(Host) Commentator Willem Lange was prowling the north woods recently and came across what appeared to be an alien invasion. But it was actually pretty prosaic.
(Lange) It was a clear, quiet morning, I was hiking beside a small river in far northern New England. All at once I heard voices and a strange noise coming from the river.
They weren’t conversing; they were obviously up to something. The noise was a high-pitched electronic beeping. Suddenly one of them shouted, “Out!” The beeping stopped. Small splashing sounds. Someone asked, “D’you get him?”
“Yep,” someone answered. “Okay to start again.” The beeping resumed. Intrigued, I crept toward the river and peered carefully through the trees.
The stream had been blocked off above and below by nets tied to each bank and anchored below by rocks. Within this area, a line of ten men, boys, and women waded slowly upstream. Five were wearing pack frames with metal boxes attached and carrying six-foot-long wands. At each wand’s lower end was a metallic hoop, about a foot in diameter. The packers held the hoops underwater and, as they advanced, swept them back and forth like metal detectors.
I’d stumbled across an electrofishing survey of a trout stream up near the 45th parallel. A team of professionals, students, and volunteers was counting the number, size, and species of fish in a section of stream that had been surveyed before.
The wands emit a circle of electricity roughly six feet in diameter. It stuns the fish within that circle; they turn briefly belly-up, showing a flash of white; and the netters scoop them up. The shock lasts very few seconds, so speed with the net is crucial. It’s also crucial that the crew wear waders with no leaks, and rubber gloves. If anybody has to reach into the water, he shouts, “Out!”
I watched, hoping big brook trout still lurked in the deep pools. But my hopes were frustrated. They were surveying shallow stretches — nursery water — which might harbor large fish during higher river flows, but not during midsummer. Also, a logging job upstream a few years ago was poorly monitored: The clear-cut ran right to the water’s edge. Within months the river downstream was choked with sand, and water temperature climbed toward the limit of a trout’s endurance.
They made two sweeps of each blocked-off section, and netted dozens of tiny, silvery chubs, dace, and suckers. Plus a few brook trout, from two to four inches. Volunteers measured and weighed each fish, and a biologist catalogued their species.
I’d never seen this kind of operation before, so it was a fascinating experience. As a fisherman, I was disappointed in the results. But the biologist seemed quite hopeful. In spite of the recent degradation of this stream, she found a dozen fingerling brook trout, which meant that successful spawning continued. If in coming years we can improve our newly protected northern habitat, there is hope for more than just this silvery canary in our environmental coal mine.
This is Willem Lange up in Etna, New Hampshire, and I gotta get back to work.
Willem Lange is a contractor, writer and storyteller who lives in Etna, New Hampshire. He spoke from our studio in Norwich.