By Kevin McKay

For 25 years I’ve made my living in the fishing industry, and like most anglers, conservation has always been part of my journey. I’ve supported groups like Trout Unlimited because I wanted to make a difference. But too often, the projects felt out of reach—buried in red tape and politics. What continues to surprise me is that we even need organizations like TU, Native Trout, Captains for Clean Water, or Stripers Forever. After all, we already know what it takes to protect our waters and fish. Why isn’t it just standard practice for businesses and communities to do the right thing?

I’ve been lucky in Maine. In my lifetime, I’ve never witnessed the kind of industrial pollution that once defined our rivers. Old-timers tell stories of waterways so foul your eyes would burn from the smell. That history helps explain why so many of our rivers remain undeveloped today. Thanks to the Clean Water Act of 1972, we can now float and fish clean, clear rivers across the state. Sure, we still find the occasional bottle or tire washed in by high water, but for the most part, our rivers feel pristine.

At least, that’s what I thought—until this summer.

Tires in the Current

My home water, the Penobscot, runs relatively clean. Most years, I see only a handful of discarded tires. But on the Androscoggin, the story is very different.

That became clear when my friend, guide Brandon Bichrest, began posting photos on Facebook. Each picture showed his boat stacked with tires he had pulled from the river. At first, I shrugged it off. But the posts kept coming—dozens of them. By late summer, Brandon had hauled out more than 200 tires.

Curious, I dug into the history. According to multiple sources, the problem dates back decades. In the 1930s, when tire recycling was costly, many were illegally dumped into rivers. By the 1960s, a national tire surplus had states searching for disposal methods. Someone decided they could serve as artificial fish habitat. What no one realized was that chemicals from decomposing rubber would eventually leach into rivers, poisoning the very ecosystems they were meant to improve.

When I asked Brandon why he started pulling them out, his answer was simple:

“Because they’re everywhere and unsightly. Then I did research and learned how bad tires are for the water and for bug life.”

He also shared a jaw-dropping documentary on the practice of sinking tires for fish habitat across the country: watch here.

A Growing Mountain

Every time Brandon posts new photos, people ask what he does with the tires—and whether he’s footing the bill himself. For now, he’s keeping them in his yard as a physical display to highlight the scale of the problem. News Center Maine even covered his efforts this summer.

But the numbers are staggering. Brandon estimates there are over 10,000 tires in the Androscoggin. And that’s only what he can see—what about the deep holes? TU chapters, IF&W, and volunteer groups have done cleanups, but the impact barely scratches the surface.

The truth is, this work comes at a cost. Every hour Brandon spends hauling rubber is an hour he’s not guiding. To sustain the effort, he’s launched a GoFundMe campaign.

More Than an Eyesore

This isn’t just about aesthetics. Tires leach chemicals directly into the river—the same river that holds fish people catch and eat. What does that mean for trout, bass, and shad? For Maine’s fragile Atlantic salmon restoration efforts? For protected sturgeon populations? The Androscoggin feeds into Merrymeeting Bay, a critical estuary. Could this silent contamination even play a role in the decline of striped bass downstream?

The Bigger Question

Brandon has proven that one determined individual can make a dent. But 200 tires out of 10,000 isn’t enough. He needs help—local, statewide, maybe even national.

The larger question remains: Why, in 2025, are we still discovering the consequences of careless dumping practices from nearly a century ago? And more importantly, why aren’t we doing more, faster, to clean them up?

One thing is certain: Maine’s rivers are cleaner today than they’ve been in generations. But the story of the Androscoggin shows us that threats aren’t always visible. Sometimes they sit just below the surface, waiting for low water to reveal the truth.

Brandon has started the work. Now it’s up to all of us to decide if we’ll help finish it.