HAYWARD, Wis. (AP) — The cold nights on the Chippewa Flowage in northern Wisconsin don’t deter 15-year-old spearfisherman Gabe Bisonette. He’s been learning the Ojibwe practice for so long that when his headlamp shines the blinding light on his prey, he can communicate to his father what he sees with almost no words.
With his spear ready, Gabe thrusts the pole down and slashes it into the rippling water. He scoops the pole in the air with a practiced motion—the hardest part is keeping the walleye on the spear as it swings—then slides the catch into the boat with a ping.
The Ojibwe and other indigenous peoples are struggling to keep this way of life alive. Walleye numbers are declining in some lakes as a result of warming waters, increasingly variable seasonal changes, and lakeshore development. Losing this species would mean losing a food source, a sovereign right to fish, and a deep connection to tradition and nature for community members. Many are optimistic that with science and proper management, this tradition can continue into the future, but there are also concerns about the changes that are already taking place.
“We’ve seen things here over the last couple of years that I’ve never seen before,” said Brian Bisonette, Gabe’s uncle and conservation manager for the Lac Courte Oreilles Conservation Department. “I’m worried about what I’ve seen in my lifetime, what my grandson is going to see in his lifetime.”
______
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a series of articles on how tribes and indigenous communities are coping and combating climate change.
______
Bisonette described how past leaders, realizing they needed enough food to survive on their homelands, strategically secured the right to hunt, fish and gather wild rice in certain areas as part of treaties that granted land to settlers in the 19th century.
But for a long time after that, the state of Wisconsin restricted tribes’ treaty rights and, in some cases, even arrested tribal members for participating in activities that were integral to their heritage. A Supreme Court decision eventually reaffirmed the Ojibwe people’s rights in 1983, but opposition continued to rage. Angry and misinformed locals showed up at lakes to harass tribal members. They slashed tires, shouted racial slurs, and shot spear fishermen.
Today, guards at every boat launch work to keep people safe, but incidents still happen from time to time. Bisonette may laugh at the idea of people yelling at Indigenous people to “go back where you came from,” but he still carries the weight of past conflicts. “It would be scary for everyone,” he said. “You’d like to think that time heals everything, but it still doesn’t.”
Now, with that historical significance in mind, tribes and local conservation groups are finding ways to keep walleye and the tradition of spearfishing intact. Spearfishers are required to obtain permits that limit the number of fish they can take, and some lakes are “stocked,” meaning the majority of the fish population is born in a hatchery and released into the lake. But in many cases, the goal is still to increase natural reproduction.
“This is an issue that concerns all of us, whether we’re tribal or non-tribal,” Bisonette said.
Lake ecosystems are in danger
At another inland lake, Lac Courte Oreilles, Department of Natural Resources fisheries biologist Max Wolter and field team manager Angelena Sikora are also looking for walleye.
They take a motorboat out to nets strategically placed along the coastline, and Sikora cheerfully drops each walleye or crappie onto the surface, recording its size and sex. If it’s a new individual, he tags it by cutting off its fin and then tosses it back.
The goal is an accurate picture of fish populations in inland lakes, which the DNR collects in partnership with tribal conservation partners and the Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife Commission. Experts from all the groups that put their data together are noticing signs of change.
“It’s not just that adult walleyes are disappearing, it’s that reproduction is not at the levels it used to be, particularly in certain water bodies,” Wolter said. Charlie Rasmussen, GLIFWC communications director, added that even when young walleyes hatch, they have a harder time making it to adulthood.
Kelly Martin, who has been spearfishing with her family for decades, is seeing the changes firsthand. She was surprised by the early start to the season this year because the lake was ice-free this winter. Wolter explained that winters have become wildly inconsistent in length and temperature, and climate change has slowed river flows, making some lakes clearer, which has negatively impacted habitat for walleye, which do better in murkier water.
Martin has seen the waters changed by other factors, too, such as development. After the pandemic, while working as a roofing contractor, he saw business boom at lakefront homes that attracted both remote workers and tourists.
“You want to make sure this lake stays sustainable for everyone for many years to come,” he said. “I want my grandchildren’s great-grandchildren to be able to spend time with their families and write their stories.”
The DNR updated its conservation plan for walleye in 2022 with a focus on climate change. And in January 2023, GLIFWC released the updated version of its climate change vulnerability assessment, a study seven years in the making that was largely driven by what it heard from tribal members about the changes they were observing.
“The knowledge that tribal elders hold is becoming more widely accepted,” and science is both supporting and learning from Indigenous knowledge, Rasmussen said.
Tribes are the first to adapt
Many members of the northern Wisconsin tribe have seen an influx of people drawn to their small community by the promise of a “weatherproof” getaway thanks to abundant fresh water, relative safety from rising sea levels and warming but still cold winters.
But these newcomers and summer tourists are not the only ones who rely on nature for food, nor are they the ones fighting for generations-old traditions. As inland lakes warm under climate change, tribal members are the first to experience the effects.
That’s why the tribes’ deep, generational knowledge of the lakes motivates Bisonette and others invested in spearfishing to keep fighting.
“This is something for all indigenous people, they want to adapt,” Bisonette said.
For now, with conservation efforts keeping walleye populations intact, Martin, whose Ojibwe name, Giiwitaayaanimad, means “wind blowing everywhere,” is catching enough fish to feed the elders in the community. He and everyone else who helps him spend hours cleaning the walleye scales, carefully making each cut with a knife and washing the meat in a bucket. The harvest is refrigerated or frozen until it can be taken to all the people in the community, which is what he loves to do. He says hearing the elders’ stories is priceless.
“Some of these people, they grew up like this. That’s their life, doing this,” Martin said. “I hope I’m like that. Someone remembers me.”
___
Follow Melina Walling on X @MelinaDuvarlama and John Locher on Instagram at @locherphoto
___
The Associated Press receives financial support for climate and environment coverage from multiple private foundations. The AP is solely responsible for all content. Find AP’s standards for working with philanthropic organizations, a list of supporters and funded coverage at AP.org.