FROM PAGE ONE
THURSDAY, AUGUST 18, 2022
SALMON
Continued from Page A1
the rationalization of over-
fi shing and habitat destruc-
tion, they say, and adds
pressure on the compar-
atively few remaining
wild fi sh by reducing
their genetic fi tness and
increasing competition for
resources.
But for tribes like the
Nez Perce, whose culture
is inextricably bound to
salmon, hatcheries may be
all that’s preventing their
traditional way of life from
disappearing entirely.
To supply fi shing
grounds while minimizing
the eff ects of hatcheries on
endangered wild salmon,
tribal-operated hatcheries
are employing innovative
but experimental methods
like supplementation to
restore wild fi sh popula-
tions in the rivers where
they were lost.
“With hatcheries, they’re
not a solution, they’re a
tool,” said Zollman, who
works for Nez Perce fi sh-
eries but is not a tribal
member himself. “The idea
is that we still have fi sh
spawning so our grandkids
can go watch them, and still
be able to catch fi sh and
have them on the table.”
At Lookingglass, the
spring chinook conserva-
tion program operates for
rivers in the Grande Ronde
and Imnaha river systems.
Lookingglass is one of
fi ve hatcheries among the
33 operated by the Oregon
Department of Fish and
Wildlife that has a conser-
vation program. Like Look-
ingglass, the others — Cas-
cade, Irrigon, Umatilla and
Wallowa hatcheries — each
have tribal co-management.
How supplementation
works
The Lookingglass pro-
gram uses supplementa-
tion — essentially removing
wild fi sh from rivers and
integrating them into
hatchery broodstock — to
produce the next generation
of salmon.
Chinook spawned at the
hatchery eventually return
to their natal streams as
adults to spawn naturally,
producing off spring that are
both genetically and behav-
iorally indistinguishable
from wild-origin fi sh.
The National Oceanic
and Atmospheric Adminis-
tration regulates hatcheries
that take endangered salmon
populations — such as
Columbia River spring chi-
nook — for broodstock.
“For a conservation
hatchery, typically we have
objectives or goals that are
solely to restore the wild
spawning populations,” said
Lance Kruzic, a NOAA
fi sheries biologist. “It’s a
very defi ned program, with
the intention being conser-
vation or recovery.”
To prevent an overabun-
dance of hatchery-reared
fi sh on the spawning
grounds, which generally
have greater return numbers
than wild-origin fi sh, Look-
ingglass managers employ
an elaborate system of weirs
(fi sh traps) to maintain a
healthy ecosystem balance.
In what’s referred to as
the “sliding scale” method,
Lookingglass managers
Cole Sinanian/Columbia Insight
Northeast Oregon’s Lookingglass Hatchery, outside of Elgin, holds
roughly 65,000 juvenile chinooks, totaling nearly 1.5 million fi sh.
use the weirs to select how
many of each type of fi sh
— hatchery-reared or wild
— reach the spawning
grounds. The number of a
given year’s wild returns
determines the number
of hatchery fi sh allowed
to reach the spawning
grounds.
Lookingglass managers
also use the weirs to adjust
the number of wild-
origin fi sh taken for brood-
stock based on that year’s
wild returns. During years
when wild returns are low,
more hatchery-origin fi sh
— which are marked by the
removal of a portion of their
adipose fi n — are collected
for broodstock, so as to not
interrupt the wild chinook
population’s recovery.
“The weirs allow every-
thing to be controlled,”
Zollman said. “We don’t
inundate the natural fi sh, but
we don’t leave the spawning
grounds empty.”
Once collected, brood-
stock are spawned at the
hatchery and their off spring
are incubated, then trans-
ferred to massive early-
rearing tanks.
Once the young fi sh
reach a few centimeters in
length, they’re segregated
based on the rivers their
parents originated from
— this prevents biolog-
ical connections from being
compromised.
After about a year of
maturing in the raceways,
the fi sh are trucked to accli-
mation sites (small pens
near the spawning grounds
in their home rivers) where
they spend their fi nal four to
six weeks before release.
It’s here that fi sh inter-
nalize the rivers’ unique
chemical and magnetic cues
that will one day guide them
home.
They also lose their
domestic tendencies. By
this point young fi sh no
longer swim toward humans
expecting to be fed.
In total, the fi sh spend
18 months at the hatchery
before release.
Low numbers, long
game
When Lookingglass
began its conservation pro-
gram in 1997, each of the
area’s watersheds had only
a few dozen fi sh returning
to spawn.
At Lookingglass Creek,
those numbers were in the
single digits.
Now, hundreds of fi sh
return to Lookingglass
Creek each year — enough
to support limited sport and
tribal fi sheries.
While year-to-year
numbers fl uctuate wildly,
average annual returns in
the nearby Lostine River
now top more than 1,000,
according to data provided
by Zollman.
Salmon had a partic-
ularly prosperous year in
2010, when returns to the
Lostine were close to 5,000.
Half of 2022’s returns to the
Lostine — which have yet
to be fully counted — were
wild-origin fi sh.
Factors that aff ect annual
fi sh returns beyond what
the hatcheries are doing
include ocean conditions,
commercial fi sheries and
habitat accessibility.
“The success of a
hatchery program depends
on good habitat and good
survival conditions for
the fi sh, just like in the
wild,” Kruzic said. “It may
take decades to get those
increases from a conserva-
tion hatchery program.”
THE OBSERVER — A7
and Wildlife.
“Hatchery fi sh are
domesticated, and that dif-
ference is actually pro-
grammed into the genetics
of the fi sh themselves,” said
Jamie Glasgow, director of
science and research at the
Wild Fish Conservancy, a
Washington-based nonprofi t
conservation organization.
“If wild fi sh interact and
spawn with hatchery fi sh,
the next generation of off -
spring from that hatchery
and wild pairing is much
less likely to survive in the
wild.”
Beyond genetic risks,
some scientists and conser-
vationists see using hatch-
eries for conservation as a
backward approach to wild
fi sh recovery. Excessive
hatchery production is often
cited as one of many con-
tributing factors to the rapid
decline of Pacifi c Northwest
wild salmon over the past
century.
Since the region’s fi rst
hatcheries were built in the
late 1800s, the majority of
hatchery programs have
operated under an agri-
cultural model of fi sh
production.
This approach relies
on the sheer volume of
fi sh produced to sustain
runs and support fi sheries
without consideration for
habitat restoration or the
fi shes’ genetic fi tness, said
Jack Stanford, a retired pro-
fessor and fi sheries ecol-
ogist at the University of
Montana.
“There’s this mantra out
there that you can replace
lost catch because of the
demise of wild fi sh with
hatcheries,” he said. “And it
does not work.”
The net result is the
entire Pacifi c Northwest
salmon fi shery being reliant
on a system that may be
contributing to the decline
of the very fi sh it’s intended
to save.
“It’s like we’re trying to
save this patient, but we’re
standing on their throat
while we’re doing it,” said
Glasgow.
‘Museum-piece
fi sheries’
While hatcheries may
have historically used an
ecologically irresponsible
management approach,
some members of the
Columbia River Plateau
Tribes view them as essen-
tial to keeping ancient tra-
ditions alive.
They see supplemen-
tation as necessary to not
only saving the fi sh from
extinction, but to keeping
salmon in the rivers and
streams in tribal homelands
that once served as sacred
fi shing grounds.
The lives of the indig-
enous people who inhabit
the plateaus and valleys of
the Columbia River Basin
once completely revolved
around salmon. The sea-
sonal returns of salmon to
natal streams are integral to
their cultures.
“We’re a salmon
people,” said Joe Oatman,
a member of the Nez Perce
Tribe and director of the
Harvest Division of its fi sh-
eries program. “Our whole
identity and our whole view
of the world revolve around
salmon. And to be salmon
people, we need to have
salmon in the rivers.”
Construction of hydro-
electric dams throughout
the 20th century brought
the elimination of more
than 40% of historic
salmon habitat and the
destruction of culturally
and economically signifi -
cant tribal fi shing places.
This was devastating to
the Nez Perce, who histor-
ically consumed more than
300 pounds of salmon per
person per year, according
to Oatman. Now a tribal
member might be fortunate
to catch two or three fi sh a
year.
With historic fi shing
places either inaccessible
or lacking fi sh, many Nez
Perce families now must
travel long distances to
harvest their yearly catch.
The resulting economic
burden forces many to
make diffi cult decisions
about whether to priori-
tize fi nances over cultural
preservation.
“These days, it’s a really
tough choice for many
tribal families to decide
where they want to go har-
vest fi sh to try and meet
their needs throughout the
year,” Oatman said.
This is why hatcheries
are essential, despite their
questionable history, said
Mike Matylewich, fi sheries
and management director
for the Columbia River
Inter-Tribal Fish Commis-
sion, which coordinates
fi shery management pol-
icies for the Nez Perce,
Umatilla, Warm Springs
and Yakama tribes.
Closing hatcheries alto-
gether would leave huge
portions of the Columbia
River Basin salmon-free,
and greatly reduce tribes’
ability to harvest on their
historic fi shing grounds.
“If you took hatcheries
out of the mix, you’d get
pockets of wild fi sh,” said
Matylewich. “You’d have
museum-piece fi sheries.”
Fighting chance
Lookingglass is consid-
ered to be among Oregon’s
more successful conserva-
tion hatchery programs.
While numbers are
nowhere near enough to
sustain a fi shery robust
enough to supply the Nez
Perce year-round, the pro-
gram has prevented the
region’s spring chinook
salmon population from
disappearing entirely.
Zollman said that for
the foreseeable future it’s
unlikely numbers will reach
a point where the hatchery
program is no longer
needed, given the many
factors contributing to the
fi shes’ mortality that are
beyond his control.
But in terms of giving
salmon a fi ghting chance
at survival, Zollman is
confi dent the program is
working.
For Oatman, the fact that
there are still fi sh in these
rivers at all is a sign of a
successful supplementation
program.
The region’s Nez Perce
may not be able to harvest
enough salmon to sustain
their total dietary needs as
they once could. But they
can still fi sh in the tradi-
tional places used by their
families for generations.
“It’s more than just
catching a few fi sh to bring
home,” Oatman said. “It’s
about fi nding a place where
we can pass on these tradi-
tions that have been there
for countless generations.”
The trouble with
supplementation
Supplementation rep-
resents a shift in hatchery
management that began
around the turn of the
century.
But some scientists
say these programs are
risky. Studies have shown
that deliberately inter-
breeding hatchery fi sh
with natural-origin fi sh
can negatively aff ect wild
populations.
Salmon are biologically
linked to the rivers they
come from. Raising juve-
nile fi sh in an artifi cial hab-
itat can make those fi sh
less suited to natural envi-
ronments, decreasing the
chances that they return
home to spawn.
This lack of biolog-
ical fi tness carries on to
the hatchery fi shes’ off -
spring, which can geneti-
cally weaken the local wild
populations when the two
interbreed, according to a
recent report by the Wash-
ington Department of Fish
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