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saidtheraina's review
4.0
Not sure exactly when I read this, but I remember being thrilled to find it on the shelf at Powell's during the period in which I was reading EVERYTHING I could get my hands on by Duncan.
ktanager's review
5.0
From description of the beached Western Grebe struggling for life mentioned early on, to the virile brown trout attempting to spawn but held fast between Duncan's hands on the last page -- a truly compelling clarion call for cynical, retreating nature-lovers such as myself to retain hope for survival of our world's natural wonders.
kecordell's review
3.0
"At its worst, a big move like mine is a kind of death. At its best, though, such a move is a rebirth. I have tried to keep quiet about this second discovery, for the same reason that those of us who believe in marriage try, around strained, married friends, to keep quiet about the joy of divorce. At times, though - seeing the strained or grief-stricken or irate expressions of Montanans who know what's happening to their place from a perspective of decades or of generations - I feel as though my non sense of place is one of the most valuable things I own. As a forty-four-year-old man but only a three-year-old Montanan, my experience of Montana is as much like that of a three-year-old as it is like that of a grown man." pp. 49-50
"True home places are like true loves. I imagine a lucky individual could experience three or four such places. I imagine a lucky individual could experience three or four such places." p. 50
"...I feel this bowl is the most accurate gift I've managed to give her. I loved giving her a bowl because bowls are beautiful but also as humble, utilitarian, handmade, and breakable as a marriage. I loved giving her a bowl because now both of us, our two daughters, and even our dog eat out of it, as if out of the marriage." p. 74
"Wonder is my second favorite condition to be in, after love, and I sometimes wonder whether there's a difference; maybe love is just wonder aimed at a beloved." p. 88
"True home places are like true loves. I imagine a lucky individual could experience three or four such places. I imagine a lucky individual could experience three or four such places." p. 50
"...I feel this bowl is the most accurate gift I've managed to give her. I loved giving her a bowl because bowls are beautiful but also as humble, utilitarian, handmade, and breakable as a marriage. I loved giving her a bowl because now both of us, our two daughters, and even our dog eat out of it, as if out of the marriage." p. 74
"Wonder is my second favorite condition to be in, after love, and I sometimes wonder whether there's a difference; maybe love is just wonder aimed at a beloved." p. 88
bobbo49's review
5.0
This is really two books of essays: beautiful vignettes of Duncan's love and passion for flyfishing, the fish and the places he has fished his whole life in the northwest; and his socio-political activism to preserve those fish and the places they need to exist, particularly including the rivers of the northwest that have been decimated by dams in the last century. My own biases are, of course, in precisely the same veins: I simply love and cherish flyfishing and the places where I fish, and I have been involved in the long-term effort to remove the dams on the Snake River, in particular, before the salmon and steelhead runs completely disappear forever (they are now 90+% gone).
Duncan's words evoke the smiles and wondrous feelings of oneness with nature that flyfishing on the northwest rivers has always brought me, and the strength of his rants (albeit with factual support) against the dams and the destruction of fish habitat (and everything in nature that the fish support) match my own feelings.
Thank you for another brilliant work of prose and poetry, Mr. Duncan!
Duncan's words evoke the smiles and wondrous feelings of oneness with nature that flyfishing on the northwest rivers has always brought me, and the strength of his rants (albeit with factual support) against the dams and the destruction of fish habitat (and everything in nature that the fish support) match my own feelings.
Thank you for another brilliant work of prose and poetry, Mr. Duncan!
mattstebbins's review
3.0
I fell in love with The River Why, and it will always hold a special place in my part. Since then I've also enjoyed quite a few of Duncan's other books and collections. I'd previously read some of the essays here (or maybe all?), and while there were certainly plenty of bright spots, the truth is I've read an awful lot of naturalist writing, and as such, my definition of success continues to evolve into something more and more difficult to attain.
This was fine, I guess is what I'm saying. Plenty of great moments, but mostly, just fine. If you need naturalist recommendations, I can think of better work.
[3 stars for adequacy combined with the aforementioned bright spots.]
This was fine, I guess is what I'm saying. Plenty of great moments, but mostly, just fine. If you need naturalist recommendations, I can think of better work.
[3 stars for adequacy combined with the aforementioned bright spots.]
grete_rachel_howland's review
5.0
I mean, it's David James Duncan. Eco-philosophy, spirituality, science and snark--it's always poetry in his hands. Also, he does the legacy of Mclean proud, which is quite a feat (and a heavy burden to bear) in and of itself.
bookishheather's review
3.0
Did you know that fishermen and hunters were the first environmentalists? Take for example Teddy Roosevelt, serious hunter, and serious conservationist. (TR's conservationism is how we got Yellowstone National Park and Yosemite National Park, for starters.) The concept of fishermen/hunters as environmentalists has often confused me, as a vegetarian, and I've often quipped, "We want to save 'em...so we can kill 'em!"
After reading My Story as Told by Water this paradox seems much more plausible. After all, without healthy habitat, wildlife would cease to be abundant. And not all fishermen aim to kill—that's not necessarily what they enjoy most about the activity. In 2010, Henry Winkler was promoting his book [b:I've Never Met an Idiot on the River: Reflections on Family, Fishing, and Photography|10132285|I've Never Met an Idiot on the River Reflections on Family, Fishing, and Photography|Henry Winkler|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1403567437s/10132285.jpg|15030183] and when interviewed on "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me" (NPR) he talked about how he always catches to release during his annual fishing trips to Montana. He is on the river for more inward reasons—complete focus on one activity, thinking like a fish, that sort of thing.
Looking for an A to B to C trajectory in your environmentalist memoirs? Nothing to see here. This book meanders around like the rivers Duncan waxes philosophic about throughout. In the beginning he's recalling his childhood, but before you know it he's including a speech given to a group of steelheaders (I'm going to assume this was Oregon Steelheaders) on the Sternwheeler while it paddled up and down the Columbia River. Then he's ranting about cyanide leach mining, in a piece that feels in many regards dated considering this book's release 15 years ago. Then he's including a piece of fiction which is a thinly veiled story (although quite amusing!) about the aforementioned method of mining. Ranting again, about damming the Snake River. Offering advice on how to get along with people who claim wildly different political views. Then recalling a dream where he helps [a:Sherman Alexie|4174|Sherman Alexie|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1333515890p2/4174.jpg] catch an enormously large fish. Including a rejected essay about his favorite fishing guide, who happens to be invisible—framed by a conversation with the fishing magazine editor who called him to reject it.
I suppose since I was expecting a more singular story (and was quite enthralled by his discussion of his early personal life in my hometown of Portland, and why he chose to move to the place I'd like to move), the jumps around weren't really my thing. Talking about fishing wasn't really my thing, although my understanding of fishing in general has increased since reading [b:A River Runs Through It and Other Stories|30043|A River Runs Through It and Other Stories|Norman Maclean|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924914s/30043.jpg|2455271]. Of course, now living a stone's through from Maclean's stomping grounds and sharing a passion for fishing, Duncan gets compared to Maclean an awful lot, but also uses Maclean's most famous piece as a touchstone in the book.
Since there's a LOT in the book, I'd say there's probably something for everyone, including people who may not otherwise read a book published by the Sierra Club. Personally, my favorite parts of the book were when he talks about his childhood in Portland, Oregon. He speaks of places I know, and his narrative serves as an oral history of the development of East Multnomah County in the post-war years:
I felt so panic-stricken by Fairview Creek's death that I tried—as if attempting to keep a stranded fish alive in a bucket—to transfer my need for water, whole, to the other stream in easy driving distance: Johnson Creek, source of my first glimpse of a coho and an inner realm. But a decade and fifty thousand industrious new human inhabitants had been murder on this old friend, too. I encountered none of the magic of Fairview Creek, little of the wildlife, no native fish species, few of the birds. Johnson Creek's only catchable trout were drab hatchery rainbows, planted in March by Fish and Wildlife to entertain local yokels on the April Opening Day. By May, no one fished for them because the same Fish and Wildlife people pronounced them too toxic to eat.
(I live about three blocks from Johnson Creek, and the story of the creek is the story of man attempting to interfere with nature. As I write, it continues: the City of Portland has been working to "restore" certain stretches along the creek. In the case of the stretch they're currently working on, this has required diverting the creek...which is how Fairview Creek died in the author's narrative.)
Duncan also tells of how he came to live in Montana. As a person who spent six months in Missoula and who is now convinced her hometown is just not good enough anymore, I found Duncan's words in "Who Owns the West Wrong Answer #3: The Personal Geography" to ring true for me: "...just as the Hudson is as far west as Joe can go without ceasing to be the Manhattanite he is, so the Continental Divide is as far east as I can go without ceasing to be me." And of course when Duncan calls upon Norman Mclean, he includes the universally acknowledged truth: "the world...[is] full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the farther one gets from Missoula, Montana."
Duncan eventually moved from Portland to Tillamook County and then settled in Lolo, which is just eight miles south of Missoula. So he knows. : )
After reading My Story as Told by Water this paradox seems much more plausible. After all, without healthy habitat, wildlife would cease to be abundant. And not all fishermen aim to kill—that's not necessarily what they enjoy most about the activity. In 2010, Henry Winkler was promoting his book [b:I've Never Met an Idiot on the River: Reflections on Family, Fishing, and Photography|10132285|I've Never Met an Idiot on the River Reflections on Family, Fishing, and Photography|Henry Winkler|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1403567437s/10132285.jpg|15030183] and when interviewed on "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me" (NPR) he talked about how he always catches to release during his annual fishing trips to Montana. He is on the river for more inward reasons—complete focus on one activity, thinking like a fish, that sort of thing.
Looking for an A to B to C trajectory in your environmentalist memoirs? Nothing to see here. This book meanders around like the rivers Duncan waxes philosophic about throughout. In the beginning he's recalling his childhood, but before you know it he's including a speech given to a group of steelheaders (I'm going to assume this was Oregon Steelheaders) on the Sternwheeler while it paddled up and down the Columbia River. Then he's ranting about cyanide leach mining, in a piece that feels in many regards dated considering this book's release 15 years ago. Then he's including a piece of fiction which is a thinly veiled story (although quite amusing!) about the aforementioned method of mining. Ranting again, about damming the Snake River. Offering advice on how to get along with people who claim wildly different political views. Then recalling a dream where he helps [a:Sherman Alexie|4174|Sherman Alexie|https://d.gr-assets.com/authors/1333515890p2/4174.jpg] catch an enormously large fish. Including a rejected essay about his favorite fishing guide, who happens to be invisible—framed by a conversation with the fishing magazine editor who called him to reject it.
I suppose since I was expecting a more singular story (and was quite enthralled by his discussion of his early personal life in my hometown of Portland, and why he chose to move to the place I'd like to move), the jumps around weren't really my thing. Talking about fishing wasn't really my thing, although my understanding of fishing in general has increased since reading [b:A River Runs Through It and Other Stories|30043|A River Runs Through It and Other Stories|Norman Maclean|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924914s/30043.jpg|2455271]. Of course, now living a stone's through from Maclean's stomping grounds and sharing a passion for fishing, Duncan gets compared to Maclean an awful lot, but also uses Maclean's most famous piece as a touchstone in the book.
Since there's a LOT in the book, I'd say there's probably something for everyone, including people who may not otherwise read a book published by the Sierra Club. Personally, my favorite parts of the book were when he talks about his childhood in Portland, Oregon. He speaks of places I know, and his narrative serves as an oral history of the development of East Multnomah County in the post-war years:
I felt so panic-stricken by Fairview Creek's death that I tried—as if attempting to keep a stranded fish alive in a bucket—to transfer my need for water, whole, to the other stream in easy driving distance: Johnson Creek, source of my first glimpse of a coho and an inner realm. But a decade and fifty thousand industrious new human inhabitants had been murder on this old friend, too. I encountered none of the magic of Fairview Creek, little of the wildlife, no native fish species, few of the birds. Johnson Creek's only catchable trout were drab hatchery rainbows, planted in March by Fish and Wildlife to entertain local yokels on the April Opening Day. By May, no one fished for them because the same Fish and Wildlife people pronounced them too toxic to eat.
(I live about three blocks from Johnson Creek, and the story of the creek is the story of man attempting to interfere with nature. As I write, it continues: the City of Portland has been working to "restore" certain stretches along the creek. In the case of the stretch they're currently working on, this has required diverting the creek...which is how Fairview Creek died in the author's narrative.)
Duncan also tells of how he came to live in Montana. As a person who spent six months in Missoula and who is now convinced her hometown is just not good enough anymore, I found Duncan's words in "Who Owns the West Wrong Answer #3: The Personal Geography" to ring true for me: "...just as the Hudson is as far west as Joe can go without ceasing to be the Manhattanite he is, so the Continental Divide is as far east as I can go without ceasing to be me." And of course when Duncan calls upon Norman Mclean, he includes the universally acknowledged truth: "the world...[is] full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the farther one gets from Missoula, Montana."
Duncan eventually moved from Portland to Tillamook County and then settled in Lolo, which is just eight miles south of Missoula. So he knows. : )
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