Forests and rivers are inseparable in my mind. When I worked on the Penobscot River Restoration Project in Maine from 2005 to 2015, I became familiar with how this particular river changes its shape and movement through and around different types of forest and terrain. I came to understand more deeply the intricate ways water and forests are connected, and how our human history has influenced these connections. Now, on return trips to the Penobscot watershed, I visit the site where the Veazie Dam was removed in 2013 as part of this historic effort to restore 12 species of sea-run fish to the river. I often reflect on the changes in the landscape, the decades of work it took to begin restoring the river’s fisheries, and the many ways in which the Penobscot Nation and other communities throughout the watershed can now more fully realize the cultural and economic benefits the river provides.
Where the powerhouse once stood, there is now a town park with interpretive signs and winding trails; people of all ages fish, picnic, birdwatch, and wade along shore. Cribworks run parallel to the shore, relics of the earliest dams that captured the flow of the river to sort timber. They continue to erode, and in some spots gather sediments that allow trees and other vegetation to grow during spells of low water, perhaps to become future islands. I know from ongoing scientific monitoring that river herring now glide and leap by this spot in the millions, a notable increase from the roughly 2,000 fish per year counted pre-dam removal. Atlantic salmon numbers also continue to rise.
River restoration (restoration of all kinds, really) requires imagination. Generations of people who grew up without sea-run fish filling the river, or the sight of eagles, herons, osprey, and other wildlife feeding on them, had no memory to call upon. To help others see what could not easily be seen, wildlife biologist Mark McCollough created a series of paintings for public display, including the one we feature on page 44 of this issue. Originally made in 2005 for the Downeast Salmon Federation for use in an educational kiosk, the painting remains useful as a vivid representation of the many ways restored fisheries benefit both people and wildlife.
People may appreciate different aspects of this painting – as they would appreciate different aspects of a river, depending on their interests and experiences. An angler may note each species of fish and spot the emerging mayfly, then start planning for the next fly-fishing trip. Birders can appreciate the juvenile fish – food for mergansers – and might look closely to figure out which species of songbird has landed along the river’s edge. An entomologist I know might be able to identify the hellgrammite – or eastern dobsonfly larva – tucked in the lower right corner. The painting captures well the complexity and beauty of a habitat restored.
On a seemingly disparate note, my visits to the powerhouse in Veazie and the countless hours I spent watching the dismantling of dams sparked ideas of what to do with remnant pieces of concrete, wood, and the twisted rebar that once held the dam infrastructure in place. Fish sculptures often came to mind, from the simple to the elaborate. This past spring, in a pandemic-inspired “life is short” moment, I signed up for a welding class. I’m enthralled with the ways in which metal substances that can support bridges and buildings and serve as the underpinnings of community infrastructure can be cut, melted, molded, and pieced together in new ways. (Sometimes, particularly when I make mistakes, I even watch metal pool and flow.)
We use our imagination and willingness to find common ground to remove dams from rivers and to restore the complex ecology that allows forests and wildlife – and humans – to thrive. We use the hardest substances on earth to construct new ways of being in our communities, and we find sometimes these constructs no longer serve us, or caused great harm. As I learn how to work with metal to reshape and re-create, the power that underlies river restoration and its rippling effects into forests are not far from my mind. And I wonder, in these shifting times across our northern woodlands landscape and beyond, what else is possible? What else can be drawn apart, reshaped, and molded into something new?