By E. Donnall Thomas Jr.

Anadromous members of the genus Oncorhynchus are native to the waters of the North Pacific from southern California north through the Chukchi Sea to Arctic drainages in Canada and Russia and then south again across the Sea of Okhotsk to northern Japan. Since I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, and have spent much of my adult life in Alaska, I've never had to travel far to find salmon. But given their value to both sport and commercial fisheries interests, it was probably inevitable that their enthusiasts would find ways to transport them about the world to places they never really belonged. During the course of a lot of globetrotting on various outdoor missions, I've found salmon in strange places indeed.

King salmon were successfully introduced to the South Island of New Zealand in the early 1900s, and that remains the species' only true permanent home outside the North Pacific. At the conclusion of an exploratory bowhunting trip to the area years ago, I was preparing to head to a local trout stream when my hosts asked if I would be interested in fishing for quinnat instead. I honestly didn't know what they were talking about at first (even though the name is of Native American origin), but once I had the fish identified I recognized a unique opportunity to pursue a favorite quarry in a special setting. My hosts' skeptical assertion that one could not catch quinnat on flies sealed the deal. I've faced that same opinion with regard to species ranging from halibut to channel catfish and have always found the challenge impossible to refuse. Besides, I had years of fly rod experience with kings under my belt and so no reason why they should be unusually difficult in New Zealand.

Early the following morning, we launched a boat into the Waitaki River just inside a line of breaking surf. It was early March, so the kings were running in the Southern Hemisphere's autumn. That didn't make a lot of sense to me, but fish transported half a world away from their home are entitled to some scrambling of their biological clocks. Our friends assured us that the run was at its peak, and the number of anglers lining the banks of the river's little estuary certainly indicated that someone thought fish were in the river.

Two facts struck me during the time we spent on the river's lower reaches. First, consistent with my hosts' opinions, I was the only angler on the water armed with a fly rod. My choice of tackle aroused plenty of curiosity, all couched in typical Kiwi graciousness:

"What are you fishing for, mate?"

"King salmon" quinnat."

"You won't catch one that way, mate. Want to borrow one of my rods?"

The second notable observation was that no one was catching any fish, which eased the pain of my personal failure. I finally concluded that the quinnat had stood us all up and suggested that we run upstream to look for rainbows, which we did. When we finally returned to the boat launch I noticed the same faces I'd seen earlier that morning. Everyone was smiling despite the absence of fish on the bank. Salmon may or may not be the same the world over, but salmon anglers seem to be.

Although Chilean Patagonia has emerged as a highly regarded angling destination, none of its valued game fish were native to its rivers. Trout were introduced there a century ago for their sporting value, just as they were in locations as diverse as Tasmania and South Africa. The appearance of salmon in Chilean streams is a more recent phenomenon that resulted from the explosive growth in the country's aquaculture industry during the 1970s, when Chile trailed only Norway in the production of commercially farmed salmon including all of our familiar North Pacific species. (The appearance of infectious salmon anemia in fish farm stocks has since decimated the industry.)

Fish inevitably escaped from offshore farms and appeared sporadically in fresh water, where they sometimes reproduced successfully. Given the chaos that eventually arose from the unpredictable behavior of those fish, their detrimental effect on other species, and concerns about infectious disease, the Chilean experience should give us all cause for concern about the risks the aquaculture industry poses closer to home" as if we needed another one.

But there Lori and I were one day ten years ago, floating down a gorgeous river in the Lake District catching browns and rainbows, totally unaware of all the strange salmonid biology taking place around us. Imagine my surprise when we drifted over a clear pool in what looked like a Montana trout stream and saw a pair of pink salmon cruising the gravel beneath us. Then imagine my even greater surprise when our party stopped for lunch and our guides pulled out a linen tablecloth, several bottles of excellent local wine and a grilled pink salmon that had obviously spent plenty of time in fresh water. Had we really traveled all the way to Chile to eat a spawned-out humpy for lunch? Evidently we had. The wine helped considerably.

Our salmon travel vicariously about the world by means of addled nomenclature even when they can't make the journey in person. Saltwater kahawai (Arripis trutta) found inshore near New Zealand's North Island and parts of southern Australia are commonly known as "salmon" even though they are no such thing. The physical resemblance is superficial at best, although they are impressive game fish on light tackle. In tropical Australian waters, several giant threadfin species are also called salmon even though they look even less like ours than the kahawai. Again, the perceived resemblance must derive from the excellent fighting ability of the fish.

These observations reflect a form of flattery directed toward a family of fish we know best of all, and the enthusiasm of others should help us appreciate what we have. When it comes to salmon fishing, I concur with Dorothy upon her return from Oz: There's just no place like home.