suicide sex mission death watch

the Further Adventures of Trashy Drifter

Chapter 38

Suicide Sex Mission Deathwatch

For thousands of years, Pink salmon have been spawning in the stream here. Every year, they gather
in the cove in their teeming masses, millions of them. When a rainfall kicks the stream into gear, right
around this time of year, the salmon switch into spawning mode and with only one thought in their
heads, they plunge upstream to spawn and die. They don’t eat, they begin to decompose, even tattering
themselves ragged as they thrust their bodies against the current and the rocks. The stream is thick with
the flashing silver bodies of the pinks. They leap up through rapids and rocks, past the talons of eagles
and the jaws of bears to find that one exact spot where they themselves were spawned. There they
release their cargo of eggs or sperm; they twitch, gasp and die. Their spent bodies feed hundreds of
different animals and return nutrients to the whole ecosystem, the circle is complete.

At least that’s what used to happen. Last year’s salmon run was a dismal failure. Dean, the owner has
arranged to heli-lift a few tonnes of fish guts into the spawning channel to feed the bears in case the
same or worse happens this year. So far, it looks very scary, very scary indeed.

I myself have seen a few thousand pink salmon so far, but just ten years ago at this time of year there
were 1 to 2 million here in the cove! You could walk across the water on their backs. (exaggeration)

Of course everyone blames everyone else for this condition. There is no shortage of fingers being
pointed. Overfishing, pollution and worst of all the fish farms are breeding diseases and millions of
parasitic sea lice which devastate wild populations. The future looks bleak and grim and very near
collapse. Many are sounding the alarm, but it might already be too late.

I kind of feel like being here to witness the end of a natural phenomenon is a sad honour. It’s like being
at the bedside of an aged uncle with a long and interesting story that’s ending. It feels like being in the
audience for the very last vaudeville show, while eating the very last passenger pigeon pie.

Some say that the run is yet to come, that there are masses of pinks further up the coast and I certainly
hope they are right. If not, well, this might be the end of an epoch. Everything here depends on the
salmon. A few nights ago I had the privilege of sitting in a kayak in the rain watching Lenore teach
Peanut how to fish. Watching the usually sedate bear leap and stand and run and tackle and spin and
pounce was shocking. I saw her catch and eat five salmon at the mouth of the river. Meanwhile Peanut
was bellowing his head off at full volume. I think he was saying, “Go mom go! Awesome! Whoah, he’s
over there! Go Go Go!”

So, I’m not going into mourning just yet, it’s still relatively early but any positive thoughts and vibrations

and supplications directed at the fishies won’t go to waste. Neptune have mercy on us greedy fools!