Thousands of alewives swim up the Nequasset Stream in Woolwich from the ocean each May, thrashing against the swift current, returning to the waters where they were born. The sleek, silver fish have undertaken the same mass migration, conquering the same rapids for the sake of their next generation, for millions of years.

By comparison, Steve Bodge has only been harvesting alewives at Nequasset for 67 years, a mere blip in history but a span of time encompassing most of his life. He first learned the art of dipping for alewives with his stepfather at age 11, in 1958.

Now a hale but slowing 78-year-old, Bodge isn’t sure how many more springs he’ll be able to operate the physically demanding alewife harvesting enterprise he runs for the town — which both his stepfather and older stepbrother ran before him. This year, for the first time, his daughter Jaime Burns, 45, is pitching in.

“I worry about him down here, all by himself,” Burns said. “I’m just going to be here so he can continue. I have no idea if I’ll take over, probably not.”

Alewives are a type of river herring that are born in rivers and streams but spend most of their lives at sea. When they are about 4 years old, they swim back home and spawn. An oily fish, packed with nutrients, alewives are an important food source for mammals, other fish and sea birds.

They are a rare success story in the face of climate change.

“In the last decade, we’ve seen about a threefold increase in landings,” Gulf of Maine Research Institute senior scientist Graham Sherwood said during a recent panel discussion in Portland. “And not just in Maine’s rivers — we’re seeing them establish runs in new areas.”

Last season, Bodge had a banner year, taking in 1,800 bushels of alewives. This year looks to be about average, at 1,100 bushels.

Native Americans harvested alewives from the same rapids on the Nequasset Stream where Bodge works. This was before white settlers dammed the waters and built a series of mills in the 1700s. But unlike with many other coastal streams, Nequasset settlers had the foresight to build a fish ladder. Thus, where other alewife runs were destroyed, Nequasset’s never faltered.

Today, the mills are gone but the dam and fish ladder remain. From Thursday through Sunday, sunup until sundown, Bodge is allowed to harvest the fish, opening a screen and allowing alewives to either head up the ladder or take a left into a concrete-and-plywood chute. Bodge then hoists the teeming fish with a net attached to an electric winch.

The fish are dumped into a large wooden box. After the fish stop flapping, Bodge opens a small trap door at one end, letting the slick alewives ooze out into wire bushel baskets. He then helps carry them up a steep set of cement steps to waiting lobstermen who pay $35 per bushel. Bodge splits the profits 50-50 with the town.

The fish, especially the egg-bearing females, are prized bait that lobsters can’t resist. Some fishermen drive several hours to buy fish, arriving before dawn and sleeping in their trucks.

Bodge’s operation is tiny compared to some others in Maine, but he usually gets fish first.

“In the old days, we used to get big trucks up here from Boston,” Bodge said. “They’d take the fish for cat food or fishmeal.”

He also salts and cold-smokes some fish for locals to eat. It’s an acquired taste — one which Bodge admits he’s never quite taken to. The old joke is that the best way to prepare smoked alewives is to boil them twice, then bury them in the garden, then eat a hamburger.

There have been years when Bodge missed the alewife harvest, when he was in the Army or working a regular job at nearby Bath Iron Works. But Bodge has been at Nequasset nearly every May since he was a boy.

“I’ve always loved it. As a kid, it was amazing, when I first come down here and seen all these fish flashing in the water,” Bodge said. “I guess it’s kept with me over the years — and the money helps. I don’t make much from Social Security.”

On a recent afternoon when the fish were scarce, Bodge sat at a desk inside an ancient building adjoining his fish chutes. He sipped on a Moxie and snacked on a Nutty Buddy, musing about how much longer he’ll be in charge of Woolwich’s alewife harvest.

“I just don’t want to screw it up, you know. My family has run this for 75 or 100 years,” he said. “I want to keep going, even if I just make it another three, four or five years.”

Burns, his daughter, sat nearby.

“I don’t know how he does it. I was driving home from here the other day thinking I was going to be so sore the next day,” she said. “When I got home I took the longest, hottest shower.”

Bodge just shrugged, saying when he dies he hopes his ashes are spread over the stream. He doesn’t care if it’s over the rapids or over his fish chute.

“It don’t matter. Either way, the tide will take me out,” he said.

This story was originally published by The Maine Monitor, a nonprofit and nonpartisan news organization. To get regular coverage from The Monitor, sign up for a free Monitor newsletter here.