On a cold Saturday morning, we struggle into the
constrictive, clammy confines of our waders and begin the trek down the hill to
our fish trap. We’re trapping the Arroyo Hondo. Situated in eastern Santa Clara
County, this creek spills into the eastern edge of Calaveras Reservoir, in the outskirts
of Milpitas and a Silicon Valley, virtually oblivious to the untrammeled
wilderness with which it rubs elbows. I am accompanied by our brand new intern,
who happens to have exactly one day more of experience at the new fish trapping
site than me. It is with considerable trepidation that I recognize the possibility
that there might be a trout in the trap. Sure, last summer I had PIT tagged a
few trout, but only small ones that fit easily in the palm of my inexperienced
hand. Certainly, none of the hogs that had been popping up in the trap in the
last couple of days. Nerves twanging, I set about filling out the data sheet,
arranging gear, reviewing protocols. It’s all mundane, routine. Right?
We stuff a burlap bag into opening of the live box, so the
trapped fish can’t escape, unlatch each of the six bolts that secure the box,
and raise the lid. Whoosh! An angry tail whips creek water over the rim of the
live box. Not one, not two, but three big rainbow trout hunkered down in the
cool waters of the Arroyo Hondo, waiting to be weighed, measured and fitted
with a tracking tag. Damnit! I’m not ready for this. So, buying time, we use
small nets to scoop out willow catkins that have accumulated in the live box,
and transfer the ho-hum prickly sculpin and California roach so routine to fish
trapping from the live trap to a plastic bucket. But there is no ignoring those three, enormous
trout that need to be sedated, weighed, measured, PIT tagged and scale-sampled.
At some point it can’t be postponed anymore, so I fill the
buckets with appropriate amount of creek water, add the baking soda and Alka
Seltzer that will deoxygenate the water and stun the fish, and net the biggest
trout. It struggles as I lift it from the live trap, splashing cold water into
my eyes and hair. It tries to escape from the bucket, thrashing turbulent
sheets of water from the anesthetic bath. This isn’t going to be easy, is it? I
watch nervously as the big fish continues to disturb the water. But the
protocols don’t lie. Four minutes later it repeatedly rolls to its side and surfaces
to gulp for air. It is time. I’ve already weighed it, so I plunk it on the
measuring board. 490 millimeters. Woah.
I show our intern how I want it oriented, so I can place the
PIT tag correctly; starboard side up, tail pointing away from me. Thank god, she
has a natural feel for this, and the fish is tired, sedated. It goes well. The
tag injector pops through the skin effortlessly, I pull the trigger, extract
the gun, rub the incision, read and note the tag number. Not out of the woods
yet though, scale samples are still needed. I retrieve the tiny pocket knife
from our gear bag, unsheathe the blade, and laboriously scrape exactly one
scale from the exposed side of this monster. I wipe the knife on the contact
paper, and place the scale sample the labeled envelope. Done. Carefully placing
this beauty in the recovery basin, oxygen bubbler merrily churning out air, I
take a breath. A breeze floats down the Arroyo Hondo and cools the sweat on the
back of my neck, raising goose bumps on my arms. I lift a second fish from the
trap. Weigh, measure, tag, scales. Repeat. This, is what I do.