Synaptic

The “Sense of Wonder” assignment asks students to narrate their own story and sense of wonder about an organism or ecosystem and challenges them to illuminate the story of the organism or ecosystem in context. We appreciated Chris’s memorable personal connections, philosophical observations, and descriptive detail. The intriguing title serves as a throughline for this layered essay about storytelling, invasive species, and time.

– Dr. Mary Stark and Prof. Beth McMahon

---

I could almost see the water rushing in. Like a fire of water, growing inch by inch until the town became lost to the rapids. Buildings that once housed sawmills, doctors, and books were submerged. No longer were they the homes of humans; instead, they were to house bass and bluegills. I could picture it, as I looked from the top of the dam across the water of the lake, reflections of sunlight burning into my eyes. My eyes scanned across the distant waves, twisting along the curves of the shoreline. On one side, the rusty red sandstone that gave rise to the name – Red Rock. It is the name of the lake, the reservoir, and one of the six towns lost beneath its surface. Looking across the lake, I could see a few of these villages in landmarks: Cordova, hidden away in the hulking observation tower, Fifield, pushed into the asphalt of a road, and Red Rock, its epigraph carved into the dam and lake.

In my youth, our elementary school took us on a tour of the dam. I recall the moist scent of water and concrete as we walked in a cavern of man-made cement, lit only by the white of floodlights high above. The guide, a middle-aged man with a hardhat, told us about these towns and the benefits of the dam. I could only think about those towns, lost to history, rotting away from the passages of time.

To them, I thought, this dam must have been a catastrophic threat. Weaponized nature. Forcing them from their communities, their homes. I thought too, of the wildlife, the fish that swam in the river and lake, the seagulls that cried high above the water. Once we reached the top of the dam overlooking the lake, the dam worker removed his hard hat. He placed it under his arm and told us about the species of fish that called the lake home. Largemouth bass, common carp, gizzard shad, bigmouth buffalo, catfish, and silver carp. As he talked, I stared into the lake, picturing log cabins with families of fish gathered around a dinner table eating worms.

I remember visiting the lake with my father that summer. We would drive down in his old beat-up Dodge truck. It was a beautiful truck, dark metallic red with soft brown leather seats. It was the red that I think of when I hear Red Rock – noble, tough, hard – the kind of color that painters spend years looking for. When I heard the engine of the Dodge fire up, windows of my bedroom shaking in their frames, I knew we were going fishing. His favorite spot was on Robert’s Creek, an offshoot of the lake. It was possible to fish on the shores from the back of the truck’s tailgate, two buckets of worms between us. We fished for bass, catfish, bluegill – the local species that populated the creek. I would often catch quite a few bluegills there, but never catfish. My dad had a habit of catching three small bass there. I used to think he did it on purpose.

On weekends, we would drive north to the Jacob Krumm Nature Preserve to fish in the lake. We’d walk over the earthen dam that kept the lake’s water from spilling over its bounds, hiking through twisted undergrowth until we set up our lines at the western most curve of the lake. This provided ample shade in the early morning, perfect for those warm July weekends. I never seemed to catch much there. Oftentimes a day of fishing would leave us with only a few small bluegills, their raked fins prepped to poke an unfocused finger.

Dad would tell me, as he sat on his white five-gallon bucket, about the massive bass he had heard about from a passing DNR officer. The DNR would boat out into the lake, using a massive generator to electrocute the water on occasion to take note of the species of marine life held within. Once, this particular DNR officer had seen the mother-of-all bass, as big as my chest. The story crept stealthily into my brain with images of me holding a bass my size. It was my treasure, my white whale, my fool’s gold. And so I fished, and fished, and fished, until my butt had gone numb and my worms were all gone. I refused to fish there any longer, deciding I would spend the summer mastering my bass fishing in our own ponds that made up the border of our lawn.

I can still feel the roughed callous on my thumb, worn away by the sandpaper lips of the largemouth bass. I would sneak out of our house after dinner, grab my fishing pole – a metallic black Rhino bass pole with a black and silver Zebco 33 – and run into the sunset towards the pond. I’d push my way through the cottony lambs that rammed me playfully, until I’d made my way to the small wooden swing gate that kept the sheep away from the dock. There I’d sit, watching the bass swim in pairs underneath the murky brown ripples that obscured my reflection. There is a quote I like from Robin Wall Kimmer, who wrote, “In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us” (Kimmerer, 2013, p.5). I still wonder what the translation for fish like these would be. I loved the way the light of an evening sky sparkled on the emerald green scales of their oblong bodies; the way the sun reflected the cornea of their pitch-black eyes. They reminded me of portraits of British monarchs, jaws set in permanent frowns. But few kings are distracted by flashing lures, and fewer still eat worms.

It was easy enough to catch a bass with a simple beatlespin lure; they especially liked the white and black spins with the bloodred center. Worms too, were easy bait for a hungry bass. I liked to play with worms, stretch them out until brown goo leaked out from their sides, stick a barbed hook and slide it through their guts. All the while, the worm wriggled in my torture. I thought nothing of it. What did I care for worms? The only use I could think of was for fishing. Cheap bait. I took great care to play the larger bass with a Hula Popper frog lure. I pulled the lure in with a flick of my wrist, pushing the lure under until it stopped, then BOOM! An explosion of water as a particularly large bass blasted through the surface; mouth agape with the barbs of the lure stuck deep. This brought me great joy, much more than any other way I had found to catch bass. I’d reel them to the edge of the dock until I could stick my thumb between the rough jaws.

Largemouth bass excel at feeding by inhaling their prey, ramming into whatever is smaller than their mouth (BassForecast, 2024). They’ve been known to eat mice, snakes, and frogs. Often, a worm-baited hook might be swallowed whole. Due to the lack of teeth, as large teeth are inconvenient for this ramming method of feeding, it becomes easy to hold a bass securely by the jaw without fear of losing a finger. Their taste for frogs is one of the reasons why my grandfather introduced the species into our ponds. Many of the unwanted creatures that tried to live in our ponds soon found themselves a meal for bass, or on the wrong side of a loaded gun.

I loved the thrilling attack and fight between the bass and me. No sooner had I reeled one in than I was casting away for another. So many of my memories are centered around my quest for fish; so much time spent in the pursuit of adventure. And yet, “Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story” (Kimmerer, 2013, p.56). Each bass I landed, each cast of my line into a body of water, I penned my own stories. In each, I am amazed by bass. I cannot think of another species of freshwater fish that has become so ubiquitous with fishing that we name our largest stores Bass Pro Shops, and our biggest competitions Bassmaster tournaments. And I was not alone. In places like Africa, Japan, and Canada, the largemouth bass has become an invasive species (Iguchi, Kei’ichiro, et al., 2004). Introduced by anglers, these bass excel at survival, forcing local species into decline. Yet, in our own lakes and ponds in Iowa, bass are suffering from the arrival of a strange species.

Their bodies lined the shore, like a ghostly battlefield of iron. The sight of their mangled, rotting bodies was enough to turn the gut into a tight knot. It was common knowledge that this must be done, that the removal of their species from the lake was beneficial. I have never been proud of genocide, yet I too threw their metallic bodies on the shore, watching their mouths gape in their death spasm. Hypophthalmichthys molitrix, their scientific name, or silver carp commonly (U.S. Geological Survey). They are an ugly fish, eyes set a bit too close to a small, upturned jaw. Their bodies colored a matte silver that seems to reflect light. Closer examination will show this to be goldish coloration between scales. Silver carp were first observed in Iowa in 1986 and have been a part of our waterways since (U.S. Geological Survey). They are a type of filter fish that eats phytoplankton and zooplankton. They are not common fish to catch on a fishing line due to this diet, yet they can be caught by other predators. Silver carp are sometimes known as flying carp for their natural behavior of jumping out of the water when startled. More than a few weary fishermen have been hit by such carp when boating.

The damage this species causes is surprising. They are near the bottom of the food chain in Red Rock, yet their potential for damage is great. There are two other filter fish species that are native to Iowa: bigmouth buffalo and gizzard shad. Silver carp are strong competitors in the survival of the fittest. Their ability to reproduce and consume phytoplankton can leave very little room for the other filter species. Bass will feed on young silver carp, potentially leading to overpopulation in a space with limited resources. Whether or not the bass or the silver carp begin to overpopulate, the potential for damage within the ecosystem is high. A single female silver carp can lay up to five million eggs in a single year; a bass would only be able to lay a fraction of that amount (Texas Invasive Species Institute). In short, they knock nature out of balance. The fourteenth goal of the United Nation’s goals for sustainability is “to conserve and sustainably use the oceans, seas, and marine resources for sustainable development” (United Nations, 2025). Key to this goal in Lake Red Rock is to prevent invasive species from negatively impacting local river and lake ecosystems.

Two solutions have been proposed to control the population of silver carp. The first method is native predation (Lampo et al., 2023). The main idea behind this method is to increase populations of native species that prey on the silver carp. One such species is the bass. The only problem with this method is that bass are selective with the silver carp they consume. Typically, bass will only consume carp that are less than half of their own size. Most bass grow to a length of between twenty to twenty-four inches; silver carp will grow to twenty-four to thirty-nine inches (U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service). So, while bass will feed on small or juvenile carp, an adult bass will not typically try to consume an adult silver carp.

The second proposed method to help control the population of silver carp is another type of predation – eating them. State governments like Iowa have been trying to encourage sport fishers to consume silver carp by rebranding their meat as “copi” (Miller, 2022). The method is beautiful in its simplicity: take the Earth’s best predator and encourage it to do what it does best. Kill. Eat. Consume. Turn yet another part of nature into a commodity, a specialty dish. The rebranding was seen as necessary to separate common carp and silver carp. Common carp tends to be a poor choice of fish to eat. Their preferred habitats and diet lead them to be a less than tasty snack. Silver carp, however, is considered a delicacy in some countries. So, why not use the species that has already forced so many others into extinction? Eight billion predators waiting for a feast of fish.

I wonder sometimes about how simple it is for humans to remove a species from the Earth. Wolves don’t eat all the deer on a mountain; deer do not eat all the grass in a forest. Humans will. Earth and her resources are for our consumption. We refuse to be balanced. I think of Aldo Leopold at times like this. He wrote, “We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect” (Leopold, 1949, p.viii). I love his personification of land, of it being something more than just dirt meals for worms. Land is a community center; a VFW Hall made of trees and rolling hills. To defame, destroy, or vandalize such a place would risk the ire of an angry mob of citizens. Yet, we do this every day with our forests, chopped down to make docks for ponds, and our lakes, poisoned to kill one species. Until we see the land as something we are a part of, as something we must be a part of, we cannot help but to destroy the precarious balance needed for such ecosystems to survive. In nature, everything must be balanced. Worms are eaten by bluegill, bluegill by bass, bass by eagles, and eagles by worms. Too many worms or too many eagles, and nature suffers. The biggest disruptors of an ecosystem are invasive species. Much like the damages caused by silver carp in Red 6 Rock, are the damages caused by bass in Japan’s lakes. Bass have few natural predators in Japan, leading them to destroy ecosystems through predation. This is in stark contrast to the silver carp’s method of overpopulation within an ecosystem. Yet, in both cases, the species was introduced by humans.

We tend to forget, in our superiority, that we are the most invasive species. Not only in the sense that we invade other ecosystems, exploiting them for our own survival, but in our tampering of such ecosystems for what we believe is “better.” We stand in the streets of our cities, watching the waters rise because of our own actions. Our dam is built of greenhouse gases, and we built it willingly, believing it was our right to do so. I think about how our ecosystem will rebalance itself. Will the oceans rise until we must live upon mountains? I wonder if the fish that will inhabit our homes will care that we were ever there. And when my time comes, I will sink beneath the waves, a bundle of bones, flesh, food for worms. Worms, food for fish. And balance will be restored. “The message is not so much that the worms will inherit the Earth, but that all things play a role in nature, even the lowly worm” (Larson, 2003).

Works Cited

Iguchi, Kei’ichiro, et al. “Predicting Invasions of North American Basses in Japan Using Native Range Data and a Genetic Algorithm.” Transactions of the American Fisheries Society, vol. 133, no. 4, July 2004, pp. 845-54.

Kimmerer, Robin Wall. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Milkweed Editions, 2013.

Lampo, Eli G., et al. “Predation of invasive silver carp by native largemouth bass is size-selective in the Illinois River.” Scientific Reports, vol. 13, article no. 16870, 6 Oct. 2023, https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-023-43470-7.

“Largemouth Bass (Micropterus salmoides).” U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, https://www.fws.gov/species/largemouth-bass-micropterus-salmoides. Accessed 20 Oct. 2025.
Larson, Gary. The Complete Far Side. Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2003.

Leopold, Aldo. A Sand County Almanac, and Sketches Here and There. Oxford University Press, 1949.

Miller, Brittney J. “Sound, Studies and Snacks: How Iowa Is Tackling Invasive Carp.” The Gazette, 2 Sept. 2022, https://www.thegazette.com/environment-nature/sound-studies-and-snackshow-iowa-is-tackling-invasive-carp/. Accessed 20 Oct. 2025.

“Silver Carp (Hypophthalmichthys molitrix).” Nonindigenous Aquatic Species Database, U.S. Geological Survey, https://nas.er.usgs.gov/queries/FactSheet.aspx?SpeciesID=549. Accessed 20 Oct. 2025.

“Silver Carp (Hypophthalmichthys molitrix).” TexasInvasives.org, Texas Invasive Species Institute, https://www.texasinvasives.org/animal_database/detail.php?symbol=29. Accessed 20 Oct. 2025.

“The Life Cycle of Bass: An In‑Depth Look into Bass Biology.” BassForecast, 3 Jan., https://bassforecast.com/life-cycle-of-bass. Accessed 20 Oct. 2025.
United Nations. Sustainable Development Goal 14: Life Below Water. United Nations, https://sdgs.un.org/goals/goal14.