Life Lessons from a River Herring Run
My son taking a water temperature reading on the Mashpee River prior to conducting a 10-minute herring count.
The return of river herring every spring evokes a certain magic. Our Cape Cod streams, once still from their winter hibernation, come alive with the flicker of silver scales, a shimmering dance that’s played out for generations. It’s here, at these runs, that I bring my children—not just to watch, but to learn, to wonder, and to understand their place in the natural world.
My love for the outdoors was nurtured by my father, who taught me to fish, and introduced me to the birds and the trees. His lessons sparked a deep curiosity and respect for nature, which ultimately led me to become a scientist. My father’s guidance, grounded in real-world experience, shaped both my passion and my career. Now, as a father myself, I’m eager to pass that legacy on to my children.
I remember bringing my kids to the Stony Brook herring run in Brewster for the first time. They watched in awe as the fish pushed against the current, their bodies sleek and determined. It was a lesson in persistence, written not in books but in the flashing bodies of these determined travelers. Each year, the herring return from the ocean to the rivers of their birth, guided by an innate sense of obligation. And each year, we return, too, to witness their journey.
My family enjoying a beautiful spring day at the Stony Brook river herring run in Brewster. The Stony Brook herring run is one of the largest and best studied run on Cape Cod.
As our visits became a tradition, I yearned to do more than just observe. I wanted my children to understand that they weren’t merely spectators—they were part of something greater. So, we started counting fish at the runs in our corner of Cape Cod. The task seemed simple: stand by the water, watch, and count. And we began making regular treks to the Quashnet and Mashpee rivers, contributing our observations to the data that informs vital conservation efforts.
At first, I imagined a steady stream of movement, a constant pulse of life beneath the surface. But I quickly learned that not every day at the herring run is filled with action. More often than not, when we arrive to count fish, the river is quiet. We stare into the water, waiting, searching, logging zeros on our tally sheets. And yet, we keep coming back. This, too, is part of the lesson. We teach our children that science is about more than just discovery—it is about patience, persistence, and faith in the rhythms of the natural world. They learn that even when they see nothing, they are still part of something important. Each empty count is a thread in a larger pattern, a reminder that nature does not perform on command. And then, when the fish do arrive—suddenly, in great flashes of silver—it feels like magic, a reward for their patience, a glimpse into something vast and timeless.
On guard for the river herring at Johns Pond. Johns Pond is the headwaters of the Quashnet River which flows south through Mashpee and Falmouth before emptying into Waquoit Bay.
There is something profoundly humbling in watching a child recognize the struggles and triumphs of another creature. We live in a world of screens and distractions, where nature’s quiet lessons can often be drowned out by the noise of modern life. But here, by the river’s edge, my children see the world as it truly is—an interconnected web of life, where even the smallest fish can teach the greatest lessons. They ask questions: Where do the fish go? Why do they come back? Who is helping them? And in answering, we talk about conservation, about obstacles to fish passage, and how people are working to restore rivers. We talk about balance, about responsibility, about the ways in which our actions shape the world for better or worse.
Bringing children to witness a herring run is not just about seeing fish swim upstream—it is about cultivating wonder and responsibility. It is about showing them that nature is not something separate from us, but something we are part of. It is about giving them the gift of knowing that their actions matter. When they see volunteers counting fish, when they hear stories of rivers reborn, they begin to understand that stewardship is not just for scientists and conservationists but for all of us. They see that the fate of these fish—and of the rivers themselves—is, in some way, tied to their own.
My daughter - watching, and waiting ever so patiently for the river herring at Johns Pond in Mashpee.
As my children grow, I hope they carry these lessons with them. I hope they remember the thrill of spotting the first herring of the season, the cold spring breeze off the water, and the feeling of being part of something bigger and important. Because if they remember, they will care. And if they care, they will protect. And that, more than anything, is why I bring them to the river each spring—to teach them not just about the herring, but about their place in the world, and their power to make a difference.
If you’re inspired by the return of the river herring and want to get involved in the conservation efforts, there are opportunities for you to make a tangible impact.
One way is by volunteering with the Association to Preserve Cape Cod’s River Herring Monitoring Program, where you can help count herring at local river runs. This citizen science effort provides valuable data to guide conservation and restoration projects.
Another option is to participate in local river restoration initiatives, such as the Source to Sea, which is working to restore rivers in Falmouth and Mashpee. Through this initiative you can contribute to improved fish passage, the restoration of habitats, and the protection of these vital ecosystems.
By joining these efforts, you become part of a community dedicated to preserving the beauty and health of our rivers for generations to come.
My son, preparing to take a temperature reading at the Johns Pond outlet - the start of the Quashnet River.
