Welcome back, dive junkies and freshwater fanatics, to another edition of Creature Feature, where we peer into the abyss and see what squiggly nightmares stare back. Today, we’re paddling much closer to home than usual. We’re diving into my backyard, the St. Lawrence River, that majestic aquatic highway that stretches from Lake Ontario to the Atlantic Ocean, and meeting one of its most infamous freeloaders: the lamprey eel.
First things first, let’s clear something up. Despite the name, lamprey eels are not actually eels. That’s right, they pulled a classic identity theft move and have been swimming under an assumed name this whole time. Real eels, the ones with smooth moves and vaguely sushi adjacent vibes, are part of the bony fish gang. Lampreys, however, are jawless fish from a line so ancient they were already old when dinosaurs were still trying out their first roars. These guys are basically prehistoric vampires with gills.
Now, let’s talk aesthetics. Imagine if a leech and a vacuum cleaner had a baby and then sent it to dental school. That’s a lamprey. They have long, slimy bodies, no paired fins, and a circular, jawless mouth filled with rows of nightmare-inducing teeth. And these aren’t just any teeth. These are serrated, hook-shaped, “may-I-suck-your-soul” kinds of teeth arranged in concentric circles around a central rasping tongue. When a lamprey latches on, it doesn’t just nibble. It bore-drills into its host’s flesh with that tongue and slurps up blood and body fluids like it’s sipping an extra-chunky smoothie.
Sound horrifying? It should. In fact, lampreys are the inspiration behind some of pop culture’s creepiest critters. Ever seen the face hugger from the movie “Alien“? Lamprey vibes. Ever had an ex who just wouldn’t let go? Also lamprey vibes.
So what are they doing in the St. Lawrence?
Lampreys have been around in the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence system for a long time, but their reputation really took a nosedive in the 20th century. That’s when the sea lamprey (Petromyzon marinus) made its way from the Atlantic into the Great Lakes via man-made shipping canals, completely ignoring the sign that said, “Please do not introduce ecological chaos.”
Once they arrived, they set up shop like shady door-to-door salesmen and started attaching themselves to native fish species like lake trout, whitefish, and salmon. The results were not great. One sea lamprey can kill over 40 pounds of fish in its lifetime. Multiply that by thousands of lampreys, and you’ve got yourself a full-blown bloodsucker buffet.
Fisheries tanked. Local economies suffered. Fish were showing up looking like they lost a fight with a belt sander. It was like an aquatic horror movie, except no one was yelling “Don’t go in the water!” because, well, this was freshwater.
Nature’s Leechy Little Overachiever
Lampreys go through a rather dramatic life cycle. They hatch from eggs buried in riverbed gravel and spend their first 3 to 7 years as harmless filter-feeders called ammocoetes (a word that sounds like a fancy hors d’oeuvre, but definitely is not). During this larval phase, they bury themselves in sediment and chill, eating microscopic gunk and planning their eventual reign of terror.
Then comes puberty, and things get weird! They transform into parasitic adults, grow that gnarly mouth, and start cruising for blood. After 12 to 20 months of feeding (a truly extra gap year), they head back upstream to spawn. Like salmon, they return to freshwater, get frisky, and then die. Yep. One passionate night of gravel romance, and it’s curtains.
Fighting the Fang-Faced Fiends
Biologists weren’t about to let lampreys suck the life out of the ecosystem unchecked. Enter the Great Lakes Fishery Commission, the Ghostbusters of invasive species. They’ve been using a mix of chemical warfare (lampricides), physical barriers, and pheromone-based traps to cut lamprey numbers down dramatically since the 1960s.
Today, lamprey populations are a fraction of what they once were, but the battle is ongoing. Lampreys are resilient, slippery little punks with just enough prehistoric rage to keep trying. It’s a constant game of ecological whack-a-mole.
Are They Good for Anything?
Now, before you go declaring open season on all things lamprey, it’s worth noting that not all lampreys are bloodthirsty jerks. Some native species, like the American brook lamprey, are non-parasitic. They live their lives peacefully, never slurping blood or giving trout PTSD. And even sea lampreys, as much as they’re vilified, have become subjects of valuable scientific research, especially in understanding spinal cord regeneration.
Also, in some parts of the world, lampreys are considered a delicacy. That’s right. People eat them. In fact, lamprey pie was once a favorite dish of British royalty. Because nothing says monarchy like wrapping a prehistoric suckerfish in pastry.
Final Thoughts: Hug Your Fish, Hide Your Trout
The lamprey eel (ahem, jawless fish) is one of nature’s more aggressive design choices. It’s a creature that looks like it crawled out of a B-grade horror flick, armed with a circular saw mouth and a thirst for fishy plasma. But as creepy as they are, lampreys are part of our ecosystem’s complex web, and a reminder that even the most stomach-turning creatures have their place in nature.
So next time you dip a toe in the St. Lawrence and something brushes your leg, don’t panic. It probably isn’t a lamprey.
Probably.
Stay brave, stay curious, and stay bite-free!
