Point of origin.

What do you see?

As the leaves of the trees turn yellow and drift toward the ground to form a pile, it is spring. The migration has begun; the pack begins heading upstream against the current. The constant force tries to push them back toward the Gulf of the Pacific. Still, the pack continues forward through each rhythmic motion of their tails—left, right.

Their movement flows in a continuous, smooth rhythm, as if singing out row, row or keep swimming.

They rely solely on the fat reserves they gathered over the winter. These reserves must be rationed to last the 3,000-kilometre journey.

Their sole purpose is to fertilize the eggs—to bring life, or more specifically, to share a part of themselves, their heritage.

It was predetermined before they were born that they would replicate, no matter what. They must succeed at all costs, even if it means self-sabotage and their eventual demise, expending every last bit of energy with no intake during the exhausting journey upstream and the act of fertilizing those tiny eggs.

A mortality rate of essentially 100% occurs within days to weeks after spawning.

This is what it means to be a salmon. This is the fate of a wild salmon.

My single point of origin is to be self-sufficient, to live reasonably well, and to spend my remaining years in a way I will not regret when I replay my last moments.