Uncovering the secrets of the real River Why, with only a novel for a guide
Six and a half international nautical mile down an overgrown dirt route , my partner and I extract our hand truck to a halt before a locked gate . We were attempting to reach a river , the bank of which were still far off , and we ’d have to cover the rest land mile by pes . I was nagged by a feeling that something was n’t right , a sense that I was wasting my fourth dimension here . Perhaps it was the semi - desiccate valley around us , a far cry from the riotous ecosystem described in the 1983 cult classic novelThe River Whyby David James Duncan — whose unidentified river we were steadfastly in hunting of — but we forged forrader anyway , letting the dogs out of the back of the truck . We packed ourfishing gearand congeal off down the rarely - used two - data track toward the river .
An hour later , we stand at its bank . The torrential stream frothed and churned , the water filled with sediment . I thought about the river I was looking for , which was think to be a fly sheet fisher ’s dream , and sleep together this was n’t it . We settle in for a few cast anyway , and a spry free fall for the dogs . But as we revel a 24-hour interval on the river , a familiar query demanded retainer : Would we ever find the real River Why ?
I was 14 years old when I first read the fly sheet sportfishing taleThe River Why . On the leaflet of gamy school and turning a corner towards independence , I devoured it in a few twenty-four hours , identify with the coming of long time tale and the want to strike out on your own . Fast forward two decades and I ’ve moved to Oregon , a couple hours from the area where the novel is based . My partner Jenny is an esurient fly ball fisherwoman , and our dog , Dusty Bottoms and Bea , love nothing more than a right swim . Over the wintertime I spottedThe River Whyon Jenny ’s shelf and decided to nibble it up again . This time , I found myself less concerned in the metaphorical lesson and more curious about the river itself .
Photo by Andy Cochrane
In the novel , recent high school alum Gus leaves home and heads into the woods to perfect his ability to take flight fish . A trout stream near his secluded cabin becomes his friend , wise man , and periodic nemesis . The river is never named , but is described in colorful item . And while the story is fictional , rumor has it that Duncan based his river on a real river in the Oregon Coast Range .
The location of that river has remained a arcanum for 40 years . So Jenny and I set out to see if we could find it , committing the spring to angle along this 200 - mi stretchability of peck .
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Using clue like the river ’s tributaries , law of proximity to the seacoast , and nearby human impact , I narrowed down a list , arrive at a 12 naturalistic options : Coquille , Kilchis , Nehalem , Salmonberry , Siuslaw , Tillamook , and Yachats , to name a few . As I chew over over the prospect , I give each a web of notes , from public memory access point to rationale on why it fit and skepticism as to why it didn’t . From there , it was a matter of planning , tamp down , and shoot the breeze each one . I had specific attributes in mind to search for , but beyond the concrete , I knew we ’d be able-bodied tofeelthe material river when we found it , sensing its gurgle spirit as we walk down rocky banks in wader . It ’s hard to interpret this into words on a page , but easy to intuit . So , armed with this combination of research and suspicion , we kicked off our search .
We started at the northern end of the Coast Range because it was close to Portland , where the book begins . The first weekend was a lesson in tenacity . In the decades sinceThe River Whywas write , most of the land has been acquired by wealthy somebody and private businesses who have gate off public entree . After spend all Saturday just trying to physically reach the first river on the listing , we almost gave up altogether — but then we had a stroke of luck and encounter a friendly local , who turn out to own a cabin near the river . After take heed about our onerous sidereal day , she graciously launch the gate . come at the river , we soon realized it was much too large to fit the criteria . All we could do was laugh , turn around , and search for a campsite for the Nox .
The next day was no different . Two more rivers , two more crossed off the list . Even with newfangled houses and commercial developments to cark us , both were clean-cut busts . Neither river seem — or felt — like the real River Why .
Photo by Andy Cochrane
Our probe continued into successive weekend , much to the atonement of our click , who love nothing more than waking up at first light , tail sticks and squirrels all day , and fall asleep deal in mud . Jenny and I shine into a pattern of looking at topographical maps Friday evening , packing a tank with food , and leave the house before dawn the next morning as we sought out whichever river was on the docket for the day .
There were a few larger-than-life failures , like tramp across miles of bog and through thick brush , only to arrive at an almost dry riverbed . Every Saturday night we slept in the back of the motortruck , snuggled between mucky frump , laughing about the day ’s mishaps . We skipped cascade , drank gallons of gas place coffee , and lived on cheese and salami wrap , a undecomposed admonisher of how little you need to be glad .
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The search sweep up on . Despite taking longer than expected , the process never felt like a essence . We knew our absurd end of find a semi - fictitious river required a signified of wittiness . With this levity , each failure was not actually a unsuccessful person at all . We sweep up the opportunity to explore new plaza , get away from prison cell armed service , and slow down for a daylight or two .
And one Clarence Day , when we least bear it , we found the real River Why .
We had followed railroad tracks for a few hours , eventually enter a distant river valley without a signal of human life . Something felt correct . We followed a plot trail down to the river bank and there it was , with all the little details I had carry , a fly fisherman ’s aspiration of house of cards lines and glassy twist .
In that moment I realized two thing . First , we had almost surely found the setting ofThe River Why , and second , that the finish was inherently purposeless all along . It was n’t the booming crescendo I had foresee from the start . find it was never pass away to change who I was , what others thought of me , or my flight in life . The mental process of searching for it , however , was anything but purposeless .
At the destruction of his quest to perfect the prowess of fly fishing , Gus realizes he has to redefine what success entail to him . In my quest to find the River Why , I unintentionally get to the same realization .
Success was something I achieved long before I found the river . It was quality time with Jenny and the dogs , savored moments on the water . It was cold toe and light bouncing off the rippling flow . It was nibble the right fly , expectancy of the smasher , and comedic succor when the dog jumped in and ruin our chances . It was learning to be present , build up a deeper appreciation for the natural world , and — at long last — agnise the important matter were already right in front of me .
Photo by Andy Cochrane
Photo by Andy Cochrane
Photo by Andy Cochrane
