Childhood Memories of Salmon Leaping Moricetown Canyon

The Bulkley River here at Moricetown Canyon, where it squeezes through on its way to the Skeena, is a pretty rugged piece of geography. Back in 1972, this spot wasn't the tourism hot spot it is today.

When I was a kid growing up in Smithers, one of my favorite things was lying on these rocks, as close to the water as I could get, and just watching the thousands of salmon. They were trying to jump their way through the falls, working so hard to get to their spawning grounds further upriver. That massive waterfall at the canyon entrance was a huge challenge for them. You see the fish ladders now? Those weren't here then; they were installed years later.

My sister and I would lie on our stomachs, watching the fish fight their way upstream. We got pretty good at recognizing them as they’d try, over and over, to leap up the falls. We even started naming them. We’d yell things like, “Charlie! Go Charlie! You can do it this time!” He’d leap up, then fall back into the water, getting washed downstream. We’d tell him, “Aww—try again Charlie, higher this time!” He’d jump, pushing the air with his tail. Up, up, up! Sometimes he’d make it. We’d holler, “There he goes! He did it!” and slap each other on the back.

Then another one would catch our eye. I remember seeing this huge fish, so big. I suggested, “Mabel is a good name for her.” Splash! Down Mabel would go, washed all the way to the bottom of the falls. I’d think, “These poor fish. No wonder they’re half-dead when they get to where we live.”

My sister yelled, “There goes Mabel again,” and I saw her literally flying up that waterfall, waving her tail like a propeller. Down she plopped, then disappeared. I hoped she’d make it. She looked so worn out, and I could see the round scars on her side where lamprey eels had attached themselves to suck her blood. A lot of the fish had those scars. I’d look over at the rocks and see hundreds of those eels, clinging to the wall with their sucker mouths, looking like long black snakes. I really hated those lamprey eels.

My sister would yell, “Here comes another big fish.” I’d watch intently, saying, “Maybe it’s Mabel.” Up from the water she came, and it did look like Mabel; I recognized the scars. We’d urge her on: “You can do it Mabel!” She took a giant leap, pushed against the air with her tail, did a bit of a flip to the right, and then went down into somewhat calmer water. I quickly scrambled up a rock for a better view and saw her swimming upstream, almost at the top of the falls. She had made it over the biggest hurdle.