The future of commercial fishing in the Upper Peninsula depends on lake ecology and the willingness of a new generation to learn the skills and way of life of those who fish the Great Lakes.
Commercial Fishing's Important Role in the Upper Peninsula
Imagine rolling out of bed at 4 or 4:30 in the morning, routinely beating the sunrise. You worked 12 hours the day before and probably will again today. And you know you're in for a day of hard labor, because you've been doing it all your life almost on a daily basis. Few can take on this kind of work, but this is how you and your family have made their living for generations.
This might sound like the intro to a dramatic novel with some sort of tragic ending for someone. However, it most certainly is not. Rather, this is the start to any morning for a commercial fisher. And though the work is, indeed, laborious, it's a far cry from tragedy.
In fact, the fishermen and women of the Native American tribes and state-licensed fisheries that dot the Upper Peninsula couldn't imagine doing something else that doesn't involve spending almost each and every day out on the lake, catching fish, and ultimately serving their community. It's their way of life and an honorable one at that--and these folks are the ones poised to take on the various challenges facing the long-term sustainability of commercial fishing.
Fillet Everyday
Ted Thill of
Thill's Fish House in Marquette learned the business of commercial fishing from his late father, Francis. Thill's father began fishing commercially in the waters off the Garden Peninsula in 1948, moving to Marquette in 1959. The retail shop opened a couple of years later.
Luckily the fate of the family business was never in doubt. Thill inherited the business from his father, and his sons Dan and Adam are next in line. There is little doubt, too, that his sons will be up to the task. They already have taken over boat responsibilities. Thill's grandson has even taken to working on the boat, seemingly assuring their business for generations to come.
Unfortunately that's not always the case. Thill says regulations and fewer licenses have attributed to the decline in commercial fishing. Perhaps more importantly, the backbreaking work itself has led to fewer fisheries.
Thill describes 12-hour workdays, five or six days a week, starting around 5 or 6 in the morning when his sons go out to the lake.
"They're usually back around 3," says Thill. "Then we have to fillet all the fish. We fillet everything the same day we catch them."
The hard work has paid off. Thill notes they can't catch enough fish for their customers, and there's not a hint of worry in his voice. But he admits the work isn't for everyone.
Heritage
What commercial fisheries do exist, however, are essential to small communities in the Upper Peninsula, says Dr. Ronald Kinnunen, a senior educator with
Michigan State University Extension. They provide jobs and fresh, wholesome fish for local communities.
"It is also an important part of the heritage of the Great Lakes," he adds.
Part of that heritage is the Native American communities who make up a substantial portion of the Upper Peninsula fishing scene. After describing a shorter than usual fishing season due to ice, Thill notes he was able to buy fish from tribal fishers, who fished underneath the ice.
"I buy fish from Native Americans all winter," he says.
Historically, tribal fisheries have been a staple of the Upper Peninsula.
"The 1836 treaty covers the eastern U.P. with tribal members from Bay Mills and the Soo Tribes fishing these waters of Lakes Superior, Michigan, and Huron," explains Kinnunen. "In the western U.P. we have the 1842 treaty with tribal members from the Keweenaw Bay Indian Community and Red Cliff Tribes fishing in Lake Superior." Some state-licensed fishermen fish out of Munising, Marquette, from the Keweenaw Peninsula in Lake Superior and from Menominee County in Lake Michigan, too.
Bottom line, it's clear that fishing in the U.P. is as intrinsically linked to the regional culture as, perhaps, the auto industry in southeast Michigan. That's why it is important to keep the industry, mostly family and tribally driven, alive and well in the Upper Peninsula.
Unfortunately, as Thill has already noted, few are signing up for the hard labors of commercial fishing.
"It's hard to find people who want to work this hard anymore," laments Thill.
But talking to Kinnunen, finding hard workers is hardly the industry's only obstacle to long-term sustainability.
Changing Ecology
Quagga mussels, Kinnunen says, have changed the ecology of Lake Michigan--where most of the problems for sustainable fishing have been isolated.
"A major food source for the lake whitefish has disappeared as a result and growth rates have dropped," he explains. "Also, there has been a great growth in the filamentous algae, which interferes with the fishing of the nets in the early part of the summer."
Experts consider the quagga mussel in particular as the most detrimental of the 186 invasive species currently in the Great Lakes.
Unfortunately the fate of the quagga mussel and the havoc it's wreaking are hard to gauge. Lakes change too rapidly for scientists and government agencies to keep up.
What we do know, however, is how important the fisheries are to the Upper Peninsula whether it's Ted Thill's grandson or one of his customers looking for fresh, healthy fish to serve their family. Naturally, finding a solution to the problem of invasive species in the surrounding lakes is equally important.
Perhaps if the powers that be can approach the problem with the same work ethic and dedication as Thill and his sons, we will have a solution sooner rather than later, and families and tribes across the Upper Peninsula will be able to continue enjoying the fruits of commercial fishing for generations to come.