HAYWARD, Wis. (AP) — Cold nights in northern Wisconsin’s Chippewa Flowage don’t deter 15-year-old spearfisher Gabe Bisonette. He has been learning the Ojibwe practice for so long that when his flashlight catches the glow of his prey’s eyes, he is able to report the sighting to his father almost without saying a word.
With the spear at the ready, Gabe pushes the rod down and hits the rippling water. He lifts the rod into the air in a practiced motion — the hardest part, he says, is keeping the walleye on the spear as it twitches — and then slides the catch into the boat with a thud.
The Ojibwe and other indigenous peoples are fighting to maintain this vibrant way of life. As a result of warming waters, increasingly variable seasonal changes, and lakeshore development, walleye numbers in some lakes are declining. Losing the species would mean losing a food source for community members, a sovereign right to fish, and a deep connection to tradition and nature. Many are optimistic that, with the help of science and proper management, they will be able to continue this tradition in the future, but there is also concern about the changes that are already happening.
“We’ve seen things here in the last few years that I’ve never seen before,” said Brian Bisonette, Gabe’s uncle and conservation director for the Lac Courte Oreilles Department of Conservation. “It worries me, what have I seen in my life, what will my grandson see in his life?”
______
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a series on how indigenous tribes and communities are dealing with and combating climate change.
______
Bisonette described how previous leaders, recognizing the need for sufficient food to subsist in their homeland, strategically granted the rights to hunt, fish and gather wild rice in certain areas as part of 19th-century treaties that ceded land to settlers.
But for a long time after that, the state of Wisconsin restricted the treaty rights of tribes and, in some cases, even imprisoned tribal members for participating in activities that were part of their heritage. Ultimately, a 1983 Supreme Court ruling upheld the rights of the Ojibwe people, but opposition erupted. Angry and ill-informed residents appeared at the lakes to harass the tribesmen. They slashed tires, shouted racist insults and shot spearfishers.
Today, guards at every boat landing work to keep people safe, but incidents still happen from time to time. Bisonette may laugh at the idea of people shouting “go back to where you came from” at the natives, but it still carries the weight of past disagreements. “It would be scary for anyone,” he said. “You like to think that time heals everything, but it still doesn’t.”
Now, with the importance of that history in mind, tribes and local conservation teams are finding ways to keep the walleye and spearing tradition intact. Releasers are required to obtain permits that limit the number of fish they can catch, and some lakes are “stocked,” meaning that most of the fish population is born in a hatchery and released into the lake. But the goal, in many cases, is still to boost natural reproduction.
“Whether tribal or non-tribal, this is a concern for all of us,” Bisonette said.
Lake ecosystems in danger
At another inland lake, Lac Courte Oreilles, Department of Natural Resources fisheries biologist Max Wolter and regional team supervisor Angelena Sikora are also looking for walleye.
They take a motorboat to nets strategically placed at different points on the shore, and Sikora happily throws each walleye or crappie onto the measuring surface to record its size and sex. If it is a new individual, she marks it by cutting off a fin and then throws it back.
The goal is to get an accurate picture of inland lake fish populations, which the DNR puts together in partnership with tribal conservation partners and the Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife Commission. Pooling their data, experts from all groups are noticing signs of change.
“It’s not that adult walleye are simply dying, it’s that the amount of reproduction isn’t happening at the same levels as before, especially in certain bodies of water,” Wolter said. GLIFWC communications director Charlie Rasmussen added that even when young walleye hatch, they have a harder time surviving to adulthood.
Kelly Martin, who has been spearfishing with her family for several decades, sees the changes firsthand. This year he was surprised by the start of the season, which came early because there was no ice on the lake this winter. Wolter explained that winters are becoming extremely inconsistent in terms of length and temperature, and climate change is making some lakes clearer due to prolonged periods of drought that slow river flow, which negatively affects lake habitat. walleye, which do best in murkier waters.
Martin has also seen the waters changed by other factors, such as development. After the pandemic, in his work as a roofing contractor, he saw business soar at lakefront homes, attracting both remote workers and tourists.
“You want to make sure this lake remains sustainable for everyone for many years to come,” he said. “My great-great-grandchildren, I want them to be able to spend time with their family and tell their stories.”
The DNR updated its walleye conservation plan in 2022, focusing on climate change. And in January 2023, GLIFWC released the updated version of its climate change vulnerability assessment, work that was seven years in the making, driven in large part by what they were hearing from tribal members about the changes they were seeing.
“This knowledge held by tribal elders appears to be receiving more widespread acceptance,” and science is supporting and learning from indigenous knowledge, Rasmussen said.
Tribes are the first to adapt
Many northern Wisconsin tribal members have watched the influx of people into their small community, coming for the promise of a “weather-proof” escape thanks to its abundant freshwater supply, relative safety from rising sea levels and and the heating, but still cold. winters.
But it’s not these newcomers and summer tourists who depend on nature for food, nor are they the ones fighting for traditions that go back generations. As inland lakes warm with climate change, tribal members are the first to feel the effects.
That’s why the tribes’ intimate knowledge of the lakes, passed down from generation to generation, inspires Bisonette and others invested in spearfishing to keep fighting to do so.
“That’s one thing for all indigenous populations: they want to adapt,” Bisonette said.
For now, with conservation efforts keeping walleye populations intact, Martin, whose Ojibwe name Giiwitaayaanimad means “wind blowing everywhere,” catches enough fish to help feed the community’s elderly. scales, carefully making each cut with a knife and washing the meat in a bucket. The resulting harvest is stored in the refrigerator or freezer until it can be taken to people throughout the community, something he loves hearing from his elders. ‘Stories are priceless, he says.
“Some of these people, that’s how they grew up. That’s their life, doing that,” Martin said. “I just hope it’s like that. Someone will remember me.
___
Follow Melina Walling on X at @MelinaWalling and John Locher on Instagram at @locherphoto
___
The Associated Press’ climate and environmental coverage receives financial support from several private foundations. AP is solely responsible for all content. Find APs standards for working with philanthropies, a list of supporters and areas of coverage funded in AP.org.
