There is a chaos theory adage about the flap of a butterfly's wings setting off a hurricane on the other side of the globe. It is an interesting notion; for every action, a reaction. It has about it a certain humility, a recognition that we know very little about the potential impacts of our doings.
It was the first thing that came to mind the other day in the aftermath of a bizarre and wonderful event in the town of Salmon, Idaho. A town where just eight months ago the citizens held a rally protesting a federal court injunction written to save the Chinook salmon. A town where bumper stickers read "Environmentalists Welcome! We haven't had a hanging in years!"
The permit application called it a Salmon Parade, but it was really a funeral--a macabre salmon death-march for the Chinook runs that once graced the local waters. At high noon on a hot, dry, mid-September day fifteen men and women, all dressed in black, all wearing mourning veils and all donning death masks, proceeded in a slow agonizing march down the main street of Salmon. The procession started on the South end of town near the high school, where large letters announced "Home of the Savages." Creating a Saturday traffic jam bigger than the parade itself, the curious spectacle crept along, passing in front of the taxidermy shop where a stuffed wolf is eating a freshly killed cow. The movie marquee read CLUELESS.
The once aloof and skeptical sheriff and his deputy warmed to the rag- tag group and added an ironic air to the otherwise meager parade line. In front and back of the parade, the official police escort were great protectors, blinking lights and all. Led by an eerie old hearse, the death marchers followed a large black and white banner which read, "1961: 3700 REDDS -1995: ONLY 6!!" (A redd is a salmon's nest of eggs and roe, left after spawning.)
Right behind the banner swam a line of five, eight-foot long, three- foot wide paper mache salmon, each painted colorful pink and green on one side, with a stark black and white skeleton on the other. The fish made a curious costume for the alien, black-clad individuals wearing them. The whole affair had a weird, Charles Addams cartoon feeling about it.
A ghost band, consisting of a single violin, a sax and harmonica players, followed a lone drummer down the street as she pounded out a slow cadence of doom. "Taps" was the only tune they could all play to some degree or another. And finally three haunting women brought up the rear of the bizarre parade, pushing a wagon filled with little cardboard fish painted like the large ones. These little fish were handed out to the parade watchers along the way. On their colored, "alive" sides a message read: "Salmon, Idaho was named for Chinook salmon which spend most of their lives in the ocean. But they are born and they die in fresh water streams far in the mountains. How they find their way back, after five years in the ocean, to the precise spot they were born is still a mystery to everyone but the fish themselves."
On the dead side of the fish the message read: "We are enormously privileged to share our rivers with such magical fish. But we have not been generous: the three damns on the upper Snake River have caused declines in salmon populations that will soon be irreversible. These three damns provide very little electricity and to remove them would not burden Idaho's agricultural lands. Please write to Governor Phill Batt, Capitol Bldg., Boise, ID 83720 and ask him to remove the dams and restore Salmon, Idaho's namesake to the wild rivers of Idaho."
That was all that was said. Nobody mentioned the huge gold mine up the Yankee Fork of the Salmon River that just a month before had dumped 20,000 gallons of cyanide into the river, effectively killing this year's runs on that tributary.
Nobody mentioned the massive levels of logging or intensive cattle grazing which occur on Forest Service lands, two practices which greatly increase erosion and sedimentation levels that smother salmon redds. No, all the traditional accusation and blame which surround the issue was ignored or forgotten, replaced by a silent and clear reverence for the great fish. The entire event went off without incident. There were no public hangings.
The marchers were, if not warmly, then at least curiously received. There were many passers by, some with Idaho plates, who honked and gave a thumbs-up. Still, a few barflies emerged into the light and in their Rush Limbaugh confusion yelled, "Dams are habitat too!" But all in all, everything went smoothly. The two most encouraging and rewarding signs were the knowing, nodding smiles of local senior citizens who remember the great salmon runs, and the small crowd of high school kids who followed the parade down to the river wanting to know more.
The kids were told about an artists' cooperative in Missoula, Montana called Ground Zero. They found out that this salmon death march was just the crazy idea of someone a lot like them. Everyone talked about details of the parade and good ideas for next year. They all laughed about the funny awkward faces and sheer bafflement most of the parade watchers displayed.
It may take a week or a month or maybe a year for the rest of the dazed looks in Salmon to turn into recognition or even compassion. It may not happen at all. In the meantime though, think about a rare butterfly flapping its wings on the small island of Hope in the South Pacific. Try to believe that this tiny, quiet action could cause a great Chinook wind to blow, warming the hearts of a cold industrious people on the other side of the planet.