Gone, Fishing?

Jun 1, 2005  

Quotas are tight and strictly enforced. Last season, 60,000 kilograms of whitefish was the cap for Cold Lake (where the season lands in late fall). But the walleye and trout quota was only 25 kilos, even though Saskatchewan?s trout quota was 5,000 kilograms. Accidentally snag a few big walleye and the entire lake closes for the season, even if the quota for whitefish hasn’t been reached. Take double of the walleye quota and you’ve lost next year as well. Take four times and the lake shuts down for four years.

It’s like that because of the priorities the province puts on Alberta fish. “First is conservation, second is our domestic food fishery (the few people who fish primarily for subsistence because of isolation and no access to other sources of food),” says Ken Bodden, a commercial fishery specialist with Alberta Sustainable Resources. “Then it’s sport fishing, then comes commercial fishing.”

Fishermen like Thompson don’t like these priorities and believe the biologists whose recommendations help set quotas don?t want an Alberta commercial fishery at all. In their view, it doesn’t help when eminent climate experts such as the University of Alberta’s David Schindler say the country’s freshwater fishery could be dead in less than 50 years because of climate change. Citing the collapse of cod stocks off the east coast and warning that salmon is also “on the brink,” Schindler says these precedents could serve as a “blueprint” for the freshwater fishery.

“I really believe that they are trying to starve us out,” says Thompson. “I believe there is a hidden agenda to shut us down. And with prices on the downside, you’re kind of wondering whether you should keep going. And now with the rationalization program from the province, it’s kind of changed things and I’m not sure what I should be doing. Actually, it would be lot better to talk to me in a year to see.”

Since 1987, and more intensely in the last couple of years, the provincial government has introduced various policies in an effort to reduce the number of fishermen on Alberta lakes. More restrictions on licensing have kicked in, license fees were increased from $75 to $500, and fishermen are now allowed to apply for government compensation so they can leave the industry. “The idea was to get to a more business-related, more economical fishery for the fishermen who were there, to give them a larger share of the pie,” says Bodden. “It gives us better lake-to-lake management because we now know who is going to show up there. It gives those who are in there now an opportunity to make some benefits. The industry has produced probably in the neighbourhood of 2.1 to 2.4 million kilos of fish, which is 85% whitefish. Depending on the year and the value of the fish, when you divide it among those fishermen, that?s $30,000 to $40,000 a piece, and that’s for four, maybe five months of work.”

The government plan to decrease the number of fishermen is working. In 1987, there were 4,800 licensed commercial fishermen in Alberta. Some had only a few nets, some had many. Some fished in only one lake for one day, and some fished in every lake in their zone until the season ended. Today there are only 232 licensed commercial fishermen in Alberta and the province hopes to decrease that further to about 185.

But fishermen are fighting for survival by trying to change the entire philosophy of their industry. A three-year business plan with strategies for marketing, boat and ice safety, food handling, communication, monitoring, ethics and so on has been developed, all with the goal of transforming traditional fishing into more of a sustainable industry. Brian Peters of the Alberta Commercial Fishermen’s Association says that means communicating and planning with everybody involved, from fishermen to marketers, sellers and processors, to build something bigger than a cottage industry, just harvesting on lakes.

“We’re saying that we want to be like the oil business,” says Peters. “We’re looking at self-managing our own industry from the resource right through to the point of sale.”

My uncle Walter has been a commercial fisherman for more than 40 years. He’s worked other jobs to make a solid income, but he’s always been a fisherman. His hands are sore, his shoulders ache and circumstances beyond his control, such as prices and government regulations, make it less worthwhile every year to head out onto the lake. But every season, he seems to find a reason to fish.

Andy Thompson reminds me of my uncle. He considers giving up fishing, saying next season might be his last, but I know how tough it will be for him to turn away. There’s something about being on the lake — despite the hard work, the sore hands, the aching shoulders and the lopsided economic equation — that calls out to him. To my uncle, too. It’s something I can’t fully understand, which is why I will never make a good fisherman, my DNA notwithstanding. Call it desire, call it tradition, call it whatever you want, the pull of the lake is strong.

“I don’t think we should give it up,” says Thompson. “It’s part of your life; it’s a way of life. The kind of guys who hated it got out years ago, but when you really like doing it, like trapping or hunting, it’s kind of in you. Right now, the ice is starting to go off the lake, and you look every day. It’s not going to open for a couple of weeks, but you still look every day.”

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