A river silenced

In a state filled with beautiful scenery, the McKenzie River Valley is one of the most striking, a crown jewel in a tiara of sparkling diamonds.

Kristen on her kayak exiting Bear Rapids on the Upper Mackenzie River, a class III wave. (Courtesy of Kristen Vogt Veggeberg)

From the chilled air rushing into our lungs as we navigated the Class II and III rapids, to the ospreys angrily yelling at us to stay away from their fish, it was a magical, exhilarating experience, one I could have never have had in my urban-based childhood. From there, I threw myself into kayaking practice in the tiny pool in Gerlinger Hall on Tuesday nights and tried to make sure I was in a river every Saturday morning in the fall and spring.

Kristen poses in front of her kayak. (Courtesy of Kristen Vogt Veggeberg)

Though I paddled and dove throughout many of Oregon’s rivers, from the local Willamette River to the roaring waters of the Rogue River, the McKenzie was always my favorite while I studied at the university, with its lush forests, sneaky waves, and pristine waters crowned with gentle mist that always seemed to pull away in mid-morning, like a bride lifting her veil. Kayaking in its waters was one of the many happy memories I have of my undergraduate years at the University of Oregon, and being able to learn how to navigate this river in a little plastic Waverunner took my senses – dulled from either too much studying, partying, or boyfriend drama – and always knocked new life into them.

It was never meant to leave.

But it did.

It isn’t supposed to be in a drought, or on fire.

What normally should be a small incident of fire becomes much larger and more destructive due to the ongoing nature of our changing planet, where dried plants serve as kindle for fires, and whole forests are subsequently set ablaze.

Forests rise and fall. I watched, with growing sadness, as fires consumed parts of the west coast throughout the last decade. I grimly noticed how places I had lived and traveled to throughout my youth, ranging from Big Basin Redwoods State Park in California to the forests outside of North Cascades National Park in Washington, all were burned.

But none had burned so closely as the Holiday Farm Fire, what the McKenzie River was eventually called.

In my home office in a Chicago suburb, I did what everyone in 2020 did –I scrolled through the internet, my face awash in ugly, hot tears. Watching the McKenzie River burn, I found myself taking short, horrid breaths as firefighters debated on saving historic bridges that often served as guideposts for kayakers, anglers, and all of us who loved that river.

Unbridled, horrid, denial.

The first step of grief, indeed.

I could mask up, socially distance, and adhere to CDC guidelines to prevent the spread of COVID-19.

I could donate money to, and shop at, small businesses and restaurants to keep them and their employees afloat during a frightening economic downturn.

Though most are familiar with the Great Chicago Fire that burned the city to the ground in 1871, few know about the original people of this region–the Bodwéwadmi, the keepers of the fire. They kept the prairies by setting controlled burns, killing invasive plants and overgrowth, and encouraging the lush berry plants to grow.

Residents of the McKenzie River Valley are now slowly and painfully rebuilding their lives bit by bit, with a helping hand from the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Yet, they still have to grapple with tough choices as to what parts of the wilderness can be reopened to outdoorsmen, and what parts have to be given up and decommissioned. But perhaps, looking beyond these false binary choices, as suggested by researchers in my alma mater, is to be intentional in restoring the landscape beyond the pre-fire status quo into something more welcoming for native wildlife.