Part 5
The violent, reckless activity of the gulls went on all morning. In the way they have of riding each other: “You’ve got it. Show you can keep it!” they were picking up fish, dropping them, and running away with them again, in a scrambling frenzy. There seemed to be almost more excitement, more energy, spent in the chase than in the fruits of it, though they gobbled what they could. I could hear an over-all sound of struggle as their wings rushed and they yawked and screamed. This world seemed pantingly, gruntingly, wildly busy.
The victims of this natural slaughter seemed to have moved on a little, with their fatal determination, but as the tide and morning ebbed the white, frantic crowd above them seemed to stay in the same general area. It was not likely that many fish managed to reach the inlet. I imagined them dashing from side to side or circling in panic, the crowd knowing nothing but its own entity and safety. I talked to a man who was watching the scene from the window of his car. He told me that there had been a high bluff, washed away some years back, from which you could actually see the fish in the water as they struggled to swim in.
“We had a good stream went out there that wouldn’t a happened,” he said, suggesting that if there were a deeper channel meeting the Bay waters, most of the fish might be able to get up the creek in comparative safety.
Along this stretch of rhythmic work of greed and death little groups of gulls began to settle down on the water, glutted and loaded down. Then long lines of them, looking like white shoals, rested on the water upshore, digesting their meal. Low tide that afternoon came at 3:57. By two o’clock when the sands began to show, well out toward the weirs, the great tribal company of gulls were finished with the hunt. For a mile along the flats they were standing into a stiff wind. In the distance I could see a litter of dead fish along the bed of the creek waters. When I walked out I saw them, silver, blue, and white, with brassy tints from the sun, flung along, strewn on like debris through a wide city square.
Even though there may be no waste in nature--with everything used, fired, and consumed in the interactions of the living world--what an enormous, careless expenditure! The bed of the outgoing waters was paved with this alewife coinage for hundreds of yards. Each one I picked up, and there were thousands, had its body scraped and clawed, or its head torn, its eyes gouged out. For every one gobbled during the chase there must have been many more left uneaten. Remembering what the night fishermen had said, it seemed like an indiscriminate feast, and it was not clear to me that the gulls were primarily after roe. But since fish eggs are a delicacy to other animals, gulls may find a special enjoyment in them too.
So the alewives did not choose to come in by night or evening only, seeing that they chose to come in by day--provided there was much choice in the matter. I heard the theory put forward that they must have been chased in by bass; but if they were so chased, it did not seem likely that they would choose the narrow waters of this particular creek for refuge, or have that much calculation in them. That is not why they came in. Those thousands of years the alewives had migrated provided their own track. The fish knew instinctively when and where to go, and all risks were incidental to that. The only possibility was that they might have been schooling around in the farthest reaches of the creek waters in the bay and were hurried in by the bass; but they were there first. Many others may have gone in the night before. Those trying to come in during the morning waited their turn after an ebb tide. This rhythmic deliberation and then going seemed very characteristic of the fish as I had watched them in inland waters, and in a larger way it might be similar to their schooling in salt water. I found out subsequently that the alewives coming into the Bournedale run in the Cape Cod Canal do so both day and night, but that there is less chance of the gulls intercepting them there because of the deeper waters.
I went down to Paine’s Creek the following morning, May 22, and the frenzied hunt was going on again. I had checked the previous night and did so the night of this day too and there were no fish coming in, so far as I could tell. There was no sign of them in the water during the late evening, no sound of their soft slapping on the surface later on.
It is my impression that though they start into the creek in the dark--perhaps not later than ten-thirty or eleven o’clock--they do not move upstream very much until daylight comes. Sunlight stimulates them, or, to be exact, its radiation. You can see them swimming up faster in Stony Brook after the bright sunlight warms the water in the morning.
They might enter the creek more successfully under the protection of fog, or darkness, combined with deep water, but did not prefer such conditions to broad daylight. When the temperature was right and they were physiologically ready, alewife schools began to move in from salt water on an incoming tide ... swing in might be a better term, since a circular movement is characteristic and sends them on. According to my observation, incidentally, this is very likely to be counterclockwise. In any case the power and direction of the migration came from their combined rhythmic impulses.
Alewives seemed to me to demand a study of universal motions and their interrelationships. The body of a fish must have in it the declination of the globe and all its years. If I had read some of my limited science reading correctly, there was a time system in the world of life which had nothing to do with clocks, and their specific minutes and hours. It was built into its creatures so that their stages of development, their growth and movements, followed the direction and change of all other forces affecting them. It is a running world; and who, in that context, is more automatic than another?
X
Transition: Salt and Fresh
The change, for those fish that make it in, is from salt to fresh, wide to narrow, deep to shallow. Watched at Paine’s Creek in the first sheltered inland curve, the movement of those I was able to see was like the movement of tides and estuary waters, a flowing back and forth, a waving and interweaving. Some dropped back like leaves, then swam up again with the rest as they all turned together. At the start of an incoming tide--when the salt water moved in under the fresh and the creek began to rise--the fish seemed stimulated and swam faster, back and forth against it. Then gradually, though it was hard to see them in the high tide waters, they appeared to move farther up the inlet.
It was an encounter at the dramatic approaches of sea and land, on the long shoreline where continuous transitions are made between water and earth and air.
If you say the “anadromous habit” started somewhere in geologic time, it is difficult to conceive of, and it is probably not accurate, in the sense that these adaptations to environment do not start so much as develop and evolve. In any event the incredibly long history of the earth is not broken down with any facility. First of all, leaving out the question of whether fish originally evolved in fresh waters or the sea, and then blithely skipping one hundred million years or so, you have an evolved race of alewives, established residents of the sea. As to their habit of spawning in fresh water, it is possible that alewives, like other coastal fish, may gradually have explored the inland rivers and streams, until they began to use their comparative quiet and refuge in which to spawn. Along the northern coasts their inland migration would have been interrupted during the glacial epochs, and their range would have started farther to the south. There are landlocked varieties of alewife in Lake Ontario and in New York State, which also suggests a period when the continental glaciers retreated, leaving an access by water to inland lakes from the sea which was later cut off. In any case this anadromous habit was arrived at gradually, involuntarily, over a very long time. But, in a sense, what you see _now_, your center of history, is a routine which is neither old nor new but both various and inexorable, having in it the pull of the land, the blood of the sea.
This starting, circulatory movement of the few small schools I had seen was succeeded by the swimming of steady herds in the brown water of the channel. I couldn’t find them at first. On the ebb tide, when the water had receded enough from the banks along the inlet I walked there for a while and then cut across the tidal marsh. The day was cool and fresh, with a light northeast wind lifting in, and it smelled of the sea. (You can live a mile or so inland on the narrow peninsula of Cape Cod, in the towns or oak woods, and never smell that rich combination of salt water, shellfish, and tidal marsh, unless the wind is from the right quarter, with a special condition of the atmosphere.) Light rippled up the broad inlet--the coppery waters seemed to move slowly and reliantly. The season had hatched its enthusiasms everywhere, from flies, to crabs, to birds. The tidal ground was pitted with holes made by fiddler crabs. They backed away in front of me, the males comically holding up their one big claw--little characters of a dull metal-blue, with bubbling mouths--and disappeared into the safety of their burrows. Ahead of me nine Canada geese, which had been resting and feeding in the marshes, unfolded their wings and lunged up and out toward the Bay.
Then two black ducks flew off quacking in their deep, wild way. I saw where a deer had left fresh hoofprints in the mud; looking down at them made me notice many tiny shells, newly hatched whelks perhaps, carried in by the tide, strewn between the stiff spikes of the marsh grass; and I found a couple of empty pint bottles, sometimes as common in these parts as Kleenex beside the highways of America. Insects, shells, ducks, geese, crabs, wind, cloud rack overhead, brilliance and shadows on the tidal ground--many lifetimes of learning. Is there any man who knows the length and breadth of anything, let alone a creek? Yet such a place keeps announcing its novelties and exacting from us whatever love and discipline we are capable of; or so I felt, challenged in the keen air and the high glitter of the light.
Several hundred yards around another bend in the inlet, where it was some twelve to fifteen feet wide, I looked down into the water and saw them again. The dark channel was alive with them. It had a floor of turning, slowly moving alewives. A few at the end of this school would run quickly back, revealing their shadows on the bottom. The procession moved back and forth, as smoothly as the flow of the water, and across the entire width of the channel. They were more numerous in the areas where the sun hit the water directly.
Some of them looked torn and scarred. On that basis, and because many thousands had either been trucked off from the Herring Run in barrels by this time, or had reached the ponds, spawned, and returned to the Bay, you could not say categorically that they were all moving inland. As the season develops you can always find spent fish on their way to salt water running through those still heading up to the spawning areas. Aside from watching their movements, one method of distinguishing between the two classes of fish is to see if they bear any white patches on their backs and sides. A certain number of the spent fish will show fungus growths after a period of time in fresh water. What seems to happen is that an alewife, attacked by a gull or predatory fish or flung against sharp rocks, will at first show a “scaling” from the damage. This scaling, unless it is more than that, a mortal wound, is likely to develop into a fungus growth, which sometimes covers a large part of a fish’s body; but without, apparently, any added injury. I believe experiment proves that the fungus disappears fairly soon after the fish affected are back in salt water.
The returning alewives will stay for a while in the brackish water of the inlet, resting and feeding. They are spare and hungry and will feed on shrimp, small eels, and small fish. Alewives that by chance stay longer than the others in fresh water have been known to chase and eat their own young, if they were small enough to swallow.
Their basic salt-water diet is plankton. The copepods and amphipods--tiny animals similar to the well-known sand hoppers, beach fleas, water fleas, or small shrimp--provide the staple part. On their inland migration they will not eat much of anything. They are in the service of a mission, and they fast. Still there may be occasions when they snap at lures. I have heard of some, migrating inland, that were caught by fishermen casting with flies at the Herring River in Harwich, on the south side of the Cape.
Those herds now in the brown waters of the channel seemed to be gradually moving inland as the day advanced, and I guessed that for most of them it was the journey up.
As I watched them there was a slight, quick change of wind, a shift in the breeze that flicked the water, and in the crosshatches this made on the bright surface all the fish disappeared. Then the surface cleared and I could see them again, swimming through a rippling weave of light that was reflected on the channel floor.
They meandered along, an occasional lively one dashing through the rest, or rushing up to the surface. I could hear light plops, faint flips along the water. I walked closer to the edge so that my shadow fell across them, and they turned back in one quick and graceful stampede, some of them dashing to deeper water under the opposite bank. That so many separate entities should have such an immediate response to one another that they all moved like the beat of a wing was hard for one individual to understand.
Alewives are able to stand the quick change from salt to fresh water without any trouble. It would kill some other kinds of fish, but neither the alewife fry growing up in fresh water nor adults growing up in the sea seem to mind being taken out of one medium and plunged into another. They are adapted to both. On the other hand, repeated changes, such as occur sometimes under certain conditions in tidal estuaries, are said to be able to kill them.
These changes, incidentally, are registered in an alewife’s scales. To read them is difficult and requires a competent biologist. In general they mark physiological changes, such as occur when young alewives go from fresh to brackish water, or when the adults spend some time in fresh water before returning to the sea. An alewife’s age can be determined because a record of each spawning migration is etched on the scales.
I had seen them flashing and swarming inland up in the Herring Run area, but in this wide channel were new motions that needed more patience and information to be understood. For example, where the fish eddied and wheeled under the dazzling rays, I noticed one group idling in front of a submerged sand bar or reef that ran across the channel. I waited there for three-quarters of an hour before the fish showed signs of any common impulse to cross over it. One or two dashed over sportively to chase a minnow and then sped back, but the rest of them--a hundred or more--would make no move. Finally, after many circling approaches by the whole crowd, the measure of their circle came closer and closer out of the brown water to the brightly lit, coppery bar, until some of the vanguard spilled over. Then more and more sped and skittered over until the move was accomplished. Why? Were they afraid of the brightness? Did the contrast in light stop them in some way? This would hardly seem consistent with what I had found out so far. Perhaps it was just routine to their motion. Evidently alewives idle in the deeper channels where the velocity of the water is slower and easier to swim in. They respond to the relative force of the flow. Where the current is more uniformly rapid, and they are going up against it, they progress steadily. And perhaps the bar formed an eddy behind it, so that the water where they swam moved against the current in the channel and they were unable to tell their direction.
The alewife hordes puzzled me as they moved slowly but definitely through the channel. A new animal, moving to unknown needs is hard to understand. You grasp for some translation between you that will not come. Relationships in the water world seem to need other senses than your own. It could be said that to understand the transition of the alewives from salt to fresh water and back you must know about the effect of the endocrine glands on the reproductive system, as well as adaptations of the kidney, along with the temperature, the time of the tides, and the chemical composition of a particular stream--just to begin with. If you are wise and devoted enough to put all the known factors together, you may come out with a unified interpretation, and be abreast of the latest theories of process. Knowledge is the motion by which the human animal may come closest to a fish. Still I looked in my ignorance for another familiarity in which we shared. Where the sea pushed inland and the alewives moved ahead or returned, I saw an indefinite route, of surpassing, complex elaboration; but in their pulse and tempo I felt something that gave me present assurance, and a touch of joy.
XI
Up the Valley
When you leave the channel that elbows through the tidal marshes and then goes under the shore road, Route 6 A, through the valley ending at the Herring Run, you go from one living community to another. You leave the thousands of fiddler crabs tunneling through marshy ground, the fat, olive-colored little salt-water minnows, or mummichogs, darting through green clouds of muck in the warm pools left by the tide, and muskrats, kingfishers, herons, ducks, or gulls. Some are permanent residents, others are itinerants, but all are presently bound together in the tidal grounds. They feed off one another, being both producers and consumers of food, and so sustain the balance of all their lives together. Such communities are the principal study of the ecologists--the interrelationship of living things in their environment.
The alewife migrates from sea to ponds through the inland vein, from crabs and shellfish to robins, and frogs beyond the tide. Its migration runs through several different life communities, of which it is not strictly a part, although its progeny, the fry, will be a part of the food chain all the way along, the prey of many different kinds of fish and birds, and eaters themselves of food the ponds provide. But the alewife’s migrant continuity is like the water itself that runs unceasingly down the valley, and ties all the life together that adjoins it.
The stream, on the north side of the shore road, used to run up the center of the valley where there is still a ditch dividing once cultivated cranberry bogs, but the watercourse was long since diverted to the eastern side of the valley. It was in that direction I went one half-showery, half-sunny day for a further exploration, but first by way of the short, bordering range of hills before going down again. Hills and scoured valley were left by the most recent continental glacier as it melted back from the terminal moraine of Cape Cod perhaps some twelve thousand years ago. I climbed the steep slope on the west side of the valley, nearest the Herring Run. Below me the long, snaky turns of the run went down from its rocky top where the waters were churning white and spilling over. As I walked up and down the slopes and across the small ravines between them, I could hear voices receding down by the Herring Run; and then a woodchuck whipped a whistle and dove when I came up, its brown rump disappearing into a freshly dug hole, which had an arc of sandy yellow dirt piled outside. On the way there were wild cherry, viburnum, hawthorn, pitch pine, and juniper sparsely growing, and I passed a dipping stone wall that marked an old boundary line. I picked up a wing from the remains of a dead herring gull on the ground, put it before the light wind, and was struck with what broad strength it held the air. As I came toward that knob of a hill where the gulls congregated, they flocked away with a simultaneous rush of wings and went crying high toward the Bay. The hill was bald, except for a few wild rosebushes on its crown, and its slopes were covered with a wild pink, moss campion, and patches of sorrel made more profuse by nitrogen and ammonia from gull droppings. On the other side of the valley there was a wood of twirling, gnarled, gray tupelo trees with the pink of their buds still showing. Bay waters and the curving, final shore carried distance out along with the gulls; while this valley with its dips and slopes and the migratory waves of life to which its land and water were hosts seemed wide enough for many worlds.
As I clambered down a slope toward the stream, three ducks that were coming in to settle on marshy ground changed course, two black-crowned night herons flew out of a tree, clucking like hens, and a yellowlegs stalking through muddy peninsulas flew up and away, its sickle wings in reckless flight, with a cry both tremulous and sharp. Everything fled before me. I might be a part of these communities myself but as an itinerant, it seemed, and a dangerous one. How difficult it is to prove to anything but domestic animals, long since tamed and lost, that a man is not dangerous! Men have a hard time trying to prove it to themselves.
I had come down near the point where Stony Brook started to turn to the east side of the valley. The banks behind me were streaming with spring water and the wet edges were lush with new growth: lettuce-green grass, succulent-looking leaves of skunk cabbage, fiddlehead ferns newly uncurling, and clumps of violets, flowers of a sky-delicate light blue. At this edge of the valley the water was full of thicketed islands, hummocks, and muddy shallows, but as the stream stretched on, ten to twelve feet wide, the current swung along at a man’s fast walk over a brown and sandy bottom, and in it, constantly eddying by and turning over, were innumerable silver fish scales, debris of the striving and death at the Herring Run, several hundred yards behind.
Where the stream turned at right angles across the valley it was bordered by a low man-made dike. Halfway down the dike, at the end of a long narrow ditch bisecting the old bogs, was the remains of a _stop water_, a kind of three-sided dam designed to raise or lower the water in a cranberry bog to its desired level. I looked down into its still, dark square of water and there was a split-second rush of a fish, and perhaps two or three others coiling in the small space together. They may have been spawning. In any case, intentionally or not, they had come down the ditch instead of by the main stream and could go no farther. There are many areas in a run, side pools, ditches, marshy land, to which some alewives may be sidetracked, before the main spawning grounds.
I saw a few later in a dead-end offshoot of the Herring River that looked very much as if they were trying to go back, though I have no reason to suppose they felt that they had made a mistake. If they were not ready to spawn they may have circled back with the ebb tide, which reached that point, and found the main flow where they had lost it on the way up.