This is the last post in my Lessons From a River series. If you haven’t already done so, please consider reading parts I, II, and III before this one to get a full sense of the story.

Before I knew it, a week and a half had flown by, and we were on the last stretch of the field school. The ache of missing home had turned dull and quiet; it had begun to scab over, maybe even to heal. I surprised myself – again – by realizing I could be away from home and still be okay. Yet another lesson from the Columbia River.

Leaving our backcountry campsite at Oatscott was bittersweet. The solitude and relative wilderness of the area had been soothing and stunning, but then again, we were running low on toilet paper. So, y’know. It was time to bid the blue-grey reservoir and remote beaches farewell.

I took these photos on the last morning of our stay at Oatscott.

We arrived in the afternoon of day twelve at Syringa Provincial Campground near Castlegar, at which we camped for our three final nights. This was the longest we’d stayed in one place for the entire trip. It was a luxury not to have to pack our things up each morning.

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“Today was our last day of paddling. We left the campsite at Syringa around 9 am and met up with a guest, Shawn Brigman, who brought a traditionally made sturgeon nose canoe.”
– day thirteen

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The last day of canoeing on day thirteen was both a workout and an adventure. Wind whipped my hair into knots and the Arrow Lakes Reservoir was studded with waves. While safe enough for us to paddle on, the choppy water was daunting; to make matters more intimidating, I was seated in the stern again and wasn’t sure my tired arms could steer well for the five-kilometre paddle.

Shawn Brigman, an artist and sculptor, was our guest for the day. He showed us a beautiful handcrafted sturgeon nose canoe he’d made himself with traditional and natural materials, in which he accompanied us in for our paddle to the Hugh Keenleyside Dam. Our regular canoes struggled in the wind as it shouldered against the raised bows and sterns and interfered with our course, but Shawn’s canoe cut through the water like a knife through pear. The sturgeon nose canoe’s bow and stern are slanted down towards the water and create what Shawn described as a kind of “suction”. He travelled across the reservoir with ease. Soon we were the ones trailing behind as he led the way, our arms burning and lungs puffing.

Once we arrived at the Hugh Keenleyside Dam, the lock, or “water elevator”, was opened for us and all ten canoes slipped inside. The gate lowered behind us like a massive garage door. We were suddenly encased in a tall room of concrete. Somewhere above us, machinery clanked and groaned eerily. Nothing seemed to be happening at first; then, slowly, it appeared we were being lowered. The sun disappeared behind the concrete walls, the temperature dropped, and the expanse of structure above us grew. A wet line showed where we’d started and how much we’d fell. I estimated it was at least 30 feet!

The photos below show a kind of “before” and “after”.

Once we reached the height of the reservoir’s water downstream, the lower gate was raised and we paddled through. It was a bit of a relief to be back in the warm sunshine and open air. Going through the lock was a highlight for many of my peers because it had felt so creepily novel; I too had enjoyed the unsettling experience and mechanical aesthetic. It solidified for me how separate human-made dams feel from their surroundings: clunky and unyielding islands set amidst the flowing lifeblood of the land, which is always expanding and moving, forever seeking space.

The morning of day fourteen, the next day, us students and leaders walked to a sunlit park within the campground and discussed the letters we had begun to write during our time at Oatscott. We spent around an hour working on them and making revisions or getting feedback from others. I still couldn’t decide exactly what I wanted my request to be . . . perhaps something direct and specific: land use, development, and flooding in the Creston area from the Libby Dam; or maybe related to Columbia River Treaty negotiations.

I thought and thought. And thought a little bit more. I looked out at the reservoir and mountains around me, trying to understand how so much loss had occurred – and been encouraged. The land on which I sat was forever changed by past generations. They must have felt an entitlement to do such a thing, a sort of implicit permission to appease the greater good. It might’ve been painful at first, but overall it was what the people wanted, wasn’t it? “They may not be happy now, but they’ll thank us later,” the reasoning seemed to be.

While doing research for this post, I came across an article on Creston’s experience with the instalment of the Libby Dam. A local farmer’s thoughts on the dam were, “We are something like the man who has a very bad tooth . . . He knows that he is going to be much better if he has the tooth removed. He does not know how much it is going to cost him, and the second thing that he does not know is how bad it is going to hurt.” He had said this in 1951, when construction for the Libby Dam was first authorized. Just over twenty years later the dam was declared complete. I wonder if this farmer felt “much better” after the tooth was removed/the dam built. Was it worth the cost? Did the “pain” go away?

I understand that dams can neither be demonized nor idolized. There are always pros and cons to their construction. The Libby Dam, for instance, was supported by many Creston farmers because it would prevent drastic yearly floods in agricultural fields. (I believe this was the “very bad tooth” that the farmer quoted above was referring to.) Not to mention the enormous scale of how much hydroelectric power dams can generate, as well as their relatively “green” appeal. There are always those sacrifices to be made, consequences to be weighed.

As I reflected on my letter, I thought about the way people sometimes justify these cases of “progress” and development. The rationale seems hyper-focused on human needs, with an unfortunate yet unavoidable repercussion on nature. A sort of “oh well”, an ambiguous shrug as chainsaws split through trees and cement is slathered on the forest floor. I wondered: what would the Columbia River look like now, if the land then had been treated as an equal? What change might we need to bring about such thinking?

Then I began to write, and the words just poured out of me. Before I knew it, I had my letter.

Later that day, we piled into a van and drove to Selkirk College in Castlegar. Most of us were either sweaty and/or yawning as we shuffled out of the vehicle, yet nonetheless we were dressed in clean and dressy clothes for the event that was to come. At the end of each Columbia River Field School, a symposium is held to conclude the two weeks and introduce knowledgeable guests to the students. The theme of our conference was the future of the Columbia River.

Scientists, writers, instructors, directors, coordinators, and those working alongside or with groups related to the river joined us for the afternoon. Some hosted discussions on various topics that the group was interested in; I joined first a conversation on ecosystem function and then one on local government and community engagement.

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“Unless people are impacted directly, issues [pertaining to the Columbia River, also in general] go unnoticed. How do we reach more people about the Columbia River Treaty?”
– from my notes during the symposium

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In our discussion on government and community involvement, a point was brought up that most people are oblivious to situations such as the extensive history and controversy saturated within the river – unless they have a personal connection to it, or are immediately affected. I understood. Before the field school, I couldn’t have told anyone what the Columbia River Treaty was, or which dams are part of it, or why it exists in the first place. This is a reality for most and many British Columbian citizens. Even those who live in the Kootenay-Columbia regions. There is a genuine lack of understanding and interest in this complex topic.

The hopeful news is that it only took two weeks before I knew an extensive (not to brag . . . well, just a little) amount of information on the history, conflicts, consequences, ecology, and politics of the river. It only took two weeks – heck, even less than that – before I began to feel like I deeply cared about this water and land. I have no personal connection to the river save for the fact that it generates the electricity I use and also eventually binds in Castlegar with the Kootenay River, an important water source that flows through Creston. And yet, suddenly and surprisingly, I felt similarly bound to the Columbia River that first day we canoed in the sloughs. Its business became my business. And, from the passion in my peers’ voices in discussion around me and the seriousness of their gazes as they listened attentively to our guests at the symposium, I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

The field school is proof that, really, all one needs to feel connected to a place is to be immersed in it. There is absolutely no replacement for firsthand observation and experience with learning. As we talked about the Treaty-built dams, we walked and paddled through them. As we learned about the peaceful and spiritual headwaters of the river, we sat by it and dipped our fingers in its cool, shallow marsh. As we discussed the people that had been displaced, Indigenous artifacts and land lost to flooding and dams, we gazed across the Arrow Lakes Reservoir to the lonely little grave at Oatscott and felt the heaviness of years-past loss in Nakusp.

It was difficult to not feel overwhelmed and hopeless when faced with this intense history and prevailing development. So many people feel silenced still; so many others do not even know what they speak of. When having to deal with governments and treaties and international agreements over sixty years old, things tend to feel daunting, leviathan, and unapproachable. Then there are such questions as, will salmon ever make the journey home to Canal Flats? Can common ground be found between farmers, environmentalists, politicians, and recreationists? What can one citizen do to make a difference?

But. I saw the keen curiosity of my comrades and felt the same in myself. I felt the burn to act, to speak, to share lighting me up just as they described in themselves. And I saw how a group of very diverse teenagers came together and coexisted, nay, thrived, with the beauty of the land and water as our bond. We may not have seen eye-to-eye sometimes, or even most of the time; that was okay. It was more than okay. Our varied perspectives and life experience meant we all had something unique to provide to the group. Our differences made for a collective experience of unlikely bonding, where respect and a safe space were still very much present.

While I can’t even attempt to answer the unknowable questions around the Columbia River and its treaty, I do know that it is entirely possible to find common ground with others entirely different than oneself, then to compromise, then to coexist. Not only could this extrapolate to politics, government, and groups divided by volatile emotions and rigid opinions, I believe it also applies to our relationship with the natural world. This is what I endeavored to explain in my letter.

One other thing I believe us field school students shared, regardless of our walks of life, was an appreciation of the sublime energy of the Columbia River: our home for fifteen days.

Above shows the tent I stayed in with a couple of my peers during our stint at Synringa.

I awoke at 5 am on day fifteen. It was a choice I made (mostly) willingly; I wanted to spend the last day of the field school with the friends I’d made, along with one of the early-rising leaders who made coffee at an ungodly hour such as this. We chugged our coffee sweetened with creamy condensed milk and laughed jitteringly until everyone else stumbled sleepily into the kitchen area. I fondly remember that last morning with a scene of eating crunchy, delicious granola as Maya serenaded the campsite with ukulele and song.

During the field school, each of us students had been interviewed by one of the leaders near the beginning of the trip. In the interview we discussed personal goals for the trip in aspects of canoeing, camping, and leadership skills. I have to admit, in my first interview I’d been hard on myself – I was still in the throes of homesickness and unsure if I could survive the extensive days, let alone all of the topics we were to learn and cover. Besides, leadership skills? I’m sure I scoffed. Wherever did I keep those?

I should’ve known I’d surprise myself again. (I wonder how many times I’ve used the phrase “surprised myself” in these posts.) That last morning, I partook in my final interview, and everything came full circle. I could canoe efficiently and fluidly from the bow and stern. I could camp safely and smartly. I had managed to talk to each and every one of my peers, initiate conversations, and relax my anxious introversion enough to enjoy myself. Heck, I’d survived – and enjoyed – being a leader of the day!

I graded myself with satisfaction. Satisfaction, and some emotional pride. We had canoed and driven a long distance from Premier Lake to Castlegar, but my confidence in so many aspects came an even longer ways. I’d really done it; I’d survived and then thrived. It was the ultimate gift from the Columbia River. A gift that came wrapped in many lessons. (The fact that, in media res, these lessons sometimes [often] felt more like curses need not be mentioned.)

We had our last circle together just before noon that day. I believe it’s important to retain the sacredness of that poignant moment to this year’s field school alumni and our leaders, so I won’t attempt to capture its meaning with simple words. However, one thing we were asked in the circle was, “What do you think you’ll remember from the field school, one year from now?”

Answers varied. The dam tour, canoeing, going through the lock, paddling maneuvers, and so on. All of them were important and meaningful in their own way. The underlying themes were adventure, connection, and learning.

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“When it was my turn [to talk in the circle], I shared my memory from our second evening at Oatscott and how beautiful and peaceful the moment felt. But I want to remember so much more than that. I want to remember everything.”
– day fifteen

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Then, somehow, impossibly so, we were all on our routes home, wherever that may be. It was an abrupt ending to the emotional and physical journey we’d been on for what felt like forever and simultaneously no time at all. It took me some time to fully come to terms with the fact that I would very likely never be with all of these people ever again; this silly, sweet dynamic would exist only in my memories from this moment on.

I thought I’d be relieved to be going home. In truth, I was bittersweetly relieved and saddened. I grieved for some time and felt almost out of place in my too-comfy bed that night. I wanted to be camping still, out on the water, feeling the ache in my arms and back as I lay under the stars each night with only a thin sheet keeping me hidden from them. I had experienced my first taste of wanderlust.

Those first few days home, I felt like I chattered giddily nonstop to my loved ones about – well, everything. One important aspect, of course, was the Columbia River Treaty. Here was my opportunity to share with others and gain more understanding myself as I reviewed my notes and handouts.

While there is no official expiry date, the Treaty was agreed to have a minimum length of 60 years. This date was reached in September of 2024. There has been talk of renegotiations, of termination, of changing nothing. However, it seems that an agreement-in-principle (in other words, a preliminary deal) has been reached between Canada and the US as a means of implementing “modernization”. The Columbia River Treaty Local Governments Committee has been collecting input since 2011 from Basin residents on what they’d like to see change, which will then be addressed during Treaty negotiations. To learn more about the recommendations, visit here; to learn more about the Agreement-in-Principle, visit here.

“There’s so much to process. I just need to think and be in my head for a while,” I wrote in my journal on the drive home from Castlegar. I felt that way for quite some time. But once I’d spent enough time in my head, I began to feel an itch to keep telling the story of this experience and expand it to a larger audience. This series of four posts is the fruit of that itch. It is my hope that the posts inspire, entertain, intrigue, amuse, and perhaps even captivate. Thank you for accompanying me on this account of my journey.

What lessons will you learn from a river?

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“Dear Honourable Minister Dix,

“My name is Hazel, and I’m a seventeen-year-old living in the beautiful Creston Valley which Iive called home for almost six years. I just graduated this year from the school of SelfDesign. I’m interested in and intrigued by the natural world and humanity’s interconnectedness to it, art, photography, writing, philosophy, music, and making change in a creative way.

“This year, I was chosen through application and an interview to be one of sixteen students in Wildsight’s Columbia River Field School. As I write this the field school is at its end from the fifteen-day duration, and I can confidently say that I’ve learned and grown so much from the beginning. I’ve paddled several fifteen-kilometre stretches along the Columbia River and slept next to its sloughs while backcountry camping. We started our trip at the headwaters at Canal Flats and ended near Castlegar, but the journey has gone much farther than that. I have learned extensively about the people, politics, tragedies, triumphs, and complexity interwoven in the Columbia River and its treaty.

“Previous to the field school, I had no idea about any of the history behind the Columbia River. It’s been shocking and sad to learn about how much has been lost: diverse ecosystems, Indigenous cultures and land, citizens’ homes and livelihoods. I feel that my eyes have been opened to this history and even still I know I’m only discovering the tip of the iceberg. This field school has given me the opportunity to learn about this expansive topic and immerse myself physically in the beautiful wetlands around the headwaters of the river. Comparing that wilderness to the industrial reservoirs around Revelstoke, Nakusp, and Castlegar was very interesting.

“There are many things I would recommend the government to change and take into consideration regarding the Columbia River. However, what I want to focus on with this letter is conscientiousness, thoughtfulness, and interconnectedness. I feel that there’s a large disconnect between people and nature, a kind of subconscious divide that has developed with progressing industrialization. The problem with this is that we are losing the ability to see how our actions both directly and indirectly affect the ecosystems around us. We are contained in a world of concrete and screens. Have you ever swam in the icy waters of the Kootenay River or watched the stars come out in the wetlands as trumpeter swans honk? Water, land, and animals are more than just figures on a page or infographics on a screen. They are alive and deserve as much respect and acknowledgement as people do.

“I firmly request that the Ministry of Education and Climate Solutions treat the natural world – animals, plants, land, water – with the knowledge that our actions play a huge role in their wellbeing. Once something is changed, it can never revert to its original form. We need to be conscientious of development in wild lands. We need to realize that we are all interconnected, and the health of our environment determines the health of ourselves. Please hear my request and take it into consideration, and know that I’d like to be kept informed and involved. I look forward to your reply.

“Sincerely, Hazel”

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the end (for now)

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