Borrowing an oak leaf from a sapling on the verge, I wiped something brown from my trainer before letting the leaf fall onto the strip of grass growing up the lane. No doubt, dung and its beetle brigade were still marching about my mind. The wooded lane was quiet, the wind low, and the air had a youth to it that felt good. Perhaps no one else had been down this way for a while. I liked thinking that.
October had arrived. Our passage into winter. Summer’s footprints lingered on the beech and oak ceiling. Ahead, woodland glowed amber. After hitching a ride from Exeter to Drewsteignton from a kind pal who was (apparently) ‘heading that way anyway’, I made my way down narrow lanes and paths to the banks of the River Teign. Changing into my wetsuit, I was hoping it would equip me with a daring, courageous mood in pursuit of something I had never seen before. Fidgeting awkwardly in my neoprene body condom, I waited for another friend, Joe.
It turns out that Devon’s ribbons of rivers are a bit of a hotspot for Atlantic salmon. But even as the girl next door, so to speak, I had never seen them. Between you and me, until now, salmon (like most species that live underwater) had just sort of passed me by. Barely worth a second glance because that thing over there is more interesting. I’ve since felt ashamed about this but then realised it’s never too late to head down to the river and do a bit of poking about. Old or young, a bit of freshwater investigation will only serve you well. It had been more than a month since my whirlwind of folly at Knepp. Winter was dropping hints of its ETA in the morning air. Time to brush my hair and curtsey for His Majesty, the ‘King of Fish’.
From Dogmarsh Bridge, I glanced up at Castle Drogo – Britain’s youngest castle. Standing tall at a peachy 110 years old, this was the last castle built in England. In 1974 it became the first twentieth-century offspring of the National Trust, and it remains one of England’s most popular properties.
Castle Drogo commands the view above the gorge on the northern fringes of Dartmoor National Park. Dartmoor historically was (and remains) one of the wettest places in England, and such is the power of nature that damp can permeate even the most solid of structures. During Drogo’s youth, maddening amounts of leakage and structural damage occurred to the entire castle. Mission Watertight involved a national supply of scaffolding and tarpaulin. The restoration ran to tens of millions of pounds before the castle was finally unveiled, fresh and sealed, in August 2019.
Drogo was ahead of its time, as the concept of generating electricity using hydroelectric turbines in the River Teign was proposed by engineering firm Gilbert Gilkes and Co. Ltd in 1916. Following a few decades of faffing around, the original 1929 turbines were officially reinstated in 2016 as part of the National Trust’s Renewable Energy Investment Programme. Now, more than 50 per cent of Drogo’s activities are driven by renewable energy. And I think the staff should have full permission to dine out on that chestnut as often as they can.
The Teign Gorge itself is spectacular. A classic steep-sided ‘V’ under a duvet of trees, framed by upland heath and oak of international importance. Deep within the gorge, an ancient woodland is returning. Much like the castle overseeing it, Fingle Woods is a national treasure. Think Dame Judi Dench or Gerri Halliwell in that Union Jack Dress. Again (like the castle), this woodland has needed urgent renovation. Picking a cluster of pine, I stripped the needles into a pinch between my thumb and forefinger, lifting them to my nose. A habit, summoning memories of small me thrusting moss under my parents’ noses insisting: ‘The Earth! It smells of the actual Earth!’
For years, conifer giants dominated the 825-acre (334-hectare) Fingle Woods. The demand for fast-growing mining timber during the Second World War surpassed the demand for deciduous. What followed was a period of cyclical planting and coppicing of a commercial Douglas fir plantation through to the 1980s and the increasing retreat of ancient, broad-leaved woodland. Less than 3 per cent of woodland in the British Isles is classed as ‘ancient’. The Woodland Trust designates this as ‘that which has persisted since 1600 in England and Wales, and 1750 in Scotland … relatively undisturbed by human development … the most complex terrestrial habitat in the UK’; and my favourite, simply ‘irreplaceable’.
An ancient woodland – with all its secrets – takes centuries to establish but minutes to destroy. And if I’ve understood correctly, once it’s gone, it’s gone. Finito. As I write, the demolition of ancient woodland to make way for England’s high-speed rail line (HS2) permeates weekly news bulletins. As though unfairly reprimanded, nature is paying an infinite price to reduce passenger journey time in a project that will require nearly £200 billion of taxpayer income. Rivers are to be canalised. Vital corridors for wildlife are likely to be severed. And 60,000 human bodies were exhumed from cemeteries that were getting in the way. Acres of woodland shaved as though in preparation for prison. The majestic Hunningham Oak stood for three centuries in Leamington Spa until one Thursday (in 2020) when contractors felled it for a service access road. Oh well, at least the speediness of HS2 will give us all more time to grab another skinny latte with caramel drizzle!
Thankfully for Fingle Woods, it’s had kinder allies. The Woodland Trust joined forces with the National Trust, and these conservation heavyweights sought to rebalance evergreen with deciduous species, buying Fingle Woods in 2013. So began one of the most extensive woodland restoration projects in the British Isles. The Teign Gorge now hosts one of the largest areas of continuous woodland in south-west England. Attempting to find a space in the car park at Fingle Bridge alone demonstrates its popularity. People flock to bathe in Fingle Woods’ leafy spa before queuing for a carvery at the Fingle Inn.
Spiderwebs knitted the dew across the grass at my feet, and I bent the top half of my body at various angles to allow the morning light to escape from behind and reflect off this artistic little array. The usual huddle of 4x4s lined the lane at Mill End – Saturday morning walkers heading into the woods. I had a sudden urge to climb atop a black Range Rover and take in the morning from its lofty height, but I didn’t.
Woods have long provided a rich resource for humans, not least in acting as a giant natural carbon sponge erasing our casual recklessness. Britain’s woodlands store 213 million tonnes of carbon, 77 million tonnes of which are held in ancient woodlands like Fingle. Fingle Woods’ hunting, gathering, trumpeting past is heralded by the four Iron Age hill forts guarding the valley. Charcoal hearths and stone boundary pollards suggest early woodland management.
A white stag often surveys the gorge on an early autumn morning, his hinds hushed together in the copse below. Honestly, what sounds like fiction couldn’t be more real. A condition called ‘leucism’ will have caused this stag’s hair and skin to lose their natural colour. As I continued to stare at the patterns of dew, I half expected Mr Tumnus to appear from behind a tree and escort me with his dusty lamp. Curious walkers can retrace the steps of our medieval ancestors at Hunter’s Tor, Fingle Packhorse Bridge, Forester’s Track and Hunter’s Path – part of the increased footpath network created in the restoration project. There is something enchanting about the whole site, and it wasn’t the first time that I lamented my lack of white stallion, noble wolfhound and billowing velvet cloak as I lingered on the edge of the wood. But, alas, modern salmon adventures work better with neoprene, a kayak and a knowledgeable friend.
Joe arrived in a well-travelled silver Volvo. Reliable and sturdy. Inside, it was reassuringly messy. I always trust people who have messy cars. On the whole, they turn out to be decent humans with heads and hearts firmly in place. Joe had two kayaks strapped to the roof of his car. When I saw them, I itched to get going. But first, we shared sadness at the dead fox we had both seen lying on the roadside while we pratted about with buoyancy aids and fastened helmets that made us look like Powerballs awaiting a spin in the lottery gyroscope.
Recent localised downpours had plunged the river into a high spate. The water looked busy. The previous week, I had brokered a random conversation with a guy in a pub garden; he happened to mention that the salmon had started running again. The chase was on, and I wanted in.
Identifying a small sandy area next to an eddy current, we lugged the kayaks onto the shore, wrestling with white-water spraydecks, paddles and gloves, and chatting about the route ahead. Feeling like a born-again novice, I was grateful for Joe’s wealth of experience on the water, given the various rapids, mini waterfalls and tree trunks I knew we would meet on our journey to the salmon weir. Even though we had walked the entire route in preparation for getting in the water, I felt both ease and apprehension – like making a friend at a new school or knowing one other person at a party. We embarked.
Launching in a kayak is rarely graceful. Sitting in the sandy shallows, we must have looked absurd. Sealed within our spraydecks, the only way to move was to hump our upper bodies forward, every thrust edging us closer to the water and eventual buoyancy. We collapsed into laughter. It was around 3 kilometres to the salmon weir, downstream of our starting point. Clear, rust-coloured water took on a new language around every rock, stick and depth change. Barely paddling, we drifted through a leafy tunnel that drew us in like a capillary – nature unruffled. Deadwood piles on the riverbank were gilded with honey fungus. A kingfisher darted towards us like a brainwave, finding a new perch on an overhanging beech branch. The Teign had outdone itself, and I wanted the whole scene to wrap me up into a riparian burrito.
The wording of the Woodland Trust’s Management Plan for Fingle Woods gets straight to the point in celebrating the wildlife that calls the Teign Gorge home, referring to it wonderfully as a ‘rich oceanic woodland assemblage’. When reading the list of species you can find here, you could also be reading the list of artisanal coffees a bearded barista will craft for you at his organic, hand-sewn cafe. We have otters, dippers, slender bird’s-foot trefoil, woodpeckers, redstarts, pied flycatchers, pearl-bordered fritillaries, dingy skippers, a shot of barbastelle bats, a drizzle of sea trout and of course, a dash of Atlantic salmon (with extra foam).
Teign Gorge aside, I think it’s fair to say the world enjoys a salmon. Global seafood consumption has doubled in the past 50 years. Some experts say the UK has entered into a ‘seafood consumption crisis’. ‘Bit dramatic …’ I hear you say as we queue for fish and chips. Even so, our taste (for salmon in particular) has increased annually by nearly 15 per cent. And in 2017, we ate about 100,000 tonnes of the stuff (me included, I confess). Global figures match this pace of demand. Salmon tastes good! It looks pretty on my plate! Full of the omegas and all that good stuff.
Because of its appeal, in Scotland alone, the salmon farming industry plans to double in size by 2030. With salmon’s role at the top of the food web, this means that an extra 310,000 tonnes of wild fish will be needed, per year, to feed the salmon. Where will they get them from, then? With the global human population growing by more than 80 million per year, our relationship with seafood is here to stay, but it’s getting messier.
Over in the US, a terrifyingly industrious salmon farm in Florida has grand plans to supply more than 40 per cent of the USA’s annual salmon consumption by 2031. Closer to home, an investigation of some Scottish salmon farms in 2019 discovered that up to 45 per cent of farmed fish die – often from disease outbreaks – and end up in landfills. ‘The huge densities of farmed salmon in the nets provide an ideal breeding ground for sea lice, which provides a poisoned chalice for young, wild salmon to try and survive,’ said Dr Janina Gray, deputy chief executive and head of science and policy at Salmon and Trout Conservation. Janina is a fierce, impressive woman – a rare breed in this fishy world. After agreeing to meet over Zoom, I had accosted her with a hailstorm of questions. It turns out the salmon carcasses were shipped in containers to disposal sites as far-flung as Denmark. Yeah, we enjoy a salmon. We just don’t want to think about how they arrive on our plate.
Salmon are restless. As fidgety as kids on a long car journey. I mean, wouldn’t you be? If you are both officially endangered and officially edible? The status of the UK salmon population is a valuable benchmark for international decision-making. The designation of Special Areas of Conservation (SACs) around Europe have been guided by the status of salmon in UK waters. But our waters are in crisis. Salmon have been swimming in their lowest numbers in UK waters since 1952. A survey in 2020 found every single English river (nearly 1,500 of them!) failed water quality tests – just 14 per cent were of ‘good’ ecological standard. Yet as I write this in 2021, a new report from charity Surfers Against Sewage found that incidences of sewage discharge in UK waterways have risen by nearly 88 per cent since then.
But before we dig into that, I want you to know Atlantic salmon. As with so many species under our noses, evolution’s delicate fingers have spent millennia knitting a life so rich in purpose that the average FTSE 100 achievement pales in comparison to this fish. An ambitious existence has been ascribed to them. Salmon conduct one of nature’s most astonishing migrations as part of their life cycle. I don’t envy the endurance they have to muster, but I am in awe of their focus – unwavering and absolute. So were the Celts, as it happens, generations of whom have associated the salmon with wisdom and power.
Luckily for us, global folklore is richly splashed with salmon. Salmon are allied to the valiant protagonist in his quests, strength in battle and insights into the future. Lost rings, mystical hazelnuts and a divine child all play a part in salmons’ heroic portrayal. In Norse mythology, Loki, the god of mischief, once transformed himself into a salmon, infamously leaping into a pool to escape the fallout from one of his evil tricks. A wise move, in theory, were it not for his massive brother Thor, who plunged his giant hands into the pool to catch his naughty little brother. The tapering of a salmon’s body towards the tail that we see today is rumoured to result from Thor’s legendary grip.
Rising in Cranmere Pool on Dartmoor and leaving us at Teignmouth, south Devon, the Teign is, for many people, their native river. So, too, is it for some salmon and sea trout. Of the two species in the Teign, sea trout are more numerous, which is thought to be because they are a more adaptable fish and currently the healthier of the two. As a result, Teign anglers are usually casting for sea trout. Salmon, not so much. Environment Agency data from 2019 reported 39 salmon catches compared with 538 sea trout. My odds of seeing salmon were, therefore, pretty abysmal.
Once a year, salmon or trout return to the Teign searching for sexual fish-tercourse (I’m never saying that again). Fair play to them after a long journey from the sea. Salmo salar: the ‘leaper’. Our veritable god of the river. With its glistening, rippling muscles, this athlete is adept at overcoming obstacles, fiercely loyal and an invincible navigator. Surely one to bring home to the parents? The river is its lifeline, sparking the birth of generations of salmon. Once a staple player in all countries whose rivers spill into the North Atlantic, the potential for salmon to realise their purpose has rapidly dwindled. As our little lives have become bigger, salmon have unwittingly taken on lead roles in a modern tragedy.
Cold-water lovers, salmon thrive in only the very cleanest rivers, mainly in the north and west of the UK. As one of Devon’s 69 rivers, the Teign should feel flattered that salmon continue to return here. To be chosen by salmon is a huge compliment, and one that rivers should readily accept. Where there are salmon, there is life – our aquatic canaries of the coal mine. The river belongs to salmon. Pie and a pint, scone with jam and cream (jam first – go on, sue me), freshers and flu. They go together.
However, a salmon’s life cycle is bloody ridiculous. A locked-and-loaded biology lesson, if you’re up for it? Other anadromous fish (fish that feed at sea, returning to freshwater to breed) have received similar genetic and environmental cues to adapt this strategy – including lampreys and sea trout. Bear in mind that these journeys can be perilous marathons of more than 6,000 miles between river and sea, with reels of pea-sized eggs laid and fertilised somewhere in the middle – all to satisfy their collective urge to continue. I’m already exhausted.
Beginning in their river of choice during the autumn, anywhere between October and November, the salmon’s travels can extend into late February, particularly in larger rivers. Against all odds, adult salmon achieve the impossible and return to the same river in which they were born to close the circle and give rise to the next generation. Thought to recognise the taste and scent of their home waters, returning home renews this extraordinary bond, and the loop continues. It was at this last stage that I hoped to meet the salmon returning to the Teign.
Fat and heavy from up to two winters of serious gorging at sea, these returning adults stop feeding altogether once they hit freshwater, resorting to harvesting body fats built up during their Atlantic voyage. Sufficient fat reserves aren’t always guaranteed, thanks to climate change, shifting prey distributions and over-fishing. It may yet be weeks until the salmon find a mate and lay eggs. It’s a testing time.
A female salmon will seek a lovely stretch of cold water with high oxygen levels. Using her tail, she scoops a nest (called a ‘redd’) in among loose gravel on the riverbed. It’s only natural that size is important for these girls. The larger the lady, the more eggs she can deposit (this is ‘spawning’), with females weighing more than 10 kilograms able to pop out a meagre 15,000 orange eggs each. Go, girl. Such fertility is a game-changer in a hostile world. More eggs provide the foundation for Mother Nature’s Life Insurance Policy (terms and conditions apply).
Curiously, in some bizarre reference to poultry, female salmon are known as ‘hens’, and males are known as ‘cocks’ (if anyone knows why this is, can you let me know?). Once our hen has laid her eggs, she swims off, and a cock, bright red and dashing in his mating attire, swoops in and releases a white fluid called ‘milt’, which settles among the eggs, fertilising them. ‘Some young males are called “precocious”, maturing in their second year while still being the size of a dollar bill and having never gone to sea,’ said Janina Gray. ‘These males sneak around in the female redds, trying to fertilise the hen’s eggs alongside the adult males.’ ’Twas ever thus.
The perseverance of an Atlantic salmon is something I wish were more celebrated. Friends, it is outrageous. Where their Pacific cousins always die after this spawning effort, Atlantics can sometimes repeat the entire ordeal all over again, heading back out to feed at sea and returning some years later. As with anything, though, evolution has been picky, affording only the very strongest, fittest fish this privilege. A world away from their post-Atlantic bulk, by the end of this journey, they are thin, weak swimmers and vulnerable to being eaten, so only 5–10 per cent of salmon succeed in a second marathon. (Many of these are female – just saying.)
Early into our journey, Joe and I passed under an old iron bridge into a deeper body of water. This was our moment to see whether we, the elite mammal, could match the strength of a salmon and paddle upstream. We failed miserably, tiring almost instantly. The water suddenly switched from idyllic babbling brook to impenetrable torrent. We oriented ourselves against the deluge, convinced we were hearing chants of ‘Come on, losers! Let’s be havin’ you!’ We laughed dispiritedly, shouting encouragement to each other, teeth gritted and shoulders burning, as we wrestled with our weakness in this watery turf. We are no match for this fish.
Tucked away from predators in the gravel, fertilised salmon eggs quite literally chill out for up to 50 ‘degree days’ (depending on water temperature), the water acting as their incubator. The yolk sack within each tiny egg is a crucial lifeline for these infants, their only food as they develop in the redd. Once hatched, this is the ‘alevin’ stage. As they have yet to acquire any swimming gear, the hatchlings are relatively exposed to passing trout. Once the alevin has absorbed its yolk, it becomes a ‘fry’ – which, although it can finally swim and look for insect food, will remain in the river for up to three years before leaving home for the sea.
After the fry stage, the young salmon become ‘parr’ – named for their camouflaging bands of ‘parr’ marks across their bodies. Spending a few more years in freshwater, parr wait for the ocean’s call. Here comes the magic: the salmon hit puberty and initiate their adolescent rebellion against their maternal river, with a spectacular silvery costume change to blend in with their salty new world. This is known as ‘smoltification’ (excellent word). It’s thought the sudden desire for saltwater is triggered by longer days and rising temperatures as spring approaches, which induces a shift in hormones, stimulating bodily transition. Teenage salmon (or ‘smolts’) cannot adapt to saltwater immediately. As they swim downstream, they loiter near the mouth of the river for a few days to acclimatise, gradually moving to saltier water each day to allow an astonishing series of physical changes to take place. For the Teign, the seaside town of Teignmouth in balmy South Devon is the local bus stop, temporarily housing our restless youths before they make the leap to Atlantic freedom.
‘It really is an amazing transformation,’ Janina remarked, ‘with so many changes happening, they are very vulnerable and sensitive – just like teenagers!’
Having returned to a less exhausting downstream course, something told me things were going too smoothly. There was play in the way the river spoke as I rocked carelessly from side to side, spinning backwards down mini waterfalls, feigning skill. We were moving fast. The current shuttled us downstream, like Poohsticks. Joe stayed up front, testing the route, determining which areas were safe and which I should avoid with various hand signals. I couldn’t rely on him reaching me, so I had to stay on the ball. Which, of course, I didn’t. The thing about being on a wild river is that events can unfurl very quickly. If you choose to be on, in or under the water, you must accept your subordinacy. Water is untameable.
Joe paused in an eddy, paddling backwards to maintain his position. I sidled up, halting my course by grabbing a branch overhead with my right arm – rookie error. The current snatched the left side of my kayak, pulling me over in a deft flourish. My left hand grappled for a root under the water, frantic for land. My right arm tried to seize the branch above, but the moss that coated it made it slippery. Total capsize – being trapped under the flow of turbulent water, lacking the skill to right myself or escape the tight seal of the spraydeck – was fast approaching.
Joe, realising what had happened, was fighting the river’s attempt to plunge him downstream away from me, struggling himself to round a massive rock in an exceptionally messy piece of water. ‘I CAN’T HOLD ON, JOE!’ I shouted, my voice tiny amid the rush. Fighting to sound calm and blasé, my shoulders and right bicep screamed to let go of the branch, my core on fire keeping me from going under the water. It felt as though the entire River Teign was now pouring down the back of my neck, freezing, desperate to drag me below. I tried to ignore the wall of my kayak rising on the right, making the whole boat perpendicular to the water, ready to be engulfed. I looked to the tree canopy above, pausing in that brief gap of time that dire situations can conjure, and breathed. Leaves whispered in the breeze. The drama welcomed dark thoughts, and for a minute, I thought that this was it. Not the worst way to go, I thought. Rather heroic, even. Certainly very on-brand. But I would rather see the salmon first, please, if possible.
Before I knew it, Joe’s arm was in my face, and he wrenched my kayak back over, snapping me out of my head. We stared at each other, breathing heavily. Adrenaline, shock and relief swam over our faces like dappled sunlight. We didn’t say anything for a moment, then simultaneously erupted:
Joe: ‘Oh. My. GOD – are you OK?!’
Me: ‘What about you, though, are you OK?’
Joe: ‘You were so calm and brave!’
Me: ‘No, you were so calm and brave! I hate myself!’
Joe: ‘What?! No, honestly, it was totally my fault, mate … sorry.’
Me: ‘Oh my God, don’t you dare apologise!’
Joe: ‘Sorry.’
Me: ‘You sure you’re OK, though?!’
Joe: ‘Yeah.’
Both: ‘Need a drink.’
Our drama was a perfect example of the river reasserting authority. We were both shaken. Pale, Joe kept glancing at me nervously as we returned to our course, as though I was about to spontaneously combust. I felt chastened, guilty at being his responsibility and for being rash. I then concluded that we had better bloody see some salmon, else I’d be buying the pints for the rest of the year.
A counsellor once hypothesised that my intense resistance to change stems from grief following my parents’ divorce when I was 10. The shock of my parents’ breaking up triggered a fifteen-year aversion to things being different, and I freely admit that I tumbled into a decade of denial. (From which I’m still slowly surfacing.) Whatever the root cause, I hate all change equally, whether it’s a change in routine, weekend plans or the climate. And don’t even think of rearranging the furniture – just don’t. However, as my mum has rightly observed, I can tolerate unpredictable mishaps that arise during adventures – and trips for this book. I can embrace those changes. Thrive on them, even, yet I struggle to translate that acceptance into the more important areas of life.
For example, I find it deeply unsettling that Atlantic salmon must adapt their entire way of life and body in preparation to survive in a sea they’ve never seen. Like us, salmon are expert at regulating water and salt in their body. And the extraordinary thing is they’re able to adjust their physiology to be ‘at one’ with multiple worlds.
For instance, in the ocean, the salmon is surrounded by water almost three times as concentrated with salt and other minerals as the fluids in its body. This means it constantly loses water to its environment, like how when you’re spraying perfume, some of the fragrant particles disperse into the surrounding air and don’t remain solely on your skin. This is an invisible (slightly tedious) phenomenon that we call a ‘concentration gradient’. Salmon must drink several litres of water each day at sea to offset this dehydration – an endearing paradox. (They don’t need to drink anything at all in the river, bar the occasional accidental gulp.) At the same time, the kidneys drop their urine production dramatically. The gills also have a starring role in sorting out what goes where, balancing salt levels via a series of pumps that shove excess salt out of the blood and into the surrounding seawater. The same pumps then let sodium in – which reminds the salmon to Keep drinking! #stayhydrated. Back in the river, the reverse is true. If not careful, the salmon will suffer from a lack of salt in this more watery world. So, the kidneys step in again with lots of dilute urine to offset all the water that is now re-entering the salmon’s body. This is all very clever.
The time a salmon spends at sea can last between one to two years. Any longer is increasingly rare. They do a lot of swimming around, feeding and (ideally) getting fat. Serious bulking is high on the agenda. It’s all a bit lads-lads-lads-getting-massive-at-the-gym for a bit. Then it’s time to return home, like good boys and girls.
We can finally answer the question: how the actual hell can a salmon – a fish – navigate an ocean without Google Maps to return to the river where it was born? I’m obsessed with how salmon navigation implements a skill set humans will never attain. As with many animals undertaking migrations – turtles, geese, butterflies – the Earth’s magnetic field is a salmon’s GPS. Research has found that this instinct and salmon’s connection to planetary forces are so strong that this ability remains even within landlocked fish on salmon farms. The theory is that if the salmon were to escape, they could find their way out to sea and back again. When at sea, they course-correct, shifting to align with different magnetic fields. It seems they are just born this way, as even our tiny salmon fry respond to the Earth’s magnetic field as they emerge from the gravel. Such is the life of river royalty – humble, vulnerable beginnings in the armpit of a river, with the seed of Hercules firmly rooted from the get-go.
Before my trip to the Teign, I chatted with Dr Jamie Stevens, who leads a research team at the University of Exeter that knows an awful lot about salmonids.1 The life cycle I’ve just described follows the first-edition stage directions in the play written by Mother Earth in a rosy world where nothing fluctuates and everybody hates loves Marmite. However, within five minutes of chatting with Jamie, I realised that our salmon are thespians in a much darker drama. A study by the Zoological Society of London (2020) looking at global populations of all migratory fish2 found a 76 per cent reduction in numbers between 1970–2016, with the most noticeable impact seen across Europe, undeniably linked with humans. You may not be surprised to learn that for every 100 salmon that leave Scottish rivers, fewer than five will return – a right Macbeth of a situation.
Listening to Jamie, I reverted to earnest-but-ignorant zoology student – lots of nodding. ‘Salmon aren’t quite as well equipped as trout, but they are a fish that should, as a species, have the potential to do OK,’ Jamie told me. ‘They’ve got a very plastic genetic makeup so that they can adapt to different conditions.’ Sounds handy in a world that has warmed by around 0.8ºC since the 1870s and (in some places) is predicted to simmer by just over 3ºC more into the 2060s. We have been here before, but 3–5 million years ago when carbon dioxide concentrations weren’t as high as they are today. Well before 7 billion humans hit the scene and gave emails a carbon footprint. But 4ºC of warming in less than 200 years? Oh, dear.
The unique ability of anadromous fish to switch between freshwater and saltwater via a few bodily changes enables them to tolerate temperatures ranging from -0.5–24ºC. Such flexibility has helped them to recolonise much of Great Britain, Ireland and further north as the ice receded 10,000 years ago following the last Ice Age. Salmon are good at exploiting new places; they’re resilient and opportunistic, making the most of what’s around them at any given time. We should celebrate such resourcefulness, yet for some perverted reason, we have actively made life harder for the salmon. Despite exceptional conservation efforts, globally, Atlantic salmon are generally screwed.
‘It’s the sheer range of salmon migration that complicates things,’ said Jamie, speaking casually of the historic feeding grounds off the coast of Ireland, south-east Iceland, sometimes Greenland, as though getting to them were a mere jaunt to Morrisons (or indeed, Iceland). ‘Our local populations of salmon are naturally southerly, so they’ve already got a long way to go. Being at sea is just very risky.’ Risky indeed, as recent work by the Environment Agency found that the first few weeks at sea for a young smolt are the most important, with the highest natural death rates occurring during this period.
But even before they get there, the intertidal zone is dodgy. ‘Which habitats they use, the routes they take to and from the coast … we know so little about what happens to them at this stage,’ said Janina Gray. So-called ‘chemical burdens’ picked up en route to the sea ‘could be fatal’. Sitting back in my chair, I had an epiphany. Another year, same me. Boring people, boring lives. Suddenly, enrolling for work experience with an Atlantic salmon seems like a promising career move. I wanted in on all their secrets.
The fact is that for salmon, temperature and timing are everything, much like the requisite dip on an August bank holiday as soon as the sun decides to behave. Our river and coastal waters have been steadily warming during the past 40 years, with southerly areas including Devon and Cornwall being hit pretty hotly. Sea-surface temperature is more than half a degree warmer in just a few decades. What’s worrying is that scientists have measured these temperature changes in both our rivers and the ocean (not just the Atlantic) – and discovered they are synchronised. Double the trouble for salmon – and a rather (bad breath) announcement of ‘all change!’ on a dizzying scale. I fear global warming channels a similar nerve, ready to declare mutiny against our captain of the river. We should be afraid.
A warmer planet has more energy swimming about our atmosphere and oceans, a lot of which is absorbed by the ocean, fuelling hostile waters and increasingly angry weather. These elements are a more obvious threat than the drift-net fishing that lay a death trap across salmon migration corridors around the west coast of Ireland until it was banned in 2006. As is becoming the idiom, the things we cannot see are the most unsettling. A 2019 study by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) studied populations of Pacific salmon between the Mexican and Canadian border. Brutally, it showed how extreme rains and flooding could flush salmon eggs, alevin and fry from their redds. Whoooosh! – a labour of love and survival – gone.
The ocean hurdles of salmon sound beyond taxing, but it’s the new obstacles they’re facing on their return journey that should worry us because as well as making the weather more agitated, warmer temperatures are confusing the salmon’s navigational accuracy. Our master of the compass is a soon-to-be refugee in the wrong neighbourhood. I mentioned that some salmon are fit enough to make repeat journeys, but only 5 per cent are achieving this now, compared with 25 per cent 20 years ago. There’s a genuine risk of salmon not being able to return home. Imagine running halfway around the world while dodging murderous bandits, being battered by multiple named storms, eating poorly and getting tangled in the odd plastic bag or stray net. You’re finally about to turn into your road, your glorious road, to settle down and start a family only to realise your grave error – you are hundreds of miles from home, starving, beyond exhausted, confused, homesick. Alone.
As Joe and I continued downstream, it felt as though we were on a proper expedition. Ever since the earlier drama, Joe was even more alert, talking me through fast-flows and mini-rapids and even getting out of his kayak at the bottom of a C-bend chute, ready to right me in case I capsized again. Strangely, I felt more confident, as though my brush with the water had bonded me to it, and I had passed some sort of test. Into the jungle we went.
As we increasingly realise with many animals, salmon can feel stress. I’m not surprised. Not the short-lived panic of an Aldi checkout, I’m talking about a far deeper kind of stress that can translate across generations. Changes in their surroundings can induce that unwelcome belly simmer (can relate) that can disorientate adult salmon when they’re trying to find the way back to their river. ‘It’s very difficult to link the two,’ admitted Jamie Stevens, talking of warmer temperatures increasing these navigational ‘errors’. ‘But there’s no question that the homing instinct can be greatly affected.’ I asked Jamie whether salmon could just settle for a different river. But he explained that ‘If they end up in the wrong place, it’s most likely a mistake.’
This increased ‘straying’ of adult salmon into the wrong rivers can alter the population structure. I can think of many a Devon village whose community is temporarily diluted by crowds of summer tourists. Naturally, newcomers don’t arrive adapted to the village nuances. A formerly Apple-Paying urbanite might become unhinged by the village’s cash-only economy. It’s a similar experience for the salmon. While not always a bad thing, provided they continue to spawn, salmon straying into non-natal rivers are less likely to have the genetic ‘equipment’ to deal with that local area. However, stretching off-course can introduce vital genetic variation and is one reason why sea trout may be more numerous. But there is evidence to suggest stray fish can also be less resilient.
Jamie’s team from the University of Exeter were involved in a study that, for the first time, found Atlantic salmon from a given river can be characterised genetically. Take the chalk rivers of Dorset and Hampshire – a stunning, rare habitat. England has 85 per cent of global chalk streams. Salmon here are happy and settled, married to that river via a unique ‘genetic signature’ – a fingerprint if you will. When they return as adults, it’s like they are renewing their wedding vows. It’s exclusive and precious, albeit a double-edged sword in a warming world where their fidelity is threatened and divorce papers are waiting to be signed.
In Devon and Cornwall, salmon are already reaching a temperature barrier. More often than not, the winter waters aren’t as cold as they used to be – they need to be to enable the eggs to survive. For all those people for whom the river is a lifeline, this issue of temperature threatening salmon egg survival can become personal.
Denise Ashton works in communications for the Wild Trout Trust, and we met through Beaver Trust to try and bring migratory fish and rodents together on rivers once more. A keen angler, Denise’s knowledge and passion for the freshwater world are gentle but persuasive, even over a crackly landline. ‘I’ve had kingfishers landing on my rod because I’m in the water, standing dead still. Herons landing next to me, otters swimming behind me. Those are all the obvious things,’ she said. ‘But we must understand what goes on beneath the surface.’
For Denise, warming river temperatures are a significant concern. I felt uneasy when she referred to the effect on UK salmon populations as ‘incidents’, as though salmon were being dragged into some criminal investigation. ‘We’ve already had one incident on my local river in the Usk. We had unnaturally warm temperatures around December 2015 and January 2016, and summer spawning in 2016 was seriously affected.’ Denise explained that the maximum summer water temperatures a trout or salmon will survive at (usually 20–24ºC) are now often exceeded. But it is increasing winter temperatures that are going to do more harm. On the Usk, the lack of redds and spring fry in 2016 led fisheries scientists to conclude that the water temperatures exceeded the critical upper limit of about 10ºC that encourage the salmon to spawn and allow sensitive embryos to survive. ‘It’s an immediate and obvious way that climate change is having a noticeable effect on salmon,’ Denise said plainly.
The temperature of the headwaters feeding a river is critical. In Scotland, Norway and even the southernmost parts of Spain, the rivers are fed by meltwater flowing off the mountains. Nice and chilly, ideal for eggs. In Devon, Dorset and Cornwall, the uplands aren’t quite as cold as they need to be. Warming waters from hot summers and mild winters can cause fungus to choke and kill any eggs. Similar trends are being seen by the United States, where more rapidly melting snow in Idaho makes salmon survival more challenging.
‘Remaining populations of salmon are very vulnerable because they are often low in numbers,’ explained Jamie. ‘If something happens, then they’ve got nowhere to go. It’s not to say that salmon might not be able to cope because they probably will if they can navigate further north.’ Over the next few years, we may have to lose the more southerly populations of salmon in England, save for a few of those remaining populations in northern Spain, where the Picos de Europa mountains feed rivers.
That may not be so bad, though, if we can ‘Make Ready the North!’ (cue raunchy battledress and a makeshift horn). Global warming will likely make southern areas inhospitable to salmon, which – although ‘a tragedy’, as Jamie confessed – isn’t an utter disaster. Straying salmon may turn out to be a blessing in disguise because, remember, overcoming hardship is hardwired into a salmon’s DNA. If we know that salmon are likely to seek out colder, more northerly rivers over the coming years, then we need to rally the troops and make those places as hospitable as we can. Here in the UK, we’re talking North Wales, Cumbria, Scotland, where rivers are sufficiently chilly; rivers that would give you pointy nips even after the briefest of dips. Although Scotland’s north-west salmon populations have largely collapsed (thanks to salmon farms) – the south of England has other issues. ‘People pressure,’ Jamie sighed, ‘it’s just a big thing. There are many interruptions to their life cycle down here when it’s already so complex, so energy-expensive. If a lot of weirs are in the way, it’s difficult for the fish to pass, then there may be a slurry discharge to contend with – it’s relentless.’
In England, where 2019 data counted 432 people per square kilometre (Scotland at just 70) – the density of human activity along rivers alone is staggering. ‘Barriers’ to a salmon’s migration can include anything from culverts to weirs to beaver dams – they are simply an obstacle that prevents access. We clumsily celebrate the fortitude of salmon when really evolution didn’t intend for their life to be so difficult. ‘A fish jumping at a weir is not a good thing,’ admitted Denise. ‘It’s a problem. In an ideal world, they wouldn’t have to jump up anything apart from the odd natural barrier such as a beaver dam or fallen tree. The irony is these once indigenous river species are now classed as outsiders, invading a changed ecology.
‘My heart sinks because, yes, it is perfectly natural for salmon to be jumping over barriers,’ Denise exhaled heavily, ‘but now, post-industrial, post-agrarian revolution, we have nearly forty thousand barriers in England alone.’ That’s a barrier every 1.5 kilometres on any given river.
A salmon’s tireless attempts to overcome these obstacles are unbelievably demoralising. It is no surprise that we find entertainment in the theatre of nature, it being our little narrative after all. Type ‘salmon leaping’ into Google, and you’ll get dramatic headlines such as, ‘Leap of faith as salmon draw crowds!’ and ‘Salmon put on a spectacular show in Shropshire!’ But they don’t always succeed. Denise referred to the tendency for scientific reports on salmonid migration to favour publishing data on those that ‘made it’ up the weir while neglecting to compare those numbers with how many had failed. A photographer on the River Severn once spent 12 hours capturing the same salmon attempting to leap a weir.
The barriers Denise and Jamie had spoken about can also increase the chances of predators eating salmon en route to the sea. Denise remarked on the ease with which we focus on upstream migration. She emphasised how simple it is for everyone to visualise the concept of a big fish leaping over an obstacle on its way to lay eggs. ‘But the thing we’re increasingly concerned about that is often forgotten,’ she said, ‘is the downstream migration.’ Interesting.
Before they embark on their journey to the sea, smolts gather in shoals, carried backwards on the downstream current. ‘They’re very wary of going over things, so they tend to hold together in a weir pool waiting for the water levels to change, or they just seem to need to gather together and gain confidence to descend in a group.’ A clique of young salmon seeking camaraderie on their maiden voyage and overcoming physical obstacles (usually overnight) paints a captivating image.
The weir pool at which Joe and I had arrived is a perfect example of a ‘holding’ pool. Large and clear, with plenty of dappled shade, weir pools are vital in maintaining stable and cool water temperatures. Pools like these are the calm before the torrent that follows.
But a hungry goosander (a large, diving duck) knows full well that such still waters will likely harbour shoals of smolts, ‘and that’s perfectly natural and should not be an issue’, remarked Denise. Researchers on the River Tweed, flowing between the North of England and the Scottish borders, attached acoustic tags to salmon smolts to track their movements. Data revealed that 80 per cent of them were lost, suspected eaten. Relentless interruptions prove deadly for generations of salmonids – a barrage of swift punctures on their riparian ride.
The irony is that most research and government funding into Atlantic salmon used to be concentrated in Scotland, but it’s the fish in southern England that are feeling the squeeze. Further research by Jamie’s team in 2011 found that ‘people pressure’ – in the form of agriculture, pollution, river recreation – can add to the problem of fragmenting salmon populations into smaller, less viable groups. Warmer rivers and seas then step in to exacerbate this problem. Jamie described how often an English river’s headwaters lie within prime agricultural sites: pesticides, fine silts and excess nutrients are all part of the package. ‘Death by a million cuts,’ Janina Gray lamented, ‘adding up to a disaster.’ She painted a grim reality of excess sediments, chemicals and nutrients choking spawning grounds, reducing not only insect availability (salmon food), but lowering the oxygen in the water. ‘We have no idea about the impact of chronic, low-level exposure to chemicals – it’s the elephant in the room in current water policy,’ she continued. With 100 per cent of English rivers failing, we need to act fast.
Held in the embrace of Dartmoor National Park, rivers like the Teign are less of a concern. The Missing Salmon Project proposes a holistic view, considering all the factors affecting a salmon’s journey from river to sea, from climate change to barriers – like a massive nationwide search campaign following an abduction. According to Denise, Jamie and Janina, ‘holistic’ is the only approach we should be considering now. Sound familiar?
‘There’s a big collective scratching of heads going on,’ Denise mused. ‘We assume the hardest part is over when a salmon reaches its headwaters, but we are grappling to understand why we are losing so many of them.’ Fantastic, a murder mystery with no conclusion.
As I write, the concept of ‘river buffers’ is the new conservation buzzword flaunted in meetings like the next company we should all invest in. A 10–30-metre wooded zone between a river and the surrounding land presents a chance to stop some of our problems from entering the river. For some, it’s an end-of-pipe solution. But there’s no doubt it would buy more time. ‘A buffer will reduce diffuse pollution, increase shade, soak carbon, boost habitat … if it’s done properly, it will mitigate many of the existing problems,’ Denise told me. It offers hope that the entire original cast of A British River™ will return to the stage one day. Not a ridiculous thought when research from Colorado State University by Professor Ellen Wohl decisively proved how an ‘active’ wetland and river ecosystem that houses keystone species (like beavers) can store up to 35 times more carbon per hectare versus grassland. It’s a simple case of rivers needing more space and eliminating elemental extremes. I believe it.
We need to be bold and disentangle all the elements at play to fight for species like salmon. Climate change is not the sole cause. There is no single factor to blame for the increased hardship Atlantic salmon face. Instead, it’s more like an entire symphony orchestra of deft, skilful musicians, and climate change has stepped in as the new conductor.
A few false starts. Light hitting the white water flashed silver, spurring sharp intakes of breath and defeated slaps of the water surface with my palm. You must know that salmon are large. Some grow up to 1.5 metres long and weigh in at a whopping 40 kilograms. I prayed I would see one of these giants. Joe stayed by the kayaks, watching from a different angle, both of us starting excitedly when acorns dropped from the canopy above, plopping into the pool, the ripples ever so fishy. I was so excited that I thought I might die upon witnessing the phenomenal feat of salmon leaping, that it might just swallow me up and consume all evidence.
I had lost sight of a dipper that flew downstream, and I became engrossed in sticking my GoPro into the seething beery water below in an attempt to capture what I couldn’t see, bracing myself against the line of rocks that separated me from the weir. Then, it came. To start with, just the one. A flash of writhing metal. It leapt up for a second before being swallowed by the white water. ‘SALMOOONNNN! Salmon! Salmon!’ I shouted, jumping up and down in the water and cupping my hand over my mouth. Spinning around to Joe, I yelled to ask if he had seen it too, no doubt disturbing all other wildlife.
Against all odds, it had arrived. Even above the roar of the weir, I was sure I could hear the slap of muscle as it smacked the water, losing itself in the turmoil before summoning the strength it needed to repeat. And then another. And another. All three pools in this weir seemed alive with salmon. Leaping, hurling, persisting, propelled forwards and up by their tapered, forked tail (yo, Thor!) – key features separating salmon from trout. No doubt trout and others were part of this fray, but it was all so frenzied it was impossible to keep up.
By now, a small crowd had formed on the bank, attracted either by our whooping or by the geography of the moment itself. An orderly queue of delighted onlookers waited their turn to sit closest to the weir and take photos. We looked around at each other, grinning, cheering, bonding as strangers in this moment, knowing that some unknown cue would soon cause us to disperse and never gather like this again – these fish undoing the knots between us.
We’d catch glimpses of slender tails and pointed heads at the surface, battling the water while preparing for another leap. They were desperately responding to instinct, forever loyal to the cause. We willed them on, fists clenched and eyes scared to blink – and felt utterly useless, of course. One salmon had almost reached the top. The stillness of the pool where I stood was tantalisingly close, our collective gasps audible every time it got hurled back again over the rocks. It was brutal. I felt like an overinvested PTA-mum on Sports Day. The desire to escape the sideline and intervene was unbearable (as was the noise I made when the salmon made it into the pool in a final burst of magnificent energy before disappearing into the shadows.) Throughout the whole of that autumn and winter, I never saw them again.
Later, back at home, I flicked back through my videos from the day. Some were better than others. Scrubbing through each frame, watching their bodies thrashing the air, I started to see what it was to be a salmon. When I was 19, that same counsellor suggested I describe how I was feeling. I asked if I could draw it instead, sketching a pebble-bed river on a scrap piece of paper. All the other pebbles represented my friends and family, bouncing along with the current – going with the flow. Easy breezy. I was the awkward rock stuck on the bottom – braced against the flow. But I’ve since found comfort in realising that that’s what salmon do. And how natural it all is. That it’s OK. For they are survival itself.
In any movie, salmon would be the hero. An embodiment of all the qualities humans admire. Courage, resilience and persistence in the face of adversity. Our champion. My shoulders ached for days after this trip, yet I had the leverage of a boat and paddle to aid me. I always had the option of escape. I could just choose to get out of the river if it all got too much. I did do this. Yet for salmon, it’s ride or die – the barriers real, the hurdles terrifying: climate change, more than happening. ‘We don’t need to manage salmon,’ Janina Gray reminded me, ‘they are incredibly adaptable if given a chance. We need to manage ourselves and our impacts on the aquatic environment – to allow them the strongest chance to survive.’ I saw Earth shift gears that day. And I’m unsure whether I’ve admired anything more. We can learn from salmon.
I’m not going to pretend that seeing a fish leap over some water suddenly made sense of my little life. But it did feel like an accident gone right. And everything happens for a reason. There is a reason why bumbags are experiencing a glorious resurgence. A reason why one can’t seem to apply mascara without resembling a choir boy mid-crescendo. I believe that some salmon leapt in front of me just to let me see them do that. Just to let me pop my head around the door for a second and watch them play the role of a lifetime.
How is it that a fish – one of a group of animals famously mocked for stupidity by society – can achieve a navigational feat with such enormous precision when I – supposedly an intelligent ape – regularly think that south is north and need multiple devices to find my way home? Trying to elevate oneself above salmon is a fool’s errand. It’ll prompt all sorts of unsolicited opinions, and I really wouldn’t bother. Atlantic salmon and their rivers were born to run. And while we let them get on with that, we’ve got a literal mountain to climb. Shall we?
Notes
1 More jargon. This time, to describe both salmon and trout.
2 Including trout, salmon, eel, shad.