Undamming Hope

Nearly 30 years ago, I followed a path along the Middlebury River. It set me on a course I’m still traveling.

In the summer of 1998, just before I readied for my final year at Middlebury College, I attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ conference. My thrill at taking part in the storied gathering was dampened only by a looming decision ahead. As a double English and environmental studies major, I needed to come up with an environmental nonfiction writing topic for my senior thesis, but my well was dry.

What better place to find creativity than a gathering of writers, I thought. But as the week went on, ideas remained elusive. Seeking creative help, one morning I grabbed a seat at breakfast with Terry Tempest Williams—my literary hero. Skipping the small talk, she just smiled over her oatmeal and asked, “Do you have hope?”

At 21, I supposed that was about all I had. Literary inspiration, though, remained lacking.

On the last night of my stay, sleep also eluded me. So I grabbed my sleeping bag and left my dorm. I crossed a quiet Route 125, found a mowed path through the meadow, and walked until I reached a forest path that ran beside the river. I padded along in the darkness with the sound of the river as a compass. Looking at a map now, I suspect I was somewhere close to the confluence of the Middlebury River and Brandy Brook.

I stretched out my sleeping bag and fell asleep. Overnight, this river, on its run toward Otter Creek and Lake Champlain, left its mark. I woke the next morning with an unexplained certainty: I would write a collection of essays about water—from personal, political, historical, and mythological perspectives. Water became my muse that final year of college, and it has remained so ever since.

For the last few decades, I’ve worked as an environmental journalist on the water beat. A couple years ago, burned out from writing about our mounting problems from climate change and biodiversity loss, I found myself thinking about Terry’s question: “Do you have hope?” If I did still, it was slim.

Then I started writing about dam removals. They seemed an odd bright spot in a bleak reporting landscape. Where I lived in the Pacific Northwest, I had seen salmon return to once-empty rivers after dams came down. But there was more to the story, I found as I tracked dam removals across the country for my book, Undammed. About 2,000 dam removals in the last 25 years put a dent our country’s massive tally of 550,000 dams, thousands of which are abandoned, outdated, or unable to safely cope with the storms we have today.

When removals do occur, they provide a second chance for more than just salmon. Other fish, freshwater mussels, and salamanders return. Riverbanks welcome floodwaters, riparian habitats sprout, and everything from insects to orcas, bears to birds, benefits. Dam removals reconnect ecological habitat, but also reconnect people to rivers. Communities get better water quality and climate resilience, increased public safety, new economic opportunities, and a chance for renewed cultural connection.

Dam removals can also provide an education. I have been heartened to see Vermont emerge as a champion for dam removals, with nine last year alone, including one owned by Middlebury College. Last August an excavator hammered away the Bread Loaf Dam on Brandy Brook in a project led by the Vermont Natural Resources Council, in collaboration with the College and other partners. Coincidentally the site is less than a mile from where I had my river epiphany 28 years ago.

Built in 1937, the 175-foot-long and 25-foot-tall dam once provided drinking water for the Bread Loaf campus. More recently it supplied water for snowmaking at Rikert Outdoor Center, but a more efficient structure now does the job. The dam’s removal reconnects habitat for brook trout and other aquatic animals, improves flood resilience, and has also provided an outdoor classroom for Middlebury College students studying science, policy, film, geography, and writing.

A group of students constructed a proposal for the dam’s removal, and others did baseline stream ecology work prior to construction. Future student efforts will involve monitoring brook trout populations and nesting habitat, planting trees and shrubs, and conducting a long-term monitoring project with drone photography to track the brook’s changes.

I’m delighted by all of it—dam removals have a way of bringing together varied interests into a collaboration with benefits that stretch far beyond the river’s banks. But I was particularly heartened by the news that a nature writing class had also visited the site and found it particularly inspiring.

A river’s return to its course is a profound act of rewilding and proof that we can undo ecological harm. I imagine that it filled these students’ literary wells not just with ideas, but also with hope that can carry them forward on whatever paths they choose. For me, I will continue to follow the water.

Tara Lohan ’99 is an environmental journalist and the author of the new book Undammed: Freeing Rivers and Bringing Communities to Life.