Salmon spawn in the Hoh’s clean gravel, each fish completing a journey that lasted years, before returning to the place it began.
There are a quarter-million rivers in the lower 48, but there aren’t many that remain intact. By “intact,” I mean that there aren’t many that flow from start to end, from snowmelt to brine, without being redirected and reclaimed in some dang-fool, money-grabbing, politically motivated scheme along the way.
All rivers used to be like this one. Before the dams. Before the levees and channeling projects had their way. Back when nature – trees, mountains and rivers, especially – was still seen as inexhaustible. Unassailable.
The Hoh is a link to this past, and one of the last great American rivers.