Far from the pristine ocean shores of Homer, Alaska a very different kind of fishery exists. On the murky waters of the Great Salt Lake in Utah, Kent Sorensen is a spotter pilot in the brine shrimp egg fishing industry. Once an open sea spotter pilot in Alaska's commercial salmon fishery, Sorensen has found a fishery in which the practice of "spotting" (finding fish and directing boats from the air) is still legal. But the desolate landscape of this inland industry is a stark contrast to the wholesome fishing we're used to here at the edge of the Kachemak Bay. Unconventional harvest tactics mix with extreme pollution to create a phantasmagoric fishery amidst the red rocks of Utah.

            The Great Salt Lake is around forty miles wide and eighty miles long, covering more acreage than the state of Delaware, but it can support very little life. Although the lake also harbors bacteria and insects, its most complex inhabitants are brine shrimp of the particular species Artemia franciscana. These are the object of Sorensen's fishery. It's not the adult shrimp that are collected but their eggs, or cysts. The annual fishery opens on the first of October and lasts until the cyst count drops below 22 eggs per liter of water, or until January thirty-first. Every year, Sorensen leaves his home for three months to "fish" these tiny eggs. So how exactly does one catch an egg?

            From the cozy cockpit of his PA-12, Sorensen scours the lake for any sign of cyst. The eggs, when they are ready for harvest, float to the top of the briny like. "You can see different patches of colored water," says Sorensen. "The good eggs kind of look like pollen in a mud puddle." Once the floating cysts are located Sorensen communicates their GPS coordinates to the boats below. The boats cruise across the vast lake. Their bows plow through the dark polluted water as spray coats the sides of the boat with brine. When they reach their destination they deploy large booms, like those used during oil spills. The booms are dragged along the surface and collect the egg into what the fishermen refer to as a "patty." They squeeze the boom smaller and smaller, condensing the egg. Then the eggs are sucked out of the boom with a hydraulic pump and put into cloth bags so the water can drain.

            The boats bring the egg back to shore in what looks like bags of red clay.  Sometimes, says Sorensen, the actual shrimp get in the bags and they turn from red clay into a stinky brown mush that quickly begins to decompose. "Then," he says, "it gets pretty gross." The decaying bags are tossed away and the bags of cysts are delivered to wash plants on the docks, where some of the mud is hosed off . The remaining product is put in refrigerator storage where it is kept until it is ready to be processed. Then the eggs are dried, canned and sold.

            Who buys dried brine shrimp eggs? They aren't exactly an item seen on the shelves of local grocery stores. Brine shrimp have been used as fish feed since 1950, when the first harvest of Artemia began on the Great Salt Lake. The fishery began with the harvest of adult shrimp, but it was soon found that the cysts could be processed and preserved for a more efficient food source. Sorensen's company ships the processed eggs to shrimp farms for use as aquaculture starter food. Despite being dried, the young brine shrimp "spring back to life" when they are placed in water. "They're like the sea monkeys we used to have as kids," said Sorensen. "In fact, that's exactly what they are."

            With this narrow consumer base and the distinctive properties of the Great Salt Lake, the brine shrimp egg fishery seems pretty unique. No other environment is as mineral-rich or as briny as the lake. Several other species of Artemia are found throughout the world but Artemia franciscana is unique to the Great Salt Lake. There are a few similar fisheries in Russia, but Utah's lake produces one half of the world's brine shrimp egg supply. Although there isn't too much competition in the market, there are sometimes struggles on the lake itself for egg. "There are a couple other companies, and about four other pilots," says Sorensen, "But we all kind of know each other and get along pretty well."

            This fishery is a big change from the kind of spotting Sorensen used to do on the open ocean, before fish spotting was outlawed in Alaskan fishing industries during the early 1990's. Although flying around the lake is much safer, the fast evaporation capacity of the lake can sometimes cause heavy snowstorms. This tendency, called the Lake Effect, can often hinder the pilots, holing them up until the murky water settles. Sorensen misses Alaskan fish spotting across the clear blue sea. "I prefer flying around the ocean looking for real fish," he says, "The brine shrimp fishery isn't as satisfying. It doesn't have as living of an economy."

            Utah itself is not as "living" a place as Alaska, and during his time away from home Sorensen struggles with this difference. He paints a gruesome picture of the pollution the industry faces. MagCorp, the third largest magnesium producer in the world, is located directly across the lake from Sorensen's trailer. The company is ranked number one on the EPA's toxic release inventory. The plant produces thousands of gallons of solid and liquid waste per day and has recently been involved in a lawsuit centered on its improper disposal techniques. Much of the waste is tossed in an unlined four hundred acre pond adjacent to the Great Salt Lake. Because of this, many of the toxins can leach into the lake. But the worst aspect of the plant is its constant emission of thick smoke heavy with chlorine gas. "I've had to fly through it before," Sorensen attested. "You can smell it in the air, and it makes your eyes water and your nose burn."

The lake itself is extremely toxic. Besides the pollutants that seep into the lake from the ground, it is full of anaerobic bacteria. This type of bacteria thrives in the lake's low oxygen levels and contributes to its incredible stench. Many neighboring sewage plants dump their processing effluent into the lake as well, making its waters a sinister harbor for disease and decay. "This one guy," tells Sorensen, "Got his boat stuck on a tide bar and decided he could just push it off. So he wouldn't fill up his boots, he took them off. I think he left on his socks for protection, but he pushed the boat so hard he cut up the bottoms of his feet. The cuts got infected from the lake water, and they almost had to cut the guy's legs off." And if that's not enough, during the fishing season hundreds of dead birds litter the lake's briny surface. "Thousands of Western Grebes fly over the lake, and many of them get infected with botulism. They die, and float around in the lake until the gulls come and literally peck their hearts out." The Great Salt Lake's water level is steadily receding. It has experienced a foot and a half drop this year alone. The current water level is the lowest it's been in over forty years. And as the water level drops the salinity and mineral levels spike, making an increasingly hostile environment for brine shrimp and fishermen alike.

As disturbing as these trends are, the fishermen do their best to maintain a good attitude throughout the season. Keeping spirits light, some of the more musical fishermen recently formed a band called "The Heartless Grebes." The men residing on the shores of the lake work together to buoy each other up during long days of fishing. These fearless fishermen brave the desolation and pollution of the Great Salt Lake for four months to make their year's salary. For many it's tough being away from the splendor and purity of home, but they stoically suffer through it. Sorensen sums it up in saying, "I just miss the real ocean fish, the clean water, and the sea life."