{"id":39596,"date":"2026-07-05T08:00:03","date_gmt":"2026-07-05T15:00:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/?p=39596"},"modified":"2026-06-17T15:58:33","modified_gmt":"2026-06-17T22:58:33","slug":"the-smell-of-home-lessons-from-the-ever-anadromous-salmon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/2026\/07\/05\/the-smell-of-home-lessons-from-the-ever-anadromous-salmon\/","title":{"rendered":"The Smell of Home: Lessons from the Ever-Anadromous Salmon"},"content":{"rendered":"

As guides, most of our mileage, sights, and experiences were dictated by clients\u2019\u00a0wishes and bucket list items. We closely scanned the waterline for silhouettes of sea otters, harbor seals, and various other charismatic animals. We\u2019d toe the line between adventure and hazard, getting clients as close to the calving glacier as everyone’s safety would allow. Thus far on our trip up the Columbia River, we\u2019ve seen a variety of creatures and critters, including sea lions, baby turtles, raccoons, and the occasional fish jumping out of the water.<\/span><\/p>\n

But this summer, our focus has shifted. Instead of hunting out the best chance to see a pinky leap out of the water, we became focused on the aspects of their journey we had previously overlooked. Not the picturesque humpback whale surfacing and spouting, but paddling through wing dams, dodging hunks of sheet metal from rusted boats, and carefully following the main channel to avoid becoming stranded in the algal blooms of the Columbia Slough. <\/span><\/p>\n

Instead of guiding clients through towering fjords, we are journeying up the Columbia and Snake rivers, letting the salmon be our guides and learning from them how to navigate the waters of their terminal migration upstream.<\/span><\/p>\n

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In roughly the first 30 miles of the river, we made a couple foolish decisions. The main one being: we paddled in the middle of the channel, unknowingly battling much higher current and winds. To clarify, we were not paddling in a shipping lane, but tucked into an estuary where neither ships nor large vessels go. We heard not the sound of boat traffic, but the soft hiss of reed grass bending in the eastward breeze. <\/span><\/p>\n

After paddling through the tranquil estuary for a little while, with all its twists, turns, islands, and sand bars, we relaxed into the motion of it all. We made crossings from island to mainland, breaking away from the shore due to various strainers which were mostly downed trees. We took a lax approach, trying to cut corners around river bends until we left the estuary (but still not in the main shipping channel).<\/span><\/p>\n

Further upriver, the current against us was far stronger. As we marked our snail\u2019s-pace progress, we continued the habit we\u2019d developed in the estuary, cutting across the river when it appeared to shorten our route. Whether by illusion or reality, whenever we drifted close to shore, our speed seemed to increase dramatically. <\/span>From there we island hopped, remaining well away from the wing dams on the Oregon side of the river. <\/span><\/p>\n

Due to the current and ebbing tide, four hours into paddling we had hardly moved, but having chosen to paddle our way upriver rather than drift down it, we had already resigned ourselves to the Sisyphean slog. Albert Camus famously wrote, \u201cOne must imagine Sisyphus happy.\u201d With sweat running down our foreheads, carrying sunscreen and salt into our eyes where it burned like hot chili oil, we began to understand why: after millennia of uphill climbing, Sisyphus was probably jacked.<\/span><\/p>\n