The Great Lakes fishing industry is facing an unprecedented crisis, and the future looks bleak for the dedicated fishers who have made their living on 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 whitefish populations in the Great Lakes.
"It makes you want to cry," Boda said, reflecting on the dwindling catches and the uncertain future for his family business.
The logbook, initially a record of bountiful catches in Lake Huron, takes a turn in the early 2000s when invasive mussels colonize the lake, hogging the food and disrupting the delicate balance of the ecosystem. Boda's focus shifts to Lake Michigan, but the crisis follows, and his daily catches decline significantly.
"I basically got my gas money back, and that was about it," Boda said of a recent outing where he caught just 87 pounds of fish, worth around $250.
The story of Boda's struggles is not unique. Gross catches in Lakes Michigan and Huron have declined by a staggering 70% in just 15 years, with whitefish, which account for about 90% of the commercial catch, bearing the brunt of this decline. The economic impact is immense, not only for the fishers but also for the restaurants and tourists who rely on this iconic species.
"It's a crisis unlike anywhere else in the world," said Grantly Galland, project director for international fisheries with the Pew Charitable Trusts. While collapsing fisheries are common, they are usually caused by overfishing, a problem that can be addressed by simply docking the boats until stocks recover.
But in the Great Lakes, the blame lies with billions of invasive quagga and zebra mussels, which have become the dominant life form in the lower lakes. These mussels siphon nutrients, creating a famine throughout the food chain, and there's little fishermen can do to help.
"No amount of personal sacrifice is going to lead to future benefits," Galland said.
Some fishers have already hung up their nets, while others are trying to adapt by taking side jobs or selling their catch directly to consumers. Tribal fishers, with their right to target other species, have often diversified, while state-regulated fishers lobby for similar flexibility.
But will these measures be enough to keep these multi-generational businesses afloat?
"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 crisis has led to tense debates and differing opinions. Critics argue that mussel control research is underfunded, receiving only $14 million in federal funding since 2010, while the effort to keep invasive carp out of the Great Lakes costs a staggering $1.2 billion.
Efforts to stock whitefish, the main target of commercial fishers, are small-scale and primarily led by tribes. Meanwhile, states spend millions to support recreational anglers by stocking salmon, and the federal government invests even more in a program to recover lake trout populations.
Scientists argue that these fish don't pose an existential threat to whitefish, but fishers fear that 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 maximize profits from fewer fish. The Conference of Great Lakes and St. Lawrence Governors & Premiers is working to develop markets for the skin, bones, and guts, potentially profitable by-products that are currently discarded.
Some fishing families are adapting by welding and wiring their own boats to keep costs down, while others are vertically integrating, preparing and selling their own fish products at farmers' markets and food trucks.
Tribal fisherman Bill Fowler has stayed in business by swapping whitefish for stocked lake trout, but he acknowledges that trout brings in a much lower price per pound, and state regulations limit non-tribal fishers' 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 been lobbying lawmakers for access to other species, arguing that it's senseless to throw back bycatch that may not survive the journey 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 Great Lakes, given the mussel infestation and the overall decline in fish populations, is an industry that may need to come to an end.
"Who's making buggy whips anymore?" asked Dennis Eade, executive director of the Michigan Steelhead and Salmon Fishermen's Association.
Richard Boda, frustrated with the politics surrounding the issue, just wants the lakes to rebound so his children can continue the family tradition.
"I'll probably be the last of us," he said. "It makes you want to cry."
Nate Boda, Richard's son, has decided to pursue a full-time job at a ski resort after more than two decades as his dad's first mate. With a son of his own now, he needs a consistent income, and the declining catches and increasing distances from shore have taken their toll.
Alicia O'Neil, Richard's daughter, has started fishing with her dad, but she doubts she can make a lifelong career out of it given the current circumstances for whitefish.
This summer, Richard Boda put the Izzie Kate up for sale, a sign that his fishing days, while not over, may soon require a smaller boat if he continues alone.
