The Backwash

The trip to the Columbia River was Mom and Dad's idea. I had spent my whole life in the lake, and they thought I should see the world a bit and meet my cousins while I was at it. Besides, my vacation coincided with a big spawning run, so the timing couldn't be better. I was welcomed with open fins.

"I didn't know I had salmon cousins," I told my cousin Chub. "Heck, I didn't know I was a salmon."

"'Sright, Bo," he burbled. "A rainbow trout is nothin' but a freshwater steelhead."

The up-river swim was challenging but invigorating, and we were making a lot of progress, when everyone started turning off into what appeared to be a rather large estuary.

"What's up?" I inquired. "Rest stop?" That didn't seem right.

"Oh, no," said Chub. "You're in for a treat! We're attending The Backwash."

"The what?" I replied stupidly.

"As I said," said Chub, "you're in for a treat. The Governor has called all Pacific salmon together to pray for divine assistance in these trying times."

"I, um, don't understand," I said. Probably my sheltered all-freshwater up-bringing.

"We salmon have fallen on evil times," explained Chub. "Predators, pollution, development, climate. The list goes on and on. So, under the leadership of our Governor, we're doing something about it!"

"But ... praying?" I asked skeptically. "Wouldn't it be better to fight predators or stop the pollution or something?"

"We are," said Chub. "I just said that we are."

"I meant something more concrete," I said carefully. "Something more ... real."

"Oh, no," replied Chub. "We can't do anything like that. The Governor said to pray."

"I didn't know you had a Governor." I scratched my head. Figuratively. "Which species is he? Chinook?"

"No, Ursus arctos, I think," said Chub.

It's a good thing I wasn't eating anything at the moment, because I would have sprayed it all over the estuary in the classic comic way. "But that's a grizzly bear," I managed at last. "Isn't it?"

"Well, of course, he's a grizzly," said Chub. "What else would he be?"

"How about a salmon?" I suggested.

"What, are you crazy?" scoffed Chub. "A salmon can't be Governor. The Governor is a member of the Grizzly Old Party."

"Aren't there any other parties?" I coaxed.

"Well, of course, there's another party," replied Chub, a touch offended. "What do you think we are? We're not totalitarian, if that's what you think."

"Ah, good," said I. "And the other party you mentioned is ... ?"

"The Black Bears, of course," said Chub. "But no one votes for them anymore. They eat less salmon, but the Grizzlies can kick their asses."

"You touch on an interesting point there," I said as diplomatically as I could. "All of those bears eat ... fish. In particular, ... salmon. Are there any other parties? Say, salmon parties?"

"Of course not!" spat Chub, as much as a fish can spit. "That would be ridiculous!"

I sighed inwardly, but tried one more time. "But what is the point of this ... 'Backwash' exercise?"

Chub looked a little uneasy. "With Grizzlies running the show," he said, "does it look like we have any other prayer?"