Susquehanna Meditations: Shad Run

Shad Run

We meant well.  They were built with the best of intentions.    It was, after all, good paying work during hard times. 

Conowingo. 

Holtwood. 

Safe Harbor. 

York Haven. 

Each delivered the gift of electricity to rural counties.  Each engineered effective irrigation.  Each engineered commercial and residential growth.  Each was a sign and a push of the modern age.  But there always is a price to what we trust is progress.    Change happens, progress requires intention.  Sometimes there is damage.  Sometimes irreparable damage.   Change isn’t always progress.   For every gain, something is lost. 

Lives strewn with little deaths. 

A pastor is driving back from visiting a member in a nursing home to conduct an evening service.  The fox dashes across the road.  The tell-tale thud.

The farmer ploughing the field at wintertime churning up a mouse’s nest.

Lead: a durable and malleable metal, rust resistant.  What better metal should we use to manufacture and install water pipes?  Only to poison a population of children. 

There always is a price.  What is the trade-off?  Which, appropriately, is a pivotal question for nurse and oncologist to ask their cancer patients:  what are you willing to give up to have the best possible life given the limits of your life?

Same again with the Cotton Gin sparing sharecroppers from hours of back-breaking and tedious labor, which also meant they were out of work.  Given the prevalence of automation today, you begin to appreciate the Luddites and their relish in destruction.  Though, who automates the automation?

The dishwasher and microwave, refrigerator and stove, blender and coffee maker -- all these are terrific time-saving and labor-saving devices that require us working harder and longer so we can pay for all these time-saving and labor-saving devices.   Huh?

With the best of intentions…”The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men mang aft agley.”

The best of intentions.  Pedigree breeding for the show-ring producing genetic defects.  Big face dogs have to be born by caesarean section. 

It applies equally to attempts at social engineering too. 

Dammit, though, what if we hadn’t dammed up the Susquehanna despite the benefits from those incredible hydroelectric plants downstream?   Dammit, what if we didn’t feel the need for waterskiing or lounging around with a beer in hand in a pontoon bad and installed those inflatable dams?  Sure, they tried to offset the dilemma with ladders, bucket, hatcheries, even elevators.  But it really hasn’t work.  Damn dams. 

The shad is gone, this rich, tasty, large herring. 

The shad don’t swim this far anymore.  Not like they used to.  The shad no longer spawn upstream.   Not like they used to.  Not with the river flow slowed down, sediment mounding up against the concrete, water too warm, effluents filtering. 

Count the man-made obstacles in the way, and shad, well, shad just don’t jump as well as salmon.  Damn dams.

What was the last recorded shad run?  When was the last time we gathered near the mouth of the Mahoning Creek and watched them thick and churning in the river?  When was the last time we watched the fat shad run that once upon a time fed the hungry Susquehannock brave and his family, fed the soaring eagle swooping to the water, fed the swatting bear knee deep in river?  When was the last shad run that fed bear and eagle and family full after they survived the long lean Pennsylvania winter?   Imagine the springtime festival they had back then, the springtime celebration, the springtime relief.  Life restored.  Another chance.  We survived!  Now we party!  When the going gets tough, it is time for a party!  Now is the time to make babies.  Now time to be nourished enough for birth and raising babies.  Shad-time!

Can anyone recall when some lucky angler on the river pulled one in?

Was the price of the shad worth it?