each fish is counted and a small hole
punched into their tail. The reason for
the hole is to come up with a figure known as the Recapture Rate. The same section of river gets surveyed again
a week later, and by counting the amount of fish that get netted a second time,
biologists can estimate what the total population of the river is.
It was fun to be out
on a section of river that I know well, and to be able to net the fish without
having to stand in their cold environment.
On that day we had two boats doing the survey, one going down the left
side of the river and the other surveying the right side. We set off down the
river, lowered the boom, and began looking for the flashes of stunned fish to
scoop out of the river and deposit into the live well. It immediately became
apparent that we would have one obstacle to deal with, and that was the poor
clarity of the water. Visibility was only about a foot, and there were many
fish the we stunned that would flash for only a moment and then disappear into
the murky water. This was especially
true of the many small sculpin I saw that never made it into my net. Then a second problem began to become
apparent, and that was an increasing amount of wind blowing upriver right back
in our faces. The natural state of
things in a river is the flotsam in the water moves faster than objects on top
of it, and so as the fish were temporarily knocked unconscious they quickly
floated away from us and out of sight downriver. Our raft was being rowed by a Parks and
Wildlife officer named Kendall, whom I had worked with many times doing the
Eagle River electroshocking. She did the
best that she or anyone could have in trying to push us down the river, but
rowing the heavy, unbalanced boat in a stiff wind was a tall order. I offered a couple of times to man the oars,
and wasn’t too disappointed when she gamely demurred and pressed on.
We were on a section
of the Colorado River below an access point called Catamount, which has a very
remote feel to it. It is one of the few
river stretches that isn’t paralled by a road, and it sees very little river
traffic, especially since a local rancher blocked the only public access point
below Catamount. The other notable
feature in this out of the way canyon is a very large Bald Eagle nest right
beside the river. This spring there were
four eagles living in the nest, two big mature eagles and two fledglings. We had already filled the live well once and
were on our next round when the nest came into sight. The two older eagles were there as always,
but instead of flying away they hung out to watch, and they were soon to be
rewarded for their curiosity.
Almost all of the fish we caught were released back into the water as gently as possible, with the exception of any long-nosed chubs we caught. Those fish are considered invasive non-natives, and can breed with the native chubs which create hybridized offspring which are undesirable. So the long-nosed chubs got tossed onto the bank after they were counted, and the eagles watching this closely caught onto that quickly. No sooner would we push off the bank than they would swoop down, grab the unfortunate chub, and carry it off for a one-way ride to their big nest. The eagles were clearly loving this, for it was Christmas time in May for them.
Almost all of the fish we caught were released back into the water as gently as possible, with the exception of any long-nosed chubs we caught. Those fish are considered invasive non-natives, and can breed with the native chubs which create hybridized offspring which are undesirable. So the long-nosed chubs got tossed onto the bank after they were counted, and the eagles watching this closely caught onto that quickly. No sooner would we push off the bank than they would swoop down, grab the unfortunate chub, and carry it off for a one-way ride to their big nest. The eagles were clearly loving this, for it was Christmas time in May for them.
At one point, when
the wind was blowing the hardest, I looked up to see a big bald eagle hovering
ten feet above my head, watching the whole process with an intent gaze. I tried to remember to keep watching the fish
I was supposed to be netting, but it was hard to ignore the bald eagle who was
close enough to shit on my head. Kendall
was pushing as hard as she could into the gale, but fish were tumbling away
from us in the persistent current.
Suddenly the eagle overhead spotted a tasty snack, and plunged down into
the water just ahead of the boat and came up with a fine brown trout, winging
it away to add to the pile of fish filling up its nest. It was a spectacular sight to see, and one I’ll
not soon forget! Our run down the canyon
was finished way too soon, and I could have kept doing it all the way down to
my house. Again I was surprised by the
numbers and diversity of the fish we caught, especially the numbers of mountain
whitefish, which almost equaled the rainbow trout.
Even though the
process of surveying the fish has to be much less fun for them than it is for
those netting them (and way less than for the eagles), it was good to know that
there’s a very good reason to be doing this.
In the past year I became part of a stakeholder group trying to come up
with a plan to ensure the long-term health of the Colorado River, and surveys
like this are critical to coming up with data to objectively measure where we
are now and where things are going, for better or worse. Living and working beside the Colorado has
made the river almost as much a part of me as my limbs. Even if I spend the rest of my life here
along its banks, that will only be a small amount of time in the grand scope of
things, and anything I can do during my short tenure here to ensure the river’s
well-being is a worthwhile expenditure of time.
Then in July I got
to participate in a third opportunity to work with Parks and Wildlife, this
time planting some genetically pure Greenback cutthroat Trout into a high
mountain drainage that had been readied for their arrival. For many years there were considered to be
three types of cutthroat trout existent in Colorado, the Greenback, Colorado
River, and Rio Grande varieties. Then, a
few years ago a population of cutthroat trout were found on a single small
stream called Bear Creek near Pike’s Peak that didn’t look like any of the
other three. After some genetic analysis comparing them to cutthroat samples
taken over a hundred years ago, it dawned on fish biologists that what had been
referred to as Greenback cutthroats (which are found all over Colorado’s
eastern-flowing watersheds) were actually Greenback hybrids, and not the real
deal. This lead to a multi-year effort
to breed the true Greenbacks, so that they could be transplanted into other
watersheds. Having all of your genetic
eggs in one geographic basket risks losing them in case of fire or flood. So my
next project would be to carry some of these trout into their new home.
I got up early that
morning to make the drive over two mountain ranges, the Gore and the
Continental Divide. Herman Gulch wasn’t
too far east of Loveland Pass, on the north side of I-70. It was a sunny morning, and the parking lot
was full of eager recreational hikers plus the fifty or so of us who were here
on a mission of fish relocation.
Eventually we were all gathered for an explanation of our task for the
day. The truck bearing the precious
cargo arrived at nine am on the dot and soon bags were being filled with a
careful mix of water to air. The bags
were doubled up, and then nineteen wiggling little trout were added, from three
to five inches long. Each one of the
volunteers got to put one of these trout bags into their backpack, and hike it
up a steep trail to the meadows above that would become these trout’s new home.
We were divided into
five groups, with Group One releasing their precious packages into the lower stretches,
and with Groups Two through Five going progressively higher up the
watershed. I assumed that everyone would
want to go as high as possible, so I volunteered for Group Four to give someone
else the chance. But Group Five was two
people short, so I jumped over to join that bunch. Soon we were getting our
bags of trout and heading up the trail. One unexpected bonus of being in the
highest group was that we got our trout first, and would be the first ones
going up the hill. Coming down the trail
were lots of people who had gotten up there early for a quick hike, and some of
them inquired as to our cargo, especially when they saw Boyd our Parks and
Wildlife officer. This was in large part
Boyd’s project, and he was more than happy to let people know what we were
doing. Most were delighted to learn that
were putting such rare fish into such a beautiful place. I’d point to my backpack and ask if anyone
wanted some fresh sushi.
The first mile of the trail was pretty steep, and within our
group of fish bearers we all found our individual rhythms. I ended traveling at about the same rate of
speed as Ryan, and we became trailmates.
It was a warm morning and took some effort, but the shade of the trees
helped cool us.
Along the way we kept running into our other Group Five
partners, usually stopped in the shade explaining our purpose to the
downhillers. Colorado was undergoing a summer-long heat wave, and getting in your
outdoor time in the cooler air of 11,000 feet seemed like a pretty good idea to
a lot of people. Every mile or so, Boyd would plant a big wooden stake marking
the ending of one zone and the beginning of the next. The trail leveled off a bit and we passed
through the top edge of the tree line, which had kept most of our hike
shady. Soon the cobalt blue Colorado sky
began to show through the thinning canopy of pines. It had been some time since I’d done such a
strenuous hike, and with the heat and load on my back I began to feel a bit
lightheaded. But once we cleared the
last of the trees and into the big open meadow above, I got a second wind. The area where the trout were going to make
their new home was just beautiful. A
large mountain peak loomed above us, and the hills were carpeted in uncountable
numbers of wildflowers. The cool mountain
air was fresh and invigorating, and the sky the bluest I’d seen in a summer
that had been filled with wildfires hazing things up.
We got to our zone,
and one by one the Group Five members peeled off to deposit their trout in some
new spot in the river that Boyd would point out. My legs felt so strong that I wanted to keep
going as far up the hill as I could, and by the top Boyd and I were the last
two left. He showed me a small deep
pocket in the river to put my fish in, then walked up to the last remaining
hole where he would put his.
My trout’s new home
was a triangular pocket about fifteen feet across and a foot deep, with the
flow of the small creek creating a counter-clockwise eddy spinning around in it. There were some deep undercut banks on each
side, which gave the trout plenty of cover from the sun and predators. The first step of the process was to put the
bag full of fish in the river itself for five minutes, giving the water in the
bag time to cool off. For this step, I
attached the bag to a root that stuck out and walked back to relieve myself and
to take in the magnificent view.
These had to be the
luckiest fish in the world. I couldn’t
imagine more perfect place for a trout on any living creature to live in. We were mostly above treeline, which meant
that wildfires should not be of concern.
The footrail we had hiked up had mostly disappeared down where the trees
ended, so there shouldn’t be much human traffic up here. Also nowhere to be
seen were any cows, which can be a detriment in some watersheds where cutthroat
trout cling to existence. There were also
no mining activities above, with their potential for heavy metals leaching in.
Ans since all of the other fish competitors had been removed already, these
fortunate Greenbacks had this ideal resource all to themselves. In the brief time I’d been there, I’d already
seen a lot of midges on the water and just above it, and so the trout had
plenty of food. It was hard to imagine a
better place to have placed them.
The next step was to
open the bag and let some water in, again to gradually cool the water off. For this I had to lay down on my belly in the
cool, wet grass, while letting in the pristine water. It actually felt great doing
this, for the day was hot even at 11,000 feet. It felt as though I was
immersing myself into a new, foreign environment, too. The environment I spend most of my time is at
6,200 feet, technically the high desert, and not the mountains. The vegetation there is mostly hardy enough
to survive with very little water, and the verdant band created along the river
is the exception to its surroundings. Here though everything was wet and green
and pulsing with life. I took my
waterproof camera out and tried to take pictures of the greenbacks as they swam
out of the bag and into their new home. After spending their entire existence
up to that point in concrete raceways, what would they make of their new
environment?
I stayed in the tall
wet grass on my belly that way watching them for way longer than necessary, for
it seemed to me that what I was watching was something of a miracle. This moment had been many, many years in the
making. First came the discovery of
these genetically pure fish, the only such population in the world. Then came the decision to try and breed them,
and to distribute them in various parts of the state to so that if anything
happened to their original habitat, there might be healthy populations
elsewhere to ensure their genetic survival.
There had already been two wildfires that had come close to small stream
they were found in, so losing them was an existential threat, not merely
hypothetical. Next some suitable habitats needed to be found for them, and once
those decisions were made then the current occupants of those lakes and streams
needed to be removed. Removing the other
fish was a painful but necessary component of the whole process, since leaving
them there would mean having them hybridize with the true Greenbacks,
invalidating the whole experiment. Where
possible, anglers were organized to catch as many of the current occupants as
possible, so they might be relocated to other areas. But fishermen alone were never going to catch
them all, so the final step of the removal process involved using piscicides to
ensure a clean slate for the greenbacks.
All of those years of planning and action lead up to this final step,
actually putting these fish into the small creek they would be spending the
rest of the lives in. I felt like a very
lucky person to be given the honor of completing the mission, for climbing up
that steep hill with nineteen greenback trout in my backpack was arguably the
easiest phase of a multiyear project.
It was fascinating
watching the trout exhibit various types of behavior once they were set free
into their alien environment. Some of
them immediately shot towards the dark safety of the undercut banks. Others kind of hung about in the middle, as
if wondering “What the hell?”. But three
of them immediately figured things out, and within minutes were up at the top
of the eddy line sipping midges off the surface. The trout were not fed immediately before
their big trip from Leadville to Herman Gulch, so that when they got into the
water they would be hungry and ready to feed.
I stuck my hand in the frigid water holding my camera still, trying to
get some underwater shots, but the water was so cold I only lasted a couple of
minutes doing that. Finally I just put
the camera away, and just lay there on my stomach watching these beautiful
little miracles doing their thing. The
wet cool grass soaked my shirt and pants all the way through, but I barely
noticed. After my previous two experiences
with Parks and Wildlife electroshocking fish, it was nice to be doing something
that was non-traumatic or stressful to the fish. It gave one an almost god-like
sense of power, to be bringing life and beauty to an already perfect place.
Being a man I’ll never know what its like to give birth to another human being,
so moments like this will probably be the closest I’ll get. I lost all sense of time and place, and just
lay there with my nose inches from the water watching them adjust to their new
home, so very glad for the fact that I got to play very small role in making it
all happen.
Living in the
mountains in an expensive resort area isn’t always easy. I work four different jobs depending on the
season, and rarely have a complete day off as a result. So taking a day off now and then to volunteer
my time with Colorado Parks and Wildlife isn’t always easy to do, but I always
feel like its some of the time best-spent I’ll do all year. Taking people down the Colorado River in my
boat is almost always a wonderful experience, especially watching them
experiencing it for the first time. When
I see a seven year old hanging onto a tenkara rod, connected to a feisty
rainbow trout on the end of line, I see someone that I hope will someday grow
up into a person who might one day love these rivers and mountains as much as I
do. And knowing that I might have made
some small contribution to keeping that resource wild and healthy, for future people
to enjoy, is the next best thing to making some tiny humans of my own!
Jack Bombardier
Wow, amazing story. Good for you Jack
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