The Great Lakes fishing industry is facing an unprecedented crisis, and the future looks bleak for the dedicated fishers who have made their living from these waters for generations.
For Richard Boda, a third-generation commercial fisherman and member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, the situation is particularly dire. His handwritten logbook, meticulously maintained for over three decades, has become a tragic testament to the collapse of the whitefish population in the Great Lakes.
"It makes you want to cry," Boda said, reflecting on the declining catches and the uncertain future for his family business.
Boda's logbook, a legacy he intended to pass on to his children, has instead documented the devastating impact of invasive species on the ecosystem. In the early 2000s, invasive mussels colonized Lake Huron, hogging the food supply and triggering a chain reaction that has led to the near-extinction of whitefish, a species that has sustained Great Lakes communities for millennia.
The crisis has forced Boda and other fishers to adapt and diversify their operations. Some have turned to side jobs, while others clean, smoke, and sell their whitefish directly to consumers to maximize profits. Tribal fishers, with their right to target other species, have often done so, while state-regulated fishers lobby for similar flexibility.
But even these efforts may not be enough to sustain the industry if the whitefish continue to disappear.
"Something's got to give," said Scott Everett, legislative consultant for the Michigan Fish Producers Association. "If the whitefish keep disappearing, the lower lakes fishing industry is going to go away."
The decline in whitefish populations is not unique to the Great Lakes, but the scale and impact are unprecedented. Grantly Galland, project director for international fisheries with the Pew Charitable Trusts, emphasizes that collapsing fisheries are common, but they are almost always caused by overfishing. In this case, the blame lies with billions of invasive quagga and zebra mussels, which have become the dominant life form in the lower lakes, siphoning nutrients and creating a famine throughout the food chain.
The scarcity of whitefish has led to tense debates and conflicting opinions. Critics argue that mussel control research is underfunded compared to other threats to the lakes, such as sea lamprey and invasive carp. Meanwhile, efforts to stock whitefish, the main target of commercial fishers, are small and primarily led by tribes. Michigan and other states spend millions to support recreational anglers by stocking salmon, while the federal government spends additional millions on a stocking program for lake trout.
Scientists argue that these fish do not pose an existential threat to whitefish, but fishers fear that the predators are outcompeting whitefish in lakes that can no longer support vast quantities of them.
As whitefish populations continue to decline, commercial fishing advocates are exploring ways to wring more profit from fewer fish. The Conference of Great Lakes and St. Lawrence Governors & Premiers is working to develop markets for the skin, bones, and guts of whitefish, which are currently discarded. Iceland has successfully done this with cod, and there is potential for similar products with whitefish, such as pet food, fishmeal, fish oil, and collagen products. However, small-scale experiments, like a program by the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa Indians that turns fish waste into fertilizer, have yet to provide a significant financial boost for fishers.
In the meantime, fishing families are adapting and surviving by keeping costs down and exploring vertical integration. Some weld and wire their own boats, while others clean and prepare their own fish products, such as patties, pâtés, and fried filets, which they sell at farmers' markets and food trucks.
Longtime tribal fisherman Bill Fowler has stayed in business by swapping whitefish for stocked lake trout. However, trout brings in a much lower price per pound, and state regulations prohibit non-tribal fishers from targeting trout, leaving them with limited options.
"Ten years from now, there won't be anybody left fishing," predicted Joel Petersen, a fourth-generation state-regulated fisherman. "The quotas are just too small to make a living."
The trade group representing state-regulated fishers has lobbied lawmakers for access to other species, arguing that it is senseless to throw back bycatch that may not survive the trauma of being hauled to the surface. However, this effort faces opposition from recreational anglers who believe lake trout populations are too fragile to withstand more fishing pressure.
Some argue that commercial fishing in the mussel-infested Great Lakes is an industry that needs to die, much like the buggy whip industry of the past.
Richard Boda's frustration with the politics of the situation is palpable. He longs for the lakes to rebound so that his children can continue the family tradition of fishing.
"I'll probably be the last of us," he said sadly.
Nate Boda, Richard's son, has decided to pursue a full-time career at a ski resort after more than two decades as his father's first mate. He grew tired of traveling farther from shore each year, only to bring back fewer fish. With a son of his own now, he needs a consistent income.
Alicia O'Neil, Richard's daughter, has started fishing with her father instead. She loves the lifestyle and would continue fishing for the rest of her life if circumstances were different. But with the uncertain future of whitefish, she doubts it's a viable option.
This summer, Richard Boda put the Izzie Kate up for sale. He plans to continue fishing, but if he finds himself fishing alone, he'll need a smaller boat.
The future of the Great Lakes fishing industry hangs in the balance, and the fate of these dedicated fishers and their families remains uncertain.
