"He's running," the man says. The process of getting a fish to ejaculate is called "stripping" or, more colloquially, "milting." The male's sperm will be poured into plastic bags of unfertilized eggs that have been cut from a female's belly, and then incubated in trays circulating with artesian-well water. Each tray will eventually yield some 800 salmon.
When the fish reach the one-and-a-half-year-old smolt stage, they are released into the wild. Some migrate 500 miles west to the Pacific. Some are eaten by whales; others are caught by commercial fishermen and wind up on your plate. A select few survive long enough to feel the tug of nature and begin an epic journey 900 miles inland, up 6,500 vertical feet of alpine rivers, to spawn in the same riverbeds where their wild ancestors were born.
There are about 200 state, tribal, and federally funded hatcheries in the Columbia Basin, each one built to compensate for damage caused by the hydroelectric dams. Many are mandated by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). In fact, the 1973 Environmental Species Act requires that if a federal agency's project jeopardizes an endangered or threatened species, or threatens its recovery in the wild, the government must provide alternatives to sustain the population and allow it to grow. So in the past decade alone, the U.S. has spent about $11 billion on recovery, in ways both logical and bizarre: counting migrating salmon through a window in a dam, injecting transponder chips into fish noses to track them, placing GPS systems in riverbeds that tell scientists how many fish swim by each day, hauling smolts downriver in barges to avoid the dams, and using sluices to shoot others away from the treacherous turbines.
Hatcheries have proved very effective and are, undoubtedly, the only things keeping sockeye salmon from going extinct. But they also pose a problem. Conservationists argue that hatcheries only stem the decline of the salmon and do nothing to bring the numbers to the sustainable levels required by federal law. What's more, they contend, the hatcheries are used as an excuse by the government to avoid taking the necessary and bolder step of dam removal, which would allow the salmon to mate on their own and reach self-sustaining populations.
"The government's strategy is to make more fish," says Bowler, who worked at Idaho Fish and Game for 29 years and maintains a nonprofit called Snake River Salmon Solutions. "They will not recover without [the government] dealing with the mortality factor – the dams."
Salmon advocates say the government's $600 million annual price tag for recovery efforts is a taxpayer boondoggle designed to protect the special business interests benefiting from the dams: oil companies that barge mining equipment on their reservoirs; 37,000 acres of farmland that rely on diverted water; and industries that get cheap, federally subsidized electricity.
In 2000, a coalition of environmentalists and fishing groups, led by the National Wildlife Federation and joined by the state of Oregon and the region's largest tribe, the Nez Perce, sued NOAA and the Army Corps of Engineers over their salmon-recovery plan and won.They won again in 2005 and again last August.
Despite NOAA's refusal to seriously consider dam removal, pressure is mounting as salmon flood back into areas where dams have come down. Between 2006 and 2010, some 241 U.S. dams were demolished, thanks largely to pressure from Native American tribes and conservationists. Many were in the East and Midwest, where their role in powering long-shuttered paper and textile mills made them obsolete. In many cases, fish stocks have started to recover.
After a three-decade fight, the federal government finally deemed it necessary to remove two Western dams, on the Elwha River in Washington. Experts believe the area's estimated current salmon population of 3,000 could eventually recover to 300,000. And that's nothing compared to the rebound salmon could see if the four Snake River dams are removed, say conservationists. Salmon there could see their numbers rise from 200,000 to several million.
Towns like Riggins could experience a similar rebound. Its main street of clapboard cafes, rafting outfitters, and hotels is, like the salmon, kept barely alive by a nearby fish hatchery. A return of the wild run would bring back the tourists and, says one study, more than $200 million in added revenue. "Dams are always thought of as progress and jobs," says Kerry Brennan, a 59-year-old fishing guide in Riggins, who has spent his entire life on the river. "That's how they got them in in the first place. But now they're killing the fish, and they're killing towns like this. That ain't right."