Brought to life by days of heavy rain, the stream tumbles downhill, pulling whispers of cool, misty air into its watercourse. My bright red, tensed fingers grip tightly to the end of a measuring tape as I emerge, battling the current, from the upstream end of the culvert. I steady my footing and yell the number on the measuring tape down to my teammate at the other end of the embedded pipe. We have learned over the last weeks that sound travels as swiftly as the current down the culvert, with no hope of return communication. 

In the few moments while I wait for my teammate to join me upstream, I feel like I am completely alone. I breathe in the misty clouds and feel the rain pelting on my rain jacket that is valiantly failing to keep me dry. In this aloneness, I think only about my body and my footing as I navigate to ground more even upstream. How easy is it for us as scientists, as humans, to focus on one thing and forget to look up. It is in this moment of aloneness, of focusing on only my feet in the streambed, that I realize I am not the only one navigating this current. 

Spawning salmon are joining me in this dance upstream. As my feet hit the stream bed, their colorful bodies flash and flicker past me. I am not alone here. I am surrounded by creatures whose powerful bodies that have travelled thousands of miles back to their home streams. I am not alone here. I am surrounded by creatures whose ear bones tell stories of where they have been. I am not alone here. I am surrounded by creatures who continue to return, dedicated in their homecoming, despite cumulative pressures humans are imposing on their various life stages.