Running the Gauntlet

The Atlantic salmon's arduous journey

When we talk about the decline of Atlantic salmon, one question constantly comes up: what is responsible?

For years, we've been searching for a simple answer to a problem that is anything but simple. One year, we talk about climate change. The next, striped bass. Then come seals, aquaculture, disease, food shortages, bycatch, or even heat waves in rivers. Each new study adds another piece to the puzzle. Yet, I sometimes get the feeling that we look at each of these pieces separately, without ever taking the time to see the whole picture.

It was this reflection that led me to develop a hypothesis that I call Running the Gauntlet .

I don't claim to have found the answer to the salmon decline. What I'm proposing is simply another way to observe its journey. A hypothesis that, in my opinion, deserves to be studied.

When a salmon smolt leaves its river in the spring, it's not just beginning a migration. It's embarking on what is likely the most dangerous journey of its life. Its instinct drives it out to sea, towards the feeding grounds of Greenland, where it will spend one or two winters before returning to spawn in its native river. Between these two destinations lie thousands of kilometers... and an almost uninterrupted succession of dangers.

While observing the downstream migration dates of salmon smolts on several Quebec rivers, one detail caught my attention. In the Saguenay River, young salmon generally leave their home river between late May and early June. On the Rivière de la Trinité, this migration occurs about a week later. The further east one travels, towards the Upper North Shore, the Minganie region, and the Lower North Shore, the later the downstream migration becomes, sometimes extending into early July. This progression is logical: the colder waters delay the development of the smolts.

But while looking at this map, another observation came to me.

While the salmon smolts gradually migrate eastward, the striped bass also appears to be progressively moving up the St. Lawrence River and the North Shore. Today, it is well established in the Saguenay Fjord and its presence is increasingly common at the mouths of many North Shore rivers.

I want to be extremely cautious: I'm not claiming that striped bass follow salmon smolts. I have no scientific evidence to support such a claim. But when two phenomena appear to occur in the same corridor and at overlapping times, it seems legitimate to wonder whether this synchronization could have an impact on the survival of young salmon.

This is where, in my opinion, the discussion becomes interesting. The real issue isn't the striped bass. The real issue is the buildup of pressure.

The salmon smolt never encounters a single obstacle. It must cross estuaries teeming with predators. It must avoid seals, fish-eating birds, large fish, and possibly large concentrations of striped bass. It must also find enough food to continue its migration. Sand eels, capelin, herring, amphipods, and the other small prey it depends on are also sought after by numerous species. The salmon smolt, therefore, doesn't just fight to avoid being eaten; it also fights to find food.

Then comes the ocean. There, too, the challenges multiply: competition for food, climate change, parasites, diseases, shifts in prey distribution, and, on some migratory routes, marine aquaculture operations. After one or two winters, when it finally begins the return journey, the ordeal starts all over again. The seals are still there. Heat waves affect some rivers. Low water levels complicate the migration. Natural and man-made obstacles add to the already accumulated stress.

And perhaps that's where the heart of my hypothesis lies.

We are studying seals.

We are studying the striped bass.

We are studying climate change.

We are studying aquaculture.

We study diseases.

But how many studies actually look at the cumulative effect of all these pressures on a single salmon, throughout its journey?

In my view, that's exactly what Running the Gauntlet is all about. The salmon doesn't face a single threat. It must survive a series of trials that begin as soon as it leaves its river and only end when it returns to spawn.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps this hypothesis will one day be completely refuted. And if so, all the better. That's precisely the role of science. But I sincerely believe this question deserves to be asked. Because by constantly searching for someone to blame, we might miss the real problem: it's not a single threat that's causing the salmon to disappear. It's perhaps the accumulation of all the others.