An early-spring sunrise on the Williamson River.
Our mission began in the icy 2:47am darkness. A brisk Monday morning, if one can rightfully call that hour morning. It was too early to hear the calls of birds welcoming a new day. The only sound was from a stiff breeze rustling the pines. Occasionally a car’s headlights sliced through the night on the nearby highway. Joel emerged from his truck, and we greeted each other quietly. Noise seems inappropriate at such an hour. Joel slipped a key into the door and turned. The deadbolt retracted out of its nighttime abode with a loud clack. As we entered the office, we moved with calculated haste. We had 60 seconds to disarm the alarm. With precision that can only be described as akin to a neurosurgeon, Joel swiftly entered a four-digit code into the keypad. Beep beep, bop! We were in. I maneuvered the light switch to the “on” position as I rounded the corner. Down the hall I went, finally arriving at my productivity and action facilitation station. Here I began to prepare for the morning’s arduous tasks. Bag? Hat? Gloves? Check. I got up and moved with an excited urgency down the now-lit hallway and met up with Joel by the office kitchen. We loaded our chosen vessels with an energy vector formed by sending highly active water molecules through a barrier of ground African beans. And so, with coffee in hand, we left the office, now only a memory in the taillights of the truck. Admittedly, on any normal work day one must go through the same process we had just gone through. But at 2:47am, every action is magnitudes more exciting. Positively invigorating!
As much as I’d like to say that Joel and I arrived at work while most are innocently asleep because we relish the splendors of an early start to the day, that is not why we were there. Instead, we had arrived at such an ungodly hour because just a 30 minute drive away, something peculiar was happening in the Williamson River. Thousands of minute endangered larval suckers were going on a journey. As the earth goes about its daily plunge into transient darkness, the larvae drift. These minuscule newly hatched fish, a scant one centimeter of translucent flesh, rise up from the river’s rocky bottom and migrate to the top of the water column. To a scientist trying to capture larval suckers, this is a thrilling behavioral pattern! A simple zooplankton net can be deployed from a bridge for 20 minutes and left to “fish” in the coursing currents of the Williamson River. Several sets of these nets can yield anywhere from a handful to several hundred to several thousand of the wondrous drifting larvae. Joel and I plied the waters for several hours that morning, managing to secure just 150 larvae as the earth emerged from its daily dose of darkness. As we pulled in our last net, a robin chimed in to welcome the sun. In no time light was erasing the long shadows of our early dawn.
What does one do with 150 endangered sucker larvae, or ideally, several thousand? Nurture, love, and care for them, that’s what. Coddle the precious lives of these young beings and prepare them for the arduous journey of life. Joel and I transported the larvae south to the Fish and Wildlife Service’s controlled propagation facility. At this rearing location, we meticulously counted each future adult fish and gently placed them in a tank swirling with waters tuned to the biochemistry of the larvae. A little salt bath and rinse in some medicine, and the fledgling fish are good to go. With any luck, in a year or so these larvae will have grown into mighty sub-adult suckers, ready to be released into the sometimes perilous but often bountiful waters of Upper Klamath Lake. Early mornings collecting larval fish may be challenging, but they are necessary to help endangered species avoid extinction. Personally, I find days go by quicker when onerous tasks are turned into exhilarating life or death, covert missions to push the bounds of science. Now time for my nap.
Jeff Mogavero
US Fish and Wildlife Service
Klamath Falls, OR Field Office