Respect Your Quarry
July 30, 2002
With lactic acid burning in her weary muscles, the salmon finally submitted to the force of the heavy graphite meatstick and 50-pound line. Unceremoniously, she was dragged into the shallows and then booted onto the gravel bank with a swift kick amidships. As she lay there on the bank stunned, gills gasping for breath, her captor took a set of pliers to the large treble hook that was buried in her tail. For leverage, he stepped on the fish’s head and pulled with all his strength. Eventually, the terrible hooks tore free, removing a large chunk of flesh as they went. The man then unsheathed a long, silver blade and split her belly lengthwise from vent to chin.
With a sun-chapped hand, he reached inside her quivering, eviscerated body cavity and served her one more graceless act.
As he tore the two orange skeins of roe out of the salmon’s belly, he gloated about all the steelhead he would later catch with the eggs and then he tossed her ragged, dirt-crusted body into the shoreline bushes.
Programmed with an indomitable will to survive, the salmon flopped in vain as she tried to work her way back to the river. But in a few moments, she lay still on her right side, her left eyeball relaxed and fixed on the bright sun above.
That event took place many years ago, back when I was in high school. My buddy Jim Hennig and I would drive down to Nimbus Dam on the American River as soon as the Friday night after-game dance would let out to secure a spot to fish for salmon before the Saturday crowds arrived. We went there not for the aesthetics, but to catch as many fish as possible. But even in those days, when all we really cared about was getting into fish, my stomach turned when I saw what happened to that poor hen salmon. Even at 17 years old, I knew enough that to be a true hunter or fisherman, you needed to respect your quarry.
And the sad fact of the matter is, I see people every day who don’t have a clue what this means. Go to the Thermalito Afterbay Outlet Hole on the Feather River during salmon season and you’ll see 100 fish a day foul hooked in the belly and put on stringers. No respect.
Take a trip for albacore tuna off Santa Cruz and you’ll witness anglers in private skiffs keeping every fish they catch until they are knee-deep in carnage. No respect. How about the person who catches a big striper and then puts it in the back of his truck in 100 degree heat and drives three hours home. No respect.
Go to a public refuge during duck season and you’ll run into the guy who always shoots at birds that are just out of range. No respect. And then there’s the guy who wounds a deer with an errant shot because he doesn’t practice his target shooting in the off season. Of course, he never finds the deer, but it dies a few days later. No respect. There’s the one who kills for the glory and photos but doesn’t eat anything he shoots or catches. No freakin’ respect.
The good news is these people make up a very small percentage of the hunting and fishing public. Unfortunately, however, they’re the ones that give us all a bad name. These scumbags are the ones that the anti hunting/fishing crowd use to cast a negative shadow on our sport. They’re the ones who send the wrong message to people who don’t understand our outdoor heritage. And they are the ones who will be responsible for our rights to fish and shoot being taken away someday. Don’t let this happen!
When afield or afloat, don’t let dirtballs get away with disrespecting our wild fish and game. Say something – we can’t stop them all – but I’ve seen plenty of instances where peer pressure has caused some unsavory individual to discontinue his reprehensible activity. If we all get together on this one, we can affect change.
The other key ingredient is to teach our kids well from the beginning. Teach them how to be true outdoorsmen and women, and to have respect for the game they pursue. And then maybe, just maybe, we won’t see this problem so much in the future.
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