Fishing The Bottle Neck: Bonneville Dam Biologists And Fishermen Clash Over Dealing With A Pack Of Nuisance Sea Lions

            The Columbia River appears lazy, placid in the eerie pre-dawn. A foggy, vaporous sheet hangs over the river. It reaches the shore, ensnares the Doug firs and cedars, and slides over the mountains. The sun stalls below the horizon, and the sinking moon faintly illuminates ridge, peak, and water––barely perceivable purple-hewed palettes beneath their gauzy covering. An orange, solar slice peeps and shadows fall. The Bonneville Dam’s concrete castle structure looms in the distance, motionless and unforgiving.

Downstream from the dam, office buildings fill an asphalt lot. One sits askew from the rest. A honeycomb of cubicles fills its teal-carpeted, white-walled interior. Within its small library, ceiling-high brown shelves contain Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife reports dating to the 1970s. Titles include “Willamette Spring Chinook Studies” and “Columbia River Salmon Flow Measures.” Two textbooks beside them read, “Biotelemetry Hydroacoustics” and “Applied Linear Statistical Models.” This building houses the United States Army Corps of Engineers Fisheries Field Unit, a team of biologists that surveys and monitors the host of sea lions that year-by-year increasingly makes Bonneville Dam its spring getaway and salmon banquet.

Fifty-five-year-old Robert Stansell, unit leader and fish biologist, enters the office building at 6:45 a.m., a digital camcorder hanging from his shoulder. Stansell has returned from the dam where he’d been recording sea lions beached by the dam spillway. He wears a green fleece jacket and blue jeans. His hair, short and brown, thins at the temples. A warm, fuzzy salt-and-pepper beard speckles his face.

Stansell estimates this spring’s Columbia River Chinook run to be the latest and smallest in history. It’s been so small, Chinook fishing season was closed in early April and wasn’t reopened until mid-may, and sea lions are catching the blame. Sport fishermen want them dead and tribal fishermen want to assure their fishing ceremonies continue. However, the bureaucratic, non-lethal response to the seal lions forbids any deadly solutions. Meanwhile, the turbines churn.

Today, Stansell must type a report confirming that Sea Lion Exclusion Devises, steel portcullises installed in fish runs, don’t hinder spring Chinook upstream passage. The 12 SLEDs, installed last year, have 15.5-inch gaps that theoretically hinder sea lions from entering fishways where salmon are easy prey. However, some biologists believed salmon were having trouble passing too. On April 24, two SLEDs were removed on the dam’s Washington side, but throughout the subsequent week, an equal number of fish passed between the blocked and unblocked runs, indicating that the SLEDs had no effect on the spawning ground-bound salmon.

However, the SLEDs aren’t entirely successful either. Sea lion C-404 learned to infiltrate the barricades and become a major headache. Even if the SLEDs worked properly sea lions are stationed outside the gates that in previous years have consumed as much as 3 percent of the spring Chinook run. “Certainly the sea lions are taking a number of fish,” Stansell says. “But, hey, that’s nature.”

Since Stansell’s youth, he’s been interest in animals and always wanted a wildlife profession. “I still joke the dog comes first in my life,” Stansell says, “and when I got married, I said, ‘as long as you understand that, we’ll be okay.’” He also considered becoming a pilot but could only afford to be by enrolling in the U.S. Air Force ROTC. “Then I realized they probably wouldn’t let you have a dog. And I don’t like taking orders,” he says with hearty, choppy chuckles. Originally from Arizona, Stansell moved to Oregon for the Oregon State University forestry program. The idea of being a ranger stationed in an isolated forest outpost was appealing. But he wanted more involvement with animals, so he switched into wildlife sciences and graduated in 1976.

“I thought the animals needed more voices out there because, again, humans’ attitude in general is me, me, me,” he says. “You’ve got city boundaries and land use plans and all these things are great.” But he becomes concerned when set city limits expand, encroaching on natural habitats. “You hear reports that, oh, a cougar has attacked a person or a bear has attacked a person, or we saw a coyote in town,” he exclaims. “Oh, my gosh, hide your children.” Following college, Stansell temporarily worked for ODFW, then radio-tracked salmon for USACE. In 2001, he joined the Fisheries Field Unit and now manages a result of another example of encroachment:

The Bonneville Dam, ironically built by the USACE in 1933, spans the Columbia’s width, consisting of four structures separated by three islands. The navigation lock directs traffic over the dam between the Oregon bank and Robins Island. Beyond the lock is powerhouse 1, which is separated from the spillway by the long propeller-shaped Bradford Island. Cascades Island, closest to the northern bank, was formed in 1974 when powerhouse 2 was built on the river’s Washington side. Together the two powerhouses’ 18 generators produce over one million kilowatts. The approximately 2,000-meter long dam was constructed during the great depression. It generated cheap hydroelectric power when energy was scarce and created jobs and money, an economic boon for the Pacific Northwest. However, its makers didn’t foresee the controversy now surrounding it.

Every spring, Chinook journey from the Pacific up the Columbia, past Bonneville, to their spawning grounds. Along the way they must dodge sea lions and other predators. If they reach Bonneville, they encounter a bottleneck. Only 8 narrow fishways and four ladders grant upstream access. It’s no surprise they have a hard time finding their way, making easy hunting for sea lions.

Contrary to some sports fishermen’s belief, sea lions have always been present on the Columbia. While on their northwest journey, Lewis and Clark encountered many. However, the sea lion population was depleted because they were hunted for their oil. Today, stellar sea lions remain on the endangered list. Since being put under the aegis of the Marine Mammals Act of 1972, the sea lion population has tripled to over 300,000 on the West Coast. Now the USACE must show they’ve tried every non-lethal measure to remove the sea lions before a lethal take becomes legalized.

Along with the SLEDs, Stansell’s team employs hydroacoustics emitting 205-decibel, 10-kilohertz frequencies that for sea lions is the “equivalent of standing near a jet engine,” Stansell says. However it has worked with mixed results. ODFW has employed more active measures. They haze sea lions lounging on the concrete tailrace’s edge by blasting horns and shooting rubber bullets, darts and pyrotechnics.

“They’re running around in boats wasting gas, chasing sea lions from one tailrace to the other,” Stansell says. “Is it effective? Well, it’s hard to measure. These guys aren’t even really measuring anything. At least we’ve got information up at the dam.”

This spring, Stansell has spotted 100 sea lions, which swim up from California to Bonneville. That number has increased from 30 in 2002, making them an easy statistic to blame for the poor runs. Approximately 3,000 Chinook can pass through the Bonneville fish ladders on a good day in spring. On April 12, only 200 were counted. By May, the run picked up, but the total count was 35,796, nearly 14,000 short of the same time last year. The preseason forecast of 88,000 is unlikely to be met.  Stansell and other biologists are spooked because the late run is a continuing trend seen over the past two years. “What’s causing that?” Stansell asks. “Is it the sea lions? Not by a long shot. Are they contributing? Sure. But so is harvest, so is dam hydroelectric mortality, so is habitat loss, and the big factor we don’t know about – ocean.”

The causes Stansell described aren’t visible and hard to blame. However, sea lions are easily seen, having to surface to kill their prey by thrashing it around, infuriating sport fishermen who fish just below the dam. “Sport fishermen pay a lot of money to come out and enjoy their fishing,” Stansell says, “and they don’t like to see a sea lion take three or four fish when they’re not catching any.”

Last year, at the dam’s Tanner Creek fishing area, a USACE employee witnessed fishermen throwing rocks at sea lions and confronted them. They responded by urinating in front of her. Stansell went to the fishing area himself and videotaped the stone slingers, earning them a several thousand-dollar fine. “We get that all over the place as far as fishermen,” Stansell says. “You’re not going to change some of these old-timers . . . They don’t care. They know the solution and that’s a gun.”

            “Shoot ‘em,” Sixty-two-year-old Washingtonian and lifelong fisherman Stan Elsea says bluntly. “The only way you’re goin to get rid of ‘em is shoot ‘em.” Harassing sea lions or transporting them somewhere else doesn’t solve the problem, he says, because they just come back. While sea lions hunt salmon for survival, Elsea fishes for sport. He justifies this by the amount of money he pays for his recreation.

Down a grass-and-gravel path on the north bank of Bradford Island, Elsea, the big white-bearded type you’d imagine pictured on a frozen fish sticks box, rests on a well-worn log near a group of sport fishermen. Trash is scattered about the bank: tangled, knotted fishing line, ripped Starbucks cups and a Budweiser can. Upstream, the spillway’s 18 open gates gush misty white-water explosions, bubbling and frothing around the curved vertical trusses supporting the dam.

It’s the last day of spring sturgeon fishing. The fishermen’s 10-foot poles arch toward the water, braced by plastic tubes wedged between rocks. Occasionally, a fisherman sprints toward the river on a rocky outcropping with his pole and whips it forward, sailing the lure into the fast waters.

Jon Popescu, a Romanian maintenance technician and current Portland resident, fishes alongside Elsea. His black mustache bushes, and his dark crop-top converges into a sharp widow’s peak. He wildly gesticulates while talking about the whiskered miscreants. Last week, two ODFW officials told him sea lions are natural river-dwellers and asked whether he believed they are responsible for poor runs.

“Hell, yeah, they do have something to do with the fucking poor run of salmon,” Popescu says in a thick Romanian accent. “And the guy says, ‘No it’s not like this because when Lewis and Clark showed up here, there was lots of seal lions over there, and there was plenty of salmon.’ Yeah, sure, there were no fucking Kennedys around; there was nothing around. There was millions and millions and millions of salmon and there was enough for the sea lions.” Popescu’s brow bunches. He squats low as if about to pounce and spreads his arms in complete bafflement. “And all these rubber bullets, all this mesmerizing the fish is a waste of money,” he exclaims. “The sea lions are laughing at them.” For a moment Popescu paces angrily, seemingly spent, then continues even more embroiled. Next year, the sea lions will form a delegation, thank us for being so kind and swim away, he says sarcastically. “No way!” he barks. “They won’t go anywhere until they kill everything that moves in these water.”

“It’s like any politician’s deal,” Elsea says. “There’s people that knows what to do and how to handle the stuff, but the people in charge, they gotta answer to all the politician crap.”

“We’ve got too many sophisticated people in the top of the department,” Popescu explains, “scientists and fucking historians with the red rooster.”

            Elsea has now left, not one sturgeon caught. Popescu still rants, but his tone has softened. He gestures toward the discarded trash as if to say, “Look what everyone’s done to my fishing hole.” He speaks of climate change, ocean temperatures and oil shortages. We’ve already irreparably damaged this planet, he says. It’s possible no future spring Chinook will swim the Columbia because a 73-year-old dam makes easy feeding for sea lions, the final knife in the salmon’s back. Popescu’s tirade finishes. He packs his fishing equipment in a plastic bucket, and before leaving, grabs a discarded paper bag, shakes it angrily, stuffs it in his bucket and walks the gravel path.

Back at the office, putting aside his paperwork, Stansell grabs a hardhat and binoculars, and heads to powerhouse 1 in a USACE truck to see some sea lion action. When Stansell arrives, pacing the powerhouse’s metal-grated parapet walkway, Mike Jones stares downstream over metal railings. Jones is one of seven USACE personnel working with Stansell. Five days a week, from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m., Stansell has three personnel stationed at three dam locations, powerhouse 1, the spillway and powerhouse 2, where they count the number of salmon killed by sea lions.

            The Alcatraz-esque powerhouse raises 50 feet above the walkway. Ten generators are housed behind its thick cement walls and one-way reflective windows. Another 30 feet up, a Dr. Frankenstein matrix of bars, wire and transistors, in which a Peregrine Falcon alights, attaches to the building’s roof. Electrical cables connected to this matrix extend over the river toward 300-foot red and white-striped triangular towers on the Washington shore, which feed the cables up and over the forest-laden hills.

            A splash downstream attracts Stansell and Jones’ attention, and they whip their binoculars up. A sleek, black sea lion surfaces with a large slippery Chinook in its whiskered mouth and shakes it vigorously. Eventually, the sea lion tips its pointed nose to the blue sky and swallows the fish whole. On his clipboard, Jones records the sea lion’s number or name, it’s kill success, and the species of fish it killed. He tries to identify sea lions by branded numbers melted into their skin or unique markings, for which they are often named. “But you can only name so many Spot or Circle Back,” Stansell says. Some USACE personnel have gotten creative naming them Voldemort, Saddam and Osama. “You get the idea,” he says.

These names are indicative of the threat sea lions could pose to tribal culture. Umatilla tribal fisherman David Liberty abstains this year from fishing salmon even though his tribal treaty says he can. Liberty works for the Columbia River Intertribal Fish Commission’s StreamNet Library in Portland, which catalogs state wildlife reports. Last spring, The Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Reservation honored Liberty by making him a ceremonial fisherman. Liberty fished east of Bonneville off the banks of Cascade Locks and his catch was used for the annual First Salmon Feast, celebrated by tribes to honor salmon.

“Elders tell us that before man came to the Earth, the animals could communicate with each other and that the creator told all the animals that man was going to come to the Earth, that he was going to be naked and weak,” Liberty says. “He needed someone to give themselves to man, to humans, and the Salmon were the first ones to volunteer.”

This story forges the foundation beneath natives’ belief in reciprocity. To keep salmon runs healthy, tribes have had fishing chiefs who dictate when fishing season begins and forbid fishing before the First Salmon Feast. However, Liberty says that this year the tribes had their feast too soon and there were few salmon caught. “I don’t know what that means or if there’s going to be a consequence. I’ll just tell you it bothers me.”

He feels the sea lions should be controlled, and killed if necessary, to protect what salmon there are, even though sea lions are taking advantage of what man has provided. Eat a dead sea lion’s heart in front of the rest and they might get the picture and flee, Liberty suggests. But “I don’t think they’ll let me do that,” he says. “The Federales would be on me.”

However, Bonneville concerns Liberty more than sea lions. “I would really like to see the dams be made obsolete,” Liberty says. “We’re using the same ancient technology that ranks right up there with the internal combustion engine.” An engineer from a hundred years ago could fix the generator or know where to grease it, he suspects. “Let’s worry about the big picture and not this little sea lion problem we’ve got, which makes great for photos,” he says. “They’re throwing salmon in the air, and, oh, yeah, everybody gets all up-in-arms . . . But they don’t see all the fish get killed right there in the dam.” It’s a bigger issue than sea lions; it’s a societal, systemic problem. “It harkens back to man losing touch with his surroundings,” he says, “his mother Earth.”

It’s estimated that every year the dam’s turbines, its high pressure fishways and the predators it attracts kill 5 percent of all smolts swimming downstream to the Pacific. That doesn’t account for the impact on salmon population due to habitat loss.

Back at the dam, after checking in with each sea lion observer, Stansell heads back to base. Television crews will be out today inquiring about new salmon tag detectors installed in the observation stations. In previous years, they malfunctioned, and Stansell must give a statement. However, he’s weary of the media because of their misrepresentation of the sea lion situation. “These things are so complex,” he says. “I’ve been in this for years and I still don’t fully understand the Marine Mammals Act . . . so to try to condense that down into a two-minute TV blurb or a couple-paragraph article, it’s really an impossible task.”