I have always been a staunch advocate for environmental protection, but this week I’ve found myself questioning the depth of my commitment.
The catalyst for this introspection is the closure of 33 rivers in Norway from July 23rd due to the alarming decline in salmon runs. This measure aims to safeguard the future of our precious salmon. I had eagerly booked my annual trip for August and a special July journey to the Orkla River, hoping to catch one of the majestic giants that migrate upstream in the summer. These trips are more than just fishing expeditions; they are spiritual pilgrimages that honour my ancestors, rejuvenate my soul, and spark my creativity. Each trip involves meticulous planning—purchasing flies, perhaps a new reel or rod for that extra boost of confidence (though the salmon remain indifferent), scouring social media for catch reports, monitoring the weather, consulting local friends about conditions, and finally, the giddy excitement of packing and heading north.
Now, these cherished journeys are in jeopardy due to the river closures. I understand and respect the necessity of such drastic action, as we have long ignored the warning signs and relied on temporary fixes. This crisis has forced me to confront my own commitment to environmental change. It’s painfully clear: “It is not until it affects us on a personal level that we take action.” This realization has shaken me awake. For too long, we have buried our heads in the sand, taking token actions until the crisis hits home. The threat to my annual trips has ignited a desire for radical change, not only for myself but for the broader community dependent on these rivers—landowners, guides, lodges, license fee collectors, small shops, campgrounds, supermarkets, bars, restaurants, fly tyers, tackle shops, and more. The recreational value of salmon fishing in Norway was estimated at NOK 1.58 million in 2021, a figure that only hints at the broader economic impact.
So, what can we do? What must we change? The debate will continue—ban fish farms, sea nets, introduce quotas, impose compulsory catch and release—but these measures only manage the decline. Will we ever return to the legendary runs described in William Bilton’s books? Will salmon fishing face the same fate as the California coast’s Ocean Chinook rivers, closed for two years, or the once-mighty US steelhead rivers now reliant on hatcheries? Are the days of wild salmon fishing for the masses ending, leaving it only to the wealthy, as in Scotland? Sadly, I fear this is the direction we’re headed. Other countries must learn from this. The ongoing battle in Iceland to protect native salmon from fish farms is a fight worth joining. The lessons from around the world must guide us in preserving the few wild salmon runs that remain. Will we be forced to seek the last truly wild salmon runs in remote corners like Russia or Argentina?.
This brings me back full circle to my own epiphany: I must do more. I refuse to let the world of big salmon be consigned to history books like the "Domesday Book of Giant Salmon" Volumes 1 and 2. I want future generations to experience the thrill of heading north, the wild adventure of fishing a river for elusive silver bars. I don’t want them to merely read about these experiences; I want them to live them.
Therefore, I pledge to make radical changes in my life, starting now. Yes, it might be late, but better late than never. I invite all my fellow "Brothers and Sisters of the Rod" to join me. Let’s lobby governments, help clean up rivers, refuse to eat farmed salmon, support foundations like the Missing Salmon Alliance and the Atlantic Salmon Trust, and sign petitions like the one to ban salmon farms in Iceland here. Hold big corporations accountable—don't let environmentalism be just a marketing tool.
Buy less, buy better, make the right choices. It might not be salmon that trigger your moment of awakening, but whatever it is, act before it’s too late.
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