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I will forever be entwined - whether I like it or
not, regardless where my home is perched, totally unrelated to where I
earn my cash - with mixed-coniferous forests, clear-water reservoirs,
and the stinging, isolating icicle breath of western mountains from
autumn to spring. It's Lake Arrowhead's fault, of course - so many
aspects of my personality were crystallized among Arrowhead's gin
water, the verdant pines and firs, the pure, alabaster snow, that such
a setting, no matter its geographical location, feels like home. Allied
with the mountain environment's trinity - snow, water, conifers - is a
fourth defining feature, and a fourth that, perhaps, strikes most
deeply into my soul among all the mountain's facets, a fish type
elegantly adapted to the harrowing and harsh and beautifully austere
mountain world: salmonids. A cold-water fish that happily feasts and
breeds while snow blankets the slopes and ridges, while ice tendrils
fork out from frozen riverbanks, while warm-water fishes such as
smallmouth bass and common carp scurry to the depths to escape the
lashing, angry, baleful swings and swoons of the cooler seasons. A
cold-water fish exquisitely tuned to the changes in river flows, to the
snowpack's melting, to epilimnetic cooling and subsequent autumn
turnover. A cold-water fish that I knew intimately, in isolation, in
lovely dichotomy when alone on the mountain's lakes and reservoirs -
Gregory, Arrowhead, Green Valley, Big Bear. A cold-water fish with
which I still maintain
connection, albeit in adopted waterways such as Stampede and Deer Creek
reservoirs and, in the case of anadromous salmonids, the Trinity and
Mattole rivers. A fish with which I play a life-or-death game, a
reenactment of an ancient rite, a rekindling of the primitive passion
play between a human hunter and a wild prey.
The problem, however, is that the prey ain't
what it used to be. Domesticated and mongrelized and hybridized to a
mutt barely reminiscent of the wild animal it once was (e.g., Pearse
and Garza 2015), California's modern salmonid is mostly a vestige, a
ghost, a simplified facsimile of what was once a carnal, wild, worthy
prey. From the idea that white men's rapacious desire for salmonids
exceeded the bounty that Nature could provide, early fisheries workers
felt that only with helping human hands could the want for salmonid
meat be met. The result? Hatcheries. Hatcheries were considered such
viable population boosters that they were assumed appropriate
replacements for the steelhead/salmon-producing natal streams forever
denied ocean-going fish by dams. Enthusiasm for hatcheries led to
planting of previously salmonid-less waterways with both native and
non-native trouts and chars, regardless whether the waterway was
capable of supporting wild populations, and into waterways totally
unlike ancestral habitat: fucking urban ponds, canals, flat-land
water-supply reservoirs, and sterile, stream-less alpine lakes. With
little or no understanding of homing or local adaptation, agencies
transferred California-native strains into alien watersheds (Pearse and
Garza 2015); genetically distinct runs were crossed unknowingly.
Incredibly rapid artificial selection rates in hatchery fish (Christie
et al. 2016) coupled with high straying proportions (e.g., Austing and
Null 2015) and subsequent introgressing of hatchery- and wild-origin
adults (Pearse and Garza 2015) basically eliminated local adaptations -
eliminated native anadromous salmonids, really - and reduced
life-history strategies (Williams 2012), sacrificing salmonid ability
to weather tough times such as droughts and shitty ocean conditions
(Satterthwaite and Carlson 2015). As increasing water development
rendered more and more juvenile salmonid habitat inhospitable,
fisheries agencies began trucking young salmon to the ocean, bypassing
poor river habitat but furthering species homogenization by escalating
adult straying rates (Satterthwaite and Carlson 2015). As an added
slight, hatchery workers often spawned one male with several females,
thereby decreasing effective population size and genetic diversity
(Abadia-Cardoso et al. 2013), further tarnishing anadromous salmonids
by bequeathing greater susceptibility to killers such as food-poor
oceans and diseases. The consequence of all this human interference in
salmonids is that, today, there really is no such thing as a native,
wild California salmonid: the wild wolves have been subsumed by
domestic poodles, the guileful elk have been superceded by tamed
cattle.
Such degradation of a once-fine fish
certainly throws obstacles in the path of a fish Romanticist pining
for a wild battle in the pines with an appropriately wild fish.
When I first started casting a line at the
tender age of 10, the first trout I caught were hatchery-bred,
put-and-take rainbows dumped into water-supply reservoirs or other
human-created waterways. Castaic. Pyramid. Fucking Apollo Park in the
desolate, depressed Antelope Valley. Littlerock Reservoir. Among burnt
chaparral hills or within flat, debased desert, the blunt-finned, dumb,
bewildered 10-inch hatchery trout was my first personal experience with
a salmonid. It seemed, frighteningly, normal
at that age, those domesticated hints of wild long gone - I remember
being shocked that largemouth bass and bluegill in Pyramid weren't
stocked but persisted without any deigning help from man. That any fish
could survive without man's intervention seems fantastical to me now,
30 years later, but, back then, it was a logical conclusion for a kid
raised in the stolid, sordid, human-centered and -created suburban
world.
I don't remember the exact moment I began to
question the aesthetics of pursuing hatchery-bred trout, no epiphany
shattered my narrow perceptions and revealed that something was amiss
in driving to a roadside waterway and dumping PowerBait and filling a
stringer within minutes, but the realization reached fruition in early
adolescence when my revulsion at hatchery trout breathed its first
breath - I wrote a nasty missive about put-and-take fish to Western Outdoor News.
The timing of that realization, my early teenage years, is no surprise
given the social and physical changes and new realities emerging in
that period of life: everything was suddenly ambiguous, open to
question. By 14, 15 years old, I'd actually caught a few wild trout and
so had a reference point with which to compare the put-and-take fish
that had previously been my dance partner. Digging through my mind's
cobwebs, I believe the first wild salmonid I ever held in hand was a
beautiful, spooky little rainbow trout inhabiting lovely, intimate
Seeley Creek. What a world apart Seeley's trout were from the
put-and-take world - full finned, shy, and hard to catch, Seeley's fish
looked more like sharp-finned golden trout than the pasty globs of lazy
flesh that comprised put-and-takers. Around the same time, I also
caught wild trout in the Mt. Whitney area and in Deep Creek - not only
'bows but also brownies and brookies. Like the Seeley fish, these wild
trout also required a bit more savvy to hook than their hatchery
brethren. The consequence of these new experiences was that I stopped
fishing for trout in my local mountain lakes and instead focused on
self-sustaining, albeit non-native, fishes: black crappie, largemouth
bass, and catfishes.
By my late teens, however,
my moratorium on hatchery fish had softened. It was, again, Arrowhead's
fault but also Green Valley's; more importantly, it was autumn's fault.
Come autumn, come the disappearance of the cockroach tourists, come the
stinging chill of the mountain evening, the hatchery truck vanished,
its load of debased, domesticated fish evaporated from the mountain.
The lakes cooled, and with that cooling came holdover rainbows,
full-finned, rose-banded, big, and totally unwilling to eat a fucking
chemist's doughy concoction. No, these fish, while born in a hatchery, behaved as if they were real
trout - they were spooky, they required skillful presentations, they
required either natural baits or lures imitating natural foods, and
they required a reasonable understanding of lentic dynamics. Put
another way - the holdover, hatchery rainbows within the austere cold
of autumn and winter mimicked a more wild hunter-prey interaction than
put-and-take fish thrown into summer's warm waters.
As I grew into my 20s, whatever aversion I'd had for hatchery fish had
totally eroded. Part of it stemmed from my tenure in Portland. Oregon
was a totally foreign world to me, scary, and I desperately needed some
type of familiar experience to provide some grounding - catching
put-and-take rainbows in shitty urban waters fulfilled that need. My
time in San Diego likewise quelled my ethical concerns: a few drinking
buddies were interested in learning to fish, and I could think of no
better introduction than put-and-take trout. A similar drive existed
when I moved to Davis, where my friend Tom had never caught trout until
I took him to summertime Sly Park and piles of dumb, fin-eroded 'bows.
I'd also justified it to some extent since you still had to do a few
things to catch put-and-takers with any regularity, namely using very
thin line and sliding-sinker rigs.
But the
pendulum began to swing back to aversion around the time I hooked up
with an enlightening, lovely lady in my mid-30s. My relationship with
this one really significantly altered how I felt about hatchery trout
in two ways. First, she was a "conscientious eater" - she restricted
her diet to foods that weren't awful for health and that didn't rape
the land. In the case of put-and-take trout, she accurately equated
hatcheries with factory farms or feedlots, none of which is good for
either the animal being raised for slaughter or the surrounding land
and water receiving the feedlot/hatchery's waste. Given that slant,
fishing for put-and-take trout became analogous to hunting fucking
dairy cows - it just was no longer a meaningful interaction between
hunter and hunted, it no longer felt as if I was accomplishing anything
by limiting on 10-inch, PowerBait-gobbling planters. The second prong
was more indirect but perhaps struck a little deeper - it was a
question of aesthetics. The lovely lady was an amazing visual artist,
whether the media was a camera or a piece of sketch paper. From her,
from her art, I absorbed a heightened sense of visual aesthetics,
especially the capture of the true wild
in photographs. Put-and-take fish, what with their bloated, battered
bodies, with their deposition into human-trampled waterways, with their
ridiculous ease of capture, were simply poor representations of that
non-human other, of Nature,
of a worthwhile prey. Both the fish and the environment were too
fucking domesticated, too industrial, too modern to really touch on an
authentic level the atavistic pulsing and pumping of a well-conducted
hunt. It also didn't help that my skill as a fisherman began
accelerating around the same time and concurrent with earning two
college degrees in aquatic sciences - however easy hatchery trout had
been captured in the past paled to the effortlessness I now paid to put
blunt-fins on a stringer.
And so the discussion, the conflict, about what
type of salmonid is worthy of chasing with the rod and lures has
resurfaced here in Davis, where more salmonid species and life-history
types (e.g., anadromous fish) reside than in the San Bernardino
Mountains and thus greater, more insidious hatchery effects exist. This
second round of moral qualms regarding salmonid fishing, what with the
broader consciousness that middle age provides relative to teenage
years, has revealed that it's really also about Nature's domestication,
of the greater world that salmonids inhabit. The questions are myriad:
is there a point where hatchery fish become worthy opponents? Does
context affect the hunt's value, with some waterways providing a more
authentic experience with hatchery fish than others? Is there a
temporal component? What salmonid, what environment, does my conflicted
ass need to feel like it's acquiring something worthwhile from the
hunt? By what do I measure these facets of the relationships among
salmonids, salmonid environments, and me?
It's especially pressing because, as I type
this, autumn is here, brownies and 'bows and lakers and cutt's are
rising to lake and reservoir surface waters, while kings and steelhead
infiltrate rivers still open to the ocean, and I gotta immerse myself
in these opportunities somehow.
One bookend,
obviously, is wild, native trout in untarnished watersheds, a
condition, a situation that really doesn't exist in California. Perhaps
the closest any region/species comes to this pristine ideal is golden
trout in the upper Kern River watershed, or maybe rainbows in the
Warner Wilderness. Ironically, the most primitive, the most real
salmonid experience I've had has been outside California, namely
Alaska, what with that state's chums and pinks and silvers and grayling
all running through rivers resembling closely their forms from
thousands of years ago. Nevertheless, both of these scenarios, these
locations and fishes, point to two explicit prongs necessary to really
feel like salmonid fishing is primal: the fish and the setting.
Ideally, native trout would appear the most
worthy opponent - a fish exquisitely adapted to its habitat, surviving
through the tumult of Nature's wrath and warmth through endless years -
that's a tough fish, that's a well-earned fish if hooked with care and
grace. But in this state, "native" is often an empty term - so many
native trout, whether goldens high in the Sierra, steelhead swimming in
the Trinity, or rainbows bangin' around in the upper Sacramento
watershed, have been diluted by hatcheries. And native salmonids, such
as kings, dependent on hatcheries are really domesticated fish -
adapted to concrete and children feeding 'em pellet food, hatchery
smolts bear less wildness in
'em relative to non-native trout, such as brownies in some locations,
that've had myriad previous generations fighting it out in actual
streams, in lakes. Put another way - how "native" is a native salmonid
if a substantial portion of its life is blown in raceways and is
reflected in its genome after countless generations (Christie et al.
2016)?
About the closest any salmonid can get to native in this state is wild:
a fish spawned, reared, and matured - in a stream, a lake, some
waterway other than a fucking raceway - all by itself. That's a fish
that's weathered changing stream flows or temperature regimes, that's
avoided dopey PowerBait dangled maladroitly from treble hooks, that's
eaten real aquatic food such as bugs, such as zooplankton, such as
crawdads and fishes. It's a fish resonating with its environment,
successfully, such that a fisherman, too, has to feel the pulse of the
watery world to really have much of a chance of hooking such a fish. Wild
does not discriminate between native and non-native salmonids: it's
reasonable to assume that a brookie derived from a stock planted 100
years ago has adapted to survive in and thus reflects its environment
nearly as well as a "native" California 'bow swimming in its natal
stream.
Then why did those holdover 'bows that
ate my carefully crawled, hand-tied olive marabou jig in the freezing
winter waters of Big Bear Lake, encircled by snow, by pines, by stolid
granite, feel so right? For
that matter, more recently, why did those holdover 'bows in Rollins
that plowed my bounced Krocodile just last year feel like such an
accomplishment? Why did those big hen 'bows in Sly Park's autumn
austerity make me pump my fist in ecstatic elation? I mean, fuck, man,
these fish had only been in the waterways were I hooked 'em for, at a
minimum, six months - far less time than the generations of fish I'd
captured in less accessible streams or still waters.
It's related to a second prong of what defines wild - not genetics, which presumably have molded wild fish into what the waterway has required, but behavior.
Hatchery fish in general are dumb as shit, but I find it hard to
believe that in that mongrel horde variation in learning is totally
absent. Most put-and-take fish are caught within the first few days of
planting; it's reasonable to assume that those that persist beyond that
time, especially those that've been in their adopted waterway for
several years, such as the four-pound holdover rainbows I've bagged in
Sly Park and Stampede, are within the right tail of the learning bell
curve. This difference is further reflected in diet: newly planted fish
often have the most senseless non-foods in 'em, such as cigarette
butts, sticks, rocks, and male pine cones, while holdover fish contain
identical foods to their wild brethren - bugs and fish. Additionally,
holdover fish are often mixed in with wild fish, a situation I've
experienced myriad times in Big Bear, in Stumpy Meadows, in Prosser
Creek Reservoir and Stampede. Further, in those waterways without wild
populations - Lake Gregory of my youth's a good example - there comes a
time when the only hatchery fish remaining are holdovers that will not
touch a commercial bait. Planting of Gregory ceased, if I remember
correctly, in September - by January, the only baits you could bag
trout on were nightcrawlers and roe. Thus the gist is this: the skills
needed to hook these wizened holdover salmonids are identical to those
used to garner wild fish.
But if the evidence, in part, to gauge the
value of holdover fish is wild-fish presence, then the requirements of
wild fish have to be present - this is where the environment, where the
waterway, where the theater of the hunt becomes important. With the
exception of brookies and lakers, if the waterway is a lake or
reservoir, it has to have a spawning stream. If it's a still water, it
has to have cold, oxygenated water to house salmonids through summer.
Those two criteria are met more fully the one climbs in elevation,
although the big foothill reservoirs such as Berryessa and Shasta
sustain holdover fish. Of course, Berryessa and Shasta, and
higher-elevation reservoirs such as Stumpy Meadows and Stampede, are
artificial - they're man-created, not Nature-created. Nevertheless,
they contain features that mirror the now-drowned river, even more so
than the rivers downstream of the dams. For example, the reservoirs,
mainly those used for water supply, have stages that more closely
resemble the river's ancestral hydrograph better than the river flowing
downstream of the dam: the reservoir's stage increases in winter,
reaches a max in spring, and then declines through summer until
bottoming out in autumn. Similarly, the temperature profile of the
reservoirs follows the air, the seasons, being hottest in summer and
coldest in winter. Conversely, rivers below the dams are often
flat-lined in both flow and water temperature - they're homogenous
environments, reflecting little the change of the seasons. When the
volume of the reservoirs increases dramatically in winter and spring,
big plots of terrestrial land get flooded, resulting in a bloom of
aquatic productivity - just like the floodplains of the rivers used to
before they were leveed off. So, ironically, mountain reservoirs, in
this day and age of water development, actually provide dynamic
salmonid habitat that throws out some worthwhile challenges far more
than the tamed rivers below dam outlet gates.
And the rivers - the poor rivers, especially
the anadromous rivers. Above the reservoirs, the rivers are the shit -
they're the real deal, really the only vestige of what an experience
with stream trout was like. But man, below the lower-most dams,
especially in this watershed, my watershed, they're just - fuckin'
wrecked. The rivers that still have anadromous fisheries are especially
painful - the American, the Feather, the Sac. Leveed to shit, dead-line
hydrographs, gravel injections, massive hatchery inputs (often of
inbred fish), fucking smolt-trucking (at least for kings), urban/ag
encroachment, and, perhaps worst of all, hordes of fucking classless,
clueless goddamn fishermen. These rivers, ironically, relative to the
manmade reservoirs, are more of a reflection of human activity than
Nature. Fishermen trip over themselves to fish hatchery outflows rather
than seeking out ideal flows, water temperatures, feeding or holding
stations; river flows are more a function of dam operations than
rainfall or snowmelt; sediment dynamics are more a function of tractors
than erosion and deposition; and the adjacent lands, whether hoisting
trophy homes or hoisting manicured agricultural fields - man, they're
just tamed. Digging through all this human artifice seems damn near
impossible given its depth, its pervasiveness.
And it breaks my heart since, shit, man, salmon
and steelhead, the methods used to catch 'em, the waters they inhabit,
they're all so different than the small creeks and lakes and reservoirs
I grew up with, making anadromous salmonids and waters novel, alluring.
Additionally, the lower American and lower Feather and Sac below
Shasta, they're my rivers,
they're the last limbs of my watershed before finally meeting and
returning, at least somewhat, to a more wild state, best represented by
Suisun Marsh.
The first time I visited the
lower American River for an anadromous fish was fucking awful, was just
so fucking against the ideal, the purpose, of why the fuck I get out
and chase fish. That initial experience that left me feeling fishing
was so fucking wrong was notable given my ignorance: I knew nothing of
flattened hydrographs or gravel injections or trucking juvenile
salmonids to salt water. Anyway, it was the Sunrise access where this
debasement occurred during autumn 2003. In evening light, I donned
waders, trekked down to a tailout, and wiggled into a position
downstream of several dudes on my side of the river in addition to
several dudes on the opposite side. Kings breached frequently as I
bombed my big Spin-N-Glow on a really salmon-underpowered medium-light
rod. Given that all I knew about salmon was gleaned from reading about
'em while living in Portland, I was utterly perplexed by the rigs
tossed by my fellow fishermen: insanely long leaders with tiny fucking
beads. Curious. I received no strikes and caught no fish. The dudes
upstream of me, however, at least "caught" a fish, and, remarkably, the
same one - one guy on my side of the river snagged the king in the
face, while a dude on the other side snagged it in the ass. They fought
over it, both with their rods and their words, cursing, bellowing, and
thereby driving me from the fucking scene. Dudes fighting over a
snagged fish just seemed fucked up.
I left and never, ever went back to the American at Sunrise for kings - and, again, this was before I understood how degraded anadromous salmonid management in California was - is.
However, I did return in winter 2012, with both
more appropriate equipment to the task (this time steelhead were the
target) and much better understanding of salmonid debasement. The
experience, recalling it now, was gratifying, pleasant - it was good
hunt. It occurred at an access point well below the hatchery on a
weekday, in the afternoon, well after the general steelhead opener on
January 1. My goal really wasn't to chalk up another fish on my
headboard - it was more about learning how to fish pretty heavy-flowing
water. While much of the lower American resembles a slow-flowing slough
from historical diking and channelizing, skeleton, unbridled river
features still exist in some sections: mid-channel bars, riffles,
chutes, tailouts, and, yeah, big, slow-flowing pools. Variety. I felt
that sifting through that variety with metal lures - spoons and
spinners - would help round out my skill set. Armed with some knowledge
about steelhead in relation to water color and temperature, I chucked a
black-and-gold spoon at edges between fast water with a broken surface
and softer near-bank water given a temp of 48°F and not a smidgen of
turbidity. The reading of the current; the attention given to my rod
tip and the vibrations transmitting from the spoon, through my line,
and to my hand; the willows wafting in the soft, unseasonably warm
winter breeze; they all conspired to set my brain back a bit in time,
to return somewhat to that primitivism. That primitivism reached a
paradoxical height when I felt a solid thump, saw a flash of silver,
and then witnessed five pounds of hen steelhead racing and jumping in
heavy riffle water. I managed to finagle the fish to shore, tailed her,
and then, thinking more of meat than anything else, desperately hoping not
to find an adipose fin, I looked and didn't. Consequently, I got of a
few good hero shots and then killed her - my first steelhead. I
continued slinging metal into the river until sunset, after which I
traipsed back to the car in isolation and in dying light.
Those few hours in winter 2012 were quite a
fucking world apart from those in autumn 2003. And, really, the biggest
reason wasn't hydraulic diversity, although it helped - the Sunrise
access has some riffly stuff mixed in with the slow tailouts and frog
water. It really wasn't that I caught a fish, it being hatchery spawned
notwithstanding (particularly since the ridiculous straying rates of
hatchery fish results in interbreeding with wild-spawned fish such that
the two types are indistinguishable genetically). It was, and which is
the third key to having a meaningful salmonid fuckin' hunt in this
state in this modern age - lack of people. Before I ventured to the
American for my steelie, I checked the Internet fishing message boards
to see where people were catching steelies. Figuring that with the
increasing proportion of time, fuck, man, of experience, of life spent in the glow of electronic screens, and assuming that increasing technological reality was inverse to actual experience with non-media-mediated reality, most fishermen would be where technology told 'em
to be. I ran across not a singe mention of the reach I fished, and, as
my visit affirmed, no Internet report equaled virtually no people. I
remember seeing only one other dude fishing the mile or so of river I
fished, and that guy was a plunker on a mid-channel bar - even with a
heroic cast, I couldn't reach the water he was working. In other words,
lack of people meant I could breathe
a little bit, that I could engage with the river and the fish more
completely - I wasn't shoved into a tiny chunk of water by a bunch of
fucking flossers flogging the same fish over and over and over again. I
didn't have some leering fucking asshole running over to the slot I
nailed that steelie. Shit, man, unless some homeowner on the
river-right side of the river was checking me out with binoculars or a
telescope, I didn't have anyone spying on my doings.
It was, then, in that sense, getting more to that primitive core, even
if so much of the environment - the fucked-up river, the houses on the
opposite bank - was domesticated. Even in that trashed landscape,
where, over the levee, the fucking asphalt and concrete and waferboard
of suburbia expanded seemingly endlessly, a vestige of wild still
remained. The skeleton of an unbridled river. A fish that at least had
to survive in the ocean for a year or two and then make it back to the
fucking river. And a wonderfully freeing paucity of people. Not only do
the fish have to at least pretend
to be wild via their behavior, not only does the environment need to
have some wild left in it, be it a natural stage regime or
riffle-pool-run sequence, but people have to be either sparse or
absent.
And so now, November, as the cold air
whips and rages outside, as snow falls on stately, emerald pines and
firs, as rivers rise and fall and concomitantly turn brown then green
then clear, the shards of a skillful salmonid hunt exist in the cracks
and gaps of human civilization. In the deafening silence of a deserted
autumn mountain reservoir, along inaccessible river reaches with bends
and chutes well-removed from hatcheries, where wily wild brown trout
and brook trout and wizened holdover rainbows reside, humans are absent
and atavism's alive.
For now.
REFERENCES
Abadia, A., E. C. Anderson, D. E. Pearse, and J. C.
Garza. 2013. Large-scale parentage analysis reveals reproductive
patterns and heritability of spawn timing in a hatchery population of
steelhead (Oncorhynchus mykiss). Molecular Ecology 22: 4733-4746.
Austing, S. E., and R. E. Null. 2015, April 9. Straying of
hatchery salmon released on-site: management implications of a large
mitigation hatchery. California-Neveda Chapter, American Fisheries
Society, 49th annual meeting, Santa Cruz, CA.
Christie, M. R., M. L. Marine, S. E. Fox, R. A. French, and
M. S. Blouin. 2016. A single generation of domestication heritably
alters the expression of hundreds of genes. Nature.
Pearse, D. E., and J. C. Garza. 2015. You can't unscramble an egg: population genetic structure of Oncorhynchus mykiss
in the California Central Valley inferred from combined microsatellite
and single nucleotide polymorphism data. San Francisco Estuary and
Watershed Science: 13 (4).
Satterthwaite, W. H., and S. M.
Carlson. 2015. Weakening portfolio effect strength in a
hatchery-supplemented Chinook salmon population complex. Canadian
Journal of Fisheries and Aquatic Sciences 72: 1860-1875.
Williams, J. 2012. Juvenile Chinook salmon (Oncorhynchus tshawytscha) in and around the San Francisco Estuary. San Francisco Estuary and Watershed Science 1.