NATURE The Salmon autumn run on the Moy

UPSTREAM BATTLE Salmon continue to jump rapids during the autumn run, which lasts until late November.

Leaping towards future rewards


Country sights and sounds
John Shelley

It was late in the season for salmon to be running at the falls, even here at Carrowkeel on the Clydagh, at the top end of the Moy, where the fish sometimes appear later than they do elsewhere. It was late on a damp November afternoon, and I had arrived to find the river rising at the onset of yet another peat-stained spate, full of foam and fallen leaves, golden-green and yellow-brown.
A heron stood at its fishing post on a small outcrop of rock a yard back from the churning flood. The bird saw me and ducked behind a stand of hazel, imagining itself invisible. For 20 minutes we played our waiting game while a succession of fish showed themselves, leaping and sporting, delighting in the new fresh that would carry them above and beyond the difficult obstacle that the waterfall most certainly was.
A brown trout of a pound, new from Lough Cullin, leaped high into the air in a shower of spray that fell golden grey from its spangled flank. The sight of a potential meal was too much for the heron, which moved immediately to the waters edge and stood, craned over the tumult of foam, peering hard to see where its dinner had gone.
A salmon nosed the current. I saw it clearly, a stale, almost black cock fish with a heavy kype – a pronounced curvature of the jaws seen in male salmon. The river caught it by the tail and swung it into a stick-filled eddy under the far bank. From there the fish moved slowly back toward the turbulence of the pool at the foot of the waterfall.
The heron saw it and leaned forward, its eye wide and beak slightly agape. As the fish came within reach that heavy beak stabbed forward and grabbed the salmon by the head. The fish thrashed the water with its tail, throwing foam high into the air, and plunged for the safety of the deep, pulling the birds head beneath the surface for several seconds before effecting its escape.
Another watcher arrived with his dog and the heron flew off with a gruff complaint. I was sorry, certain that there would have been more entertainment had we not been disturbed. We talked loudly so as to be heard above the roaring water, watching a succession of fish launching themselves headlong into the torrent that spilled down from the hills.
One larger salmon of seven or eight pounds came close to conquering the fall but inexplicably turned broadside on at the summit and fell back to the pool beneath. Two smaller fish came close to beaching themselves on the rocks, and shortly after, while we were still commenting on those, a third actually did so, after completing a prodigious leap that would surely, had it been correctly aimed, have taken it into the quiet water upstream. Instead it fell heavily onto the rocks, where it lay still for several seconds before righting itself and wriggling, eel-like, back into its natural element.
If only the fish realised it, there was a much easier route available on the far side of the cataract, where the flow was easy to negotiate. As the flood continued to rise some would surely take this alternative and be on their way. For the majority the roar and tumult of the waterfall will be an irresistible attraction until they too find the courage and strength to make that great leap.
When the watcher and his dog went on their way I waited for the heron to return. Half an hour passed with no sign of it. Fish came steadily to the fall, including two fine salmon not long up from the sea, silver bright in the turgid stream. I saw them leap the first step, one close behind the other, then swirl in unison before the final assault and turn together back down the river.
Two score of years ago that brace would not have been safe. Now, happily, we live in more enlightened times – more prosperous ones, too, so that taking these precious fish out of season is no longer seen as a necessity or even as harmless sport, but as a crime, which it really is. The heron will take its share, and the otter will take what it needs.
As for us, we will watch. Our reward will come three summers hence, when the progeny of this year’s spawning stock return from their maritime migration, flush and perfect and in such a multitude we will remember this autumn day and its streaming fish with fondness.