Postcards from the Rogue Valley

A month ago, newspapers from the New York Times and the Guardian to Underscore Native News broadcast a David vs. Goliath story about Indigenous teens conquering the Klamath River on the heels of the largest dam-removal project in U.S. history.

“One year after a historic dam removal, teens inspire river restoration worldwide: ‘It turns out you can win,’” the Guardian headline proclaimed. Armed with kayaks, the 28 teens representing seven tribes set off on a descent of the 300-mile Klamath after more than a hundred years of bondage. The article continued:

Ruby Williams’s pink kayak pierced the fog shrouding the mouth of the Klamath River, and she paddled harder. She was flanked on both sides by fellow Indigenous youth from across the basin, and their line of brightly colored boats would make history when they reached the Pacific Ocean a month later —  they were going to do it together.” (The Guardian, Oct. 25, 2025)

Ruby remembers saying goodbye to her uncle as she pushed off and his saying: “Go be historic.” She never looked back.

This past week, Ruby, her peers, and their elders attended the COP30 Climate Change Conference in Brazil. They petitioned the United Nations to stop recognizing dams as clean energy eligible to receive carbon offset funding. They were also the first to sign the so-called Klamath River Accord, an agreement made to protect rivers around the world that “recognizes that the removal of these dams should serve as a model for future climate resilience efforts and a testament to the power of collective action.”

“We are David,” To’nehwan Jayden Dauz, a 15-year-old from the Hoopa Valley tribe, exclaimed.

A river reborn

The Klamath River, flowing through southern Oregon and northern California, has long been a cultural and ecological lifeline for its Indigenous peoples. For millennia, tribes such as the Yurok, Karuk, Hoopa Valley, Klamath, Shasta, and others depended on the river’s once-abundant salmon runs, its clean waters, and the cultural, ceremonial, and ecological connections that came with it. 

In the 20th century, however, the river became one of the most dammed and ecologically harmed rivers in the American West. Hydroelectric dams built between 1918 and 1964 — Copco 1, Copco 2, J.C. Boyle, and Iron Gate — blocked salmon migration, warmed the water, flooded sacred lands, and fractured tribal life. The Klamath’s decline became so severe that in 2002, tens of thousands of salmon died, a crisis that galvanized the Indigenous nations that live along its banks, along with environmental advocates.

“Dams are the main reason why fully one–fifth of the world’s freshwater fish are now either endangered or extinct,” writes Patrick McCully, author of Silenced Rivers.

In the year since the final dam came down in 2024 — the largest dam removal in U.S. history — the river has undergone an astonishing transformation. Even the scientists and tribal biologists who had hoped for recovery were surprised by its speed. 

Without the artificial reservoirs that trapped warm, stagnant water, toxic algae blooms have disappeared. Water temperatures have returned to natural seasonal rhythms, creating healthier conditions for salmon. Wildlife — bald eagles, beavers, bears — has returned to the riverbanks, and native plants seeded during restoration efforts have begun to cover the newly exposed ground.

Salmon themselves were the first to testify to the river’s resilience. Within days of dam removal, coho salmon traveled farther upstream than they had in six decades. By the following year, Chinook were spotted in the headwaters near Chiloquin — places salmon had not reached for more than a century. To the biologists and tribes monitoring the river, these were profound signs: the river was remembering itself.

The river will still need many years, decades even, to heal the deep scars left by the dams. Two smaller dams remain near the headwaters. Sediment, invasive vegetation, and other legacy impacts require long-term restoration. 

“One year in, the big-picture update is the river is continuing to heal,” Barry McCovey Jr., a senior fisheries biologist for the Yurok Tribe, told the Guardian. “It has a different feel to it now—and it’s only going to get better.”

The First Descent

Without a doubt, the most symbolic and historic event of the river’s first year of freedom was what came to be called the First Descent, the 30-day, 300-mile journey in which 28 Indigenous teens paddled the entire river from its headwaters to the Pacific Ocean. 

Organized by Ríos to Rivers under the “Paddle Tribal Waters” program, the expedition was designed to ensure that the first people to kayak the undammed river in over 100 years would be the youth of the tribes whose ancestors had lived, fished, and prayed along its waters.

Many of the teens had never been in a kayak before 2022, when the program began. Their journey required mastery of whitewater skills — especially Class IV rapids newly exposed after reservoirs drained. One such section was K’íka·c’é·ki Canyon, a 2.5-mile stretch of powerful rapids cutting through an ancient basalt gorge sacred to the Shasta Indian Nation. Even seasoned guides felt fear approaching it. The youth paddlers emerged with awe and pride.

At the journey’s end, when the kayakers reached the Pacific, they were greeted with drumming, singing, and generations of Native people waiting on the sand. Ruby Williams remembers pulling her kayak onto shore, standing bewildered for a moment. “For a split second we stood there, like what do we do now?” she said. “And then all at the same moment we looked at each other and sprinted up this hill as fast as we could and full-on jumped into the ocean.”

Completing the journey together, she said, felt like “a protest in itself,” a way to honor ancestors and claim responsibility for the river’s future.

Restoration as cultural renewal

For the tribes of the Klamath Basin, the dam removal was never only about fish. It was about restoring balance, identity, and possibility. 

For more than a century, many tribal youth saw the river as wounded, inaccessible, or dangerous, and recreation on it — especially in kayaks — was something associated with non-native outsiders. Paddle Tribal Waters is changing that. Teens are not just learning technical paddling; they are reconnecting with cultural teachings, political activism, and ancestral relationships to place.

Program leaders emphasize that the effort is deliberately holistic. During summer training sessions, youth practice whitewater navigation by day and attend evening classes on ecology, traditional knowledge, Indigenous rights, and environmental policy. Several students traveled internationally to exchange experiences with youth fighting dam projects in places like the Bolivian Amazon and the Biobío River in Chile. These exchanges help young leaders understand the global patterns of river exploitation and the global potential for restoration.

Some teens, like Jayden Dauz, have become so skilled that they’re now forming kayak clubs within their tribes. 

All rivers should be free

For McCovey Jr, the senior fisheries biologist for the Yurok Tribe, the wins from the Klamath’s one-of-a-kind dam removal go beyond the fish getting a renewed chance to thrive, along with the ecosystems that support them. After working to restore this basin for most of his life, McCovey’s son, who completed the First Descent, is now connecting with the river as it rebounds. 

“The river needed those kids, they are part of the solution,” McCovey said. “It’s always been part of the goal to show people around the world that something like this is possible,” he added. “You just have to look to the Klamath to see that crazy things can happen.” 

We are reminded of the famous Margaret Mead quote: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

Ruby Williams, who started college this year majoring in environmental conservation and land management, is eager to lead the charge. Along with lifelong friendships she found on the Klamath’s first descent, she’s gained a calling to fight for her river and others around the world.

“All rivers should be free,” she said.

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