|
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Striped bass invade Kennebec
Copyright © 2005 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc. | ||||
 |
||||
At any one time, somewhere on the river, thousands and thousands of tiny, two to four inch long river herring -- alewives, blueback herring or shad -- are being corralled by striped bass into dead end coves and getting eaten alive. Trying to describe such a massacre -- in words or pictures -- is like trying to explain Maine's cold winters to a lifelong Floridian. Capturing the feeling -- the shortness of breath, the frozen nostril hairs, the chill that even a heavy sweater won't shake -- in a photograph is even harder. In a striper blitz, as in extreme weather -- it's not just the sight, it's the feeling. It's the entirety of the scene: The sea gulls and terns screeching, cartwheeling end over end into the water. It's the cormorants diving and emerging, lumps in their throats. It's the putrid smell of fish, and death. It's witnessing the raw nature of predator versus prey, seeing first hand the law of eat or be eaten. Watching as baitfish -- alewives, blueback herring and menhaden -- hurtle themselves in a rainbow of silver onto our rocky shore to escape the open mouths of marauding striped bass and bluefish. This isn't Sea World, or the Discovery Channel -- this is real life and anyone with the interest and persistence can see it firsthand right here in central Maine. It's happening now, and it's free of charge. Stripers are a migratory fish; they come to the coast and rivers of Maine and New England in the spring, following the migrations of alewives, blueback herring and shad. Then, in the fall, with cooling weather and shortening days, they turn south again. But before they leave, they gorge themselves. This time, however, they're feeding on the young of the alewives we first watched ascend our rivers in May and June. It's a slaughter -- a massacre in progress. Sounds gruesome, doesn't it? In some ways, it is, but in others, it is a reason to celebrate. It wasn't always this way. Twenty years ago, there were no striped bass or alewives in our rivers. You were once more likely to walk up on a $20 bill on the sidewalk than to see an alewife in the river. But now, there are millions of these silvery fish flowing out of area lakes and ponds. Likewise for striped bass -- in the early 1980's, catching a single striped bass in an entire season was reason to celebrate. They were nearly extinct. Maryland threatened to list them as an endangered species. Charter boat captains, recreational anglers and commercial fishermen agreed, albeit grudgingly, to stop fishing or risk losing stripers all together, forever. That was 20 years ago. Today, they're back, and though new concerns exist, it's comforting to know that millions of people now appreciate this incredible resource and would fight to protect it should it become threatened again. Citizen and Department of Marine Resources efforts -- fish passage at dams along the Kennebec River, pumping alewives in the spring and transferring them to upriver spawning grounds in local lakes and ponds, protective limits on striped bass -- have enabled their comeback. A birdwatching friend, Jeff Wells, of Hallowell, relates the striper migration to the nighttime flights of a small songbird called a Swainson's thrush. Near the river in Hallowell this week, I told him about the striper feeding frenzies I'd been watching. He told me about the thrushes. Two nights ago, he said, he stood outside alone, listening to the tweets and wing beats of thousands of thrushes migrating over his home. These fist-sized birds fly thousands of miles, at night, to their southern wintering grounds. Where was I when it was happening? In bed. I had missed it. I wish I hadn't. Events like these -- migrations that have existed since ancient times -- give us a rare glimpse at what once was and, just as importantly, of what could be. Dave Sherwood -- 621-5648 dsherwood@centralmaine.com |
||||