The eggs were valuable. The filets were not. When Skokomish tribal fishermen couldn't profit from the tons of chum salmon they caught, they threw most of the dead fish into Hood Canal, where they figured crabs would eat them.
The eggs were valuable. The filets were not. When Skokomish tribal fishermen couldn't profit from the tons of chum salmon they caught, they threw most of the dead fish into Hood Canal, where they figured crabs would eat them.
But last spring, after environmental activists started calling the lower end of Hood Canal a dead zone, government officials cited carcass dumping as one of many ways people contribute to the area's blight.
The canal -- technically a fjord that extends south some 60 miles from its mouth -- suffers from too much algae growth. The algae decay eats up oxygen needed by fish and other life, leaving them to suffocate and die. Three huge fish kills in 2002 and 2003 prompted scientists and government officials to start addressing the problem.
This winter, Skokomish fishermen and their families quit dumping chum into the canal, a switch influenced by two sizable government grants and an official tribal ban. That diverted as much as 3 million tons of surplus salmon -- thought to be one of the pollutants that fed the algae.
Changing the habits of Skokomish fishing families might be among the easiest of the fixes suggested so far in response to a canal crisis that defies a quick solution.
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At least that's how U.S. Rep. Norm Dicks of Mason County sees it. Dicks, whose Belfair-area home sits along the south side of the canal, has championed the canal's cause in Congress, bringing in $2.8 million in federal funds to begin to solve the problem.
"This is going to be a long-term project," Dicks said. "I hope by dealing with the salmon carcasses maybe this will show a positive impact."
Scientists who have documented the Hood Canal's dissolved oxygen problem believe excess nitrogen is probably to blame. Nitrogen stimulates algae growth.
Although they suspect pollution plays a role -- about 54,000 people live in the area -- so far they haven't been able to pinpoint the source of the imbalance.
To find out, a scientific team led by University of Washington oceanographer Jan Newton has embarked on a three-year research project that could cost $4.5 million.
In the meantime, officials have initiated or expanded efforts to limit contamination. Last fall, state officials awarded nearly $800,000 for pilot undertakings, including the carcass project and several aimed at the control of human waste.
A preliminary assessment of the human causes of Hood Canal pollution attributed about 60 percent of the volume to nitrogen runoff from septic systems. And since most Hood Canal-area septic systems aren't designed to control nitrogen, the fix is likely to be expensive.
Newton's research has already proved that Hood Canal is more sensitive to nitrogen than other parts of Puget Sound.
One of her findings shows that additional nitrogen can triple the amount of algae -- probably because canal water is so calm.
But a key question is how the canal's nitrogen burden differs from what it was in the past, when lack of dissolved oxygen wasn't as much of a problem.
Scientists plan to create a computer model to test that, said Jeff Richey, a UW freshwater chemist who is participating in the project.
But more research is needed. Although researchers have documented the lack of oxygen, records collected so far are limited to spot samples. Many of them were brought in by volunteers from the Hood Canal Salmon Enhancement Group.
Volunteers will continue to play a big role in data collection. But Newton said scientists need a more continuous record.
In late January, UW scientists launched the first of three monitoring buoys called Oceanic-Remote Chemical-optical Analyzers, or ORCAs. The $150,000 device, anchored west of Belfair, is supposed to collect information day and night and transmit the data to scientists on shore.
The ORCA base is a 7-foot-wide, doughnut-shaped buoy that was dropped into the canal by a crane. The device periodically goes down and retrieves sensors that probe the waters beneath. It captures information about temperature; salinity, or saltiness; chlorophyll, the green pigment in plants; dissolved oxygen; nitrogen; ammonia; and currents.
An onboard meteorology station also keeps tabs on wind and weather, said Al Devol, a UW oceanographer who is one of the ORCA's creators.
The goal is to get a better understanding of the chemical and physical characteristics of canal water and what flows into it, including river water and septic runoff. Scientists also said they need to know exactly how canal water circulates and the influence of daylight, weather and the seasons.
"You won't be able to simulate the impact of human activities until you create a model where you have all these processes together," said Anthony Paulson, a Tacoma-based U.S. Geological Survey hydrologist who has studied the canal.
Richey, whose focus is freshwater contributions, said it could take two years to collect all the necessary information.
Despite the uncertainty about solutions, state and local government officials would like people to abandon practices that appear to make the situation worse.
As an early success, they cite the response by the Skokomish Tribe.
To put an end to the dumping of chum salmon carcasses, state officials last fall awarded a total of $187,000 to the tribe and a fish buyer who accepted surplus fish and found other uses for them.
"I believe, by and large, our fishermen want to do the right thing," said Skokomish fisheries manager Dave Herrera. "Now that we're aware, we need to do our part to make sure we're not contributing to the problem."
The chum fishery is the tribe's most lucrative. In 2003, tribal members caught more than 400,000 fish, including 54,000 in a single day. On average, about 140 fishermen take part, Herrera said.
The no-dumping rule was in effect in November when tribal fishermen lined the rocky beach north of the state-run Hood Canal Hatchery in Hoodsport, Mason County, where the fish return to spawn.
Family groups of fishermen -- several generations in some cases -- motored out in small boats to set shallow nets. Then, teams of men among the women used the strength of their arms to haul in the nets and with them, hundreds of flipping, fighting fish.
The fishermen slid sharp knives into the bellies of the females to reveal the bright orange roe, or eggs, which are valued as a delicacy in Europe and Asia. On the beach, plastic 5-gallon buckets brimming with eggs stood in clusters, waiting for buyers.
The fishermen tossed unwanted fish into boats or wheelbarrows, then delivered the surplus to American Canadian Fisheries, a Bellingham-based fish buyer and distributor, and others who agreed to accept the carcasses.
American Canadian officials said they planned to cut and freeze some of the fish for distribution to prisons and food banks. The rest would be cut up for pet food or compost.
"We're hoping that the market gets stronger," said Andy Vitaljic, who owns the company.
So do the Skokomish, who would rather be paid for the fish than give them away.
In all, 3 million tons of surplus salmon that might otherwise have rotted at the bottom of the canal were diverted, according to the Puget Sound Action Team, which disbursed the money.
The 300,000 carcasses collected in the pilot project far exceeded estimates of 250,000, said Herrera.
"I'm thrilled," he said.
Based on the number of diverted fish, the program has succeeded -- at least in keeping carcasses out of the canal. It's still too soon to say how much the change will affect water quality.
The Puget Sound Action Team predicted that at least another year of public support will be needed to sustain future carcass diversions.
State Sen. Tim Sheldon (D-Potlatch), who grew up on the canal and also serves as a Mason County commissioner, described the fish project as a step forward in canal stewardship. He believes more research is needed to precisely identify the origin of the area's problem.
Several other pilot projects aim to find ways to reduce pollution from human waste. They include $238,000 to test innovative septic system designs, $57,000 for wastewater management analysis, $44,000 for shoreline surveys and water testing, and $90,000 to teach property owners to properly manage septic systems.
"We've got to get the problems under control," said Dicks, the congressman.
About 10 years ago, state officials restricted shellfish-rearing on beaches near Belfair because of excessive bacteria in the water. Residents created a clean water district to solve the problem. Most of the septic systems on the south shore west of Belfair were tested.
Although testing was voluntarily, 85 percent of households participated and many failed systems were fixed, said Bob Hager, a retired Boeing Co. vice president who lives outside Belfair. Bacterial counts dropped, and the state Department of Health reopened many of the beaches for shellfish harvest.
Mason County and the Skokomish Tribe have begun planning for sewers that could serve the tribe's reservation and some places near Hoodsport and Belfair.
But many people like Hager, who lives miles from the proposed sewer service area, wonder what more they should do. His house dominates a tiny plot of land on the canal's south shore. He upgraded to what he thought was a state-of-the-art septic system in 1993.
"I don't think it does much for nitrogen," Hager said of his aerobic system, meaning it needs oxygen to break down waste. "It does great for everything else, but not a lot for nitrogen."
It was Hager and other members of an advisory group called the Lower Hood Canal Watershed Implementation Committee who asked Dicks, a neighbor, to help solve the problem in 2003.
Dicks predicted that legislation will be needed to force many households to do more.
"Almost every single septic tank is going to have to be fixed," he said. "The real answer ultimately would be sewers. We may have to sewer Belfair and Hoodsport."
Source: Knight Ridder/Tribune Business News
