Summer in the Selway-Bitterroot

For six days, the only fresh tracks we saw on the trail were those left by a family of wolves. The disconcertingly large imprints in the dusty trail easily obscured any old boot prints lingering in the dirt. The trail undulated sinuously over the rumpled mountain landscape, a bright line through a recently burned forest. The single track crested a rise before dropping steeply into a lake basin. The lake was broad and brilliantly blue, mirroring the cloudless sky. This drop of subalpine water tucked itself snugly into a deep wrinkle of mountain, a teardrop amongst the rugged hills. The scars of old forest fire surrounded the lake, lending to the landscape the image of uneven stubble on a weathered face. 

Brooke and I hiked back and forth to this lake for two days. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon, we stalked slowly around its perimeter, searching for amphibians. Hours spent staring into the shallows, pausing at every movement, not willing to miss a single frog’s splashy jump or tadpole’s uncooperative swim. Early in the morning we pulled a gill net we had set the night before. As we stared at the mass of tangled net and dead trout, a cow moose and her calf came tumbling into the lake, breaking the morning’s silence. The calf tried to keep up with mom, but could hardly control the movements of its awkward and gangly legs. Soon a bull moose came thrashing into the water. The moose family fed quietly on submerged vegetation. The silence around the lake was interrupted only by the bull heaving his massive head out of the water, a waterfall pouring off of the paddles of his broad antlers. Brooke and I watched these mammals in awe as we plucked dead fish from a heinously tangled net while being consumed by mosquitoes. The bull chewed and lazily looked at us with a certain suspicion, but mostly uncaring. Soon I was staring back, cautiously paddling a tiny raft to the middle of the lake to collect zooplankton.

As I wrap up a month in the office, I often find my thoughts wandering off onto the trails, or rather, the lack thereof, of the vast Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. My summer was spent with Idaho Fish and Game probing obscure corners of this swathe of mountains, part of the largest wilderness complex in the lower 48 states. Working 8-day hitches, Brooke and I surveyed dozens of high mountain lakes for amphibians and trout. We never once saw a human soul after hiking a mile from any trailhead. Human company was replaced with the yips of coyotes, the subtle splashes of trout, and the baffled gaze of moose. And of course, the unrelenting buzz and bites of mosquitoes feasting on our delicious flesh. The landscape was relentless as we dropped off trail into lonely lake basins and scrambled over deadfall on trails left unmaintained for years. 

Prior to human intervention, over 95% of high mountain lakes in the west were fishless. Trout stocking efforts over the last century have resulted in a stunning change to this statistic. A majority of formerly fishless montane lakes now contain nonnative brook, rainbow, golden, and cutthroat trout. Dropped from airplanes and helicopters, salmonids have overtaken the high mountain basins in the ranges of the western United States. What is the biological cost of providing these backcountry angling opportunities?

Amphibians were once incredibly abundant in the lakes tucked amongst snow-capped peaks. With the introduction of trout, the frogs and salamanders that formerly hopped and wriggled freely now face competition and predation from multiple species which evolved in entirely different ecosystems. As part of a 20-year study, I led a crew to survey amphibian and trout populations in the high mountain lakes tucked deep within Idaho’s most wild country. For the last month, I have been pouring over samples and data, attempting to figure out how the work I did this summer fits into this puzzle of subalpine ecology. When statistics crush my soul and my eyes hurt from staring at zooplankton through a microscope, my mind wanders. It settles on the sun igniting a mountainous sky in oranges and purples. It settles on staring out into a sea of granite and pine hills fading off into the horizon. It settles on the feeling of how small I am, of how small we all are, and how we must fight to protect the remaining wild areas of the world.

Last night I repacked my van, and now I begin a southward migration. Seasonal conservation work is often under-funded, and as a result I’ll be taking the next month “off” (wahoo!!). I can’t complain, as I’ll be headed to the southwestern US on what seems to now be a yearly pilgrimage to the sanctity of red rock country. After exploring the canyons and crags of southern Utah, it’ll be back to Idaho for me. I have a hot date with some stats and a big ol’ report when I return in late November.