End of the Line

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"You're looking at severe social problems. Plain stark poverty," Martin says, barely controlling her anger. "No one is addressing these community needs. No one is addressing what is happening to the children:"

A hundred miles upstream from Skamokawa, the Bonneville Dam stretches across the river in three giant sections. It is a National Historic Landmark, the first bulwark of the greatest hydropower system in the world, and a graying monument to our ability to create and to destroy. In the bowels of the newest generating station, the floor shudders with power. Not from the eight giant turbines painted tangelo orange, but from 624 tons of water flowing beneath one's feet. Enough water passes by each rotor to fill an Olympic swimming pool in six seconds. Despite expensive screens and bypass systems, some 80 percent of the downstream smolt are either forced over the spillway, where they become easy prey for sqawfish, or are sucked through the turbines like sardines in a 40-foot Cuisinart.

Despite the seeming invincibility of these structures and the powerful lobbies behind them, some cracks are spreading through their facade. The aluminum industry, which uses a third of the region's hydropower at greatly subsidized prices, is reeling from a worldwide glut of aluminum and increased recycling. Bonneville Power Authority, which markets power from the dams, lost $750 million over the last two years and may lose $800 million this year. A Portland-based environmental group recently proposed eliminating 11 major dams in the system along with the subsidized aluminum industry, a plan they say will not only save salmon but create a power surplus.

Last year Idaho and numerous environmental groups took NMFS to court over an agency ruling that the dams posed "no jeopardy" to the endangered fish stocks, which could lead to court-ordered drawdowns. Meanwhile, the scientific community has thoroughly blasted the draft recovery plan, which is now undergoing revision and should be released for public comment this spring.

Walking through the powerhouse, I touch the cool concrete of the wall. Despite its colorful yellow paint, the surface is pocked with tiny holes and imperfections and the paint is peeled in spots as if there were a leak somewhere. It reminds me of a comment I heard days earlier at the Columbia River Maritime Museum. On my way out I stopped by the museum gift shop. A young grandmotherly type was working the register—an opportunity to gauge the woman-on-the-street vote. I asked her what she thought should be done to save the salmon. "Well," she replied softly, "they say the life expectancy of concrete is only 100 years:" She allowed herself a mischievous smile.

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