Rivers have flowed through me since the beginning
This story was originally delivered on World Rivers Day as part of a talk at Richmond Riverfest 2025.
Rivers have flowed through me since the beginning. Stories of rivers transferred by my ancestors through blood connecting my past, present, future.
My family arrived to this river seven generations past. I wonder how it flowed through their lives and what they thought of the people who knew it best; the many clans from the Bundjalung and Githabul Nations that had lived and loved beside this river since time began here. I wonder if this transmission of water through my own family line, one life after the other, carried memories embedded in it. And that all those water stories were swallowed up in-utero and carried with me to this day, as I stand before you now, beside this very same river. Flowing, always.
My family arrived to meet river further west in a place we now call Tatham. Like most new arrivals on this ancient continent, they came chasing the most valuable commodity of all: timber, and lots of it. It’s hard not to think of what could have been, had the thirst for timber not been so unquenchable. Felling timber for production had its costs but it was the eventual clearing of vast tracts of primeval Gondwanan rainforest across the rich soils of the plateau – all for the sake of more pasture – that was the real knife in the back.
This river has always been here but as I grew older our stories converged. My father, a saltwater man himself of the sandstone country down around the secret river, taught me to sail here. Learning the dance of wind and water captivated me and the relative calm of a river flowing in, out, in with the tide allowed me to build confidence. On days when the wind didn’t blow we’d hoon around in the old tinny, the 15 horsepower outboard redlining as we caught air off the unbroken swell lines curving their way into the bar. My memory may come with rose coloured glasses but in that collection of formative memories the river rarely ran brown.
My mother’s life as a young girl was inseparable from the river. From a house in Riverside Drive, a short float from here, a lasting bond was formed by my other bloodline; the sixth in a line of 7 generations to share this water. Countless hours were spent diving into the salty water of the estuary, cutting feet on oysters, fishing, playing, laughing, surfing & swmming. Water stories from the beginning.
As I left my teenage years behind me the river and I diverged from each other. I sought new places and waters while the river remained, slowly suffering under a weight of history that only seemed to get heavier.. Wherever I went, I was never far from water; it’s pull always undeniable. I slowly built my understanding of ecology and how ecosystems function, mostly through the art of observation. Curiosity was a great teacher. For a decade I followed water around the world; from Tasmania to Darwin, Patagonia to Alaska. I witnessed rivers who were mostly left to their own devices and others who were left to absorb the by-products of modern human existence. Ignorance may be bliss, but it won’t save a river from dying a slow death.
Then, the pandemic. As a virus ravaged parts of the world I returned home; back again to the river. We all watched as air travel ground to a halt, whole societies turned inwards, and – in some places – ecosystems were given breathing space from the modern capitalist machine, if only for a little while.
With my own space and time born of redundancies and unemployment, I eventually found myself in the local library chasing cognitive stimulation. I spent hours poring over local history books and Bundjalung yarns in between surfs. Slowly but surely I began to build a picture in my mind about what this river once was; of the life systems it was able to support. Not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could go back, if only for a few minutes, to see who this river was once upon a time. But since we still haven’t figured out time travel, I’m left with historical records and the limits of my own imagination.
What I learned through those hours reading books was that this river has a virus of its own; a virus so insipid and contagious it destroys much in its spread. Unlike COVID-19 the symptoms aren’t sore throat, a fever and respiratory distress. The capitalist virus has indoctrinated us all into an idea that there can be endless growth on a finite planet. By compromising our immune system it has somehow convinced us that our life support systems are nothing more than drains and dams to be exploited. Have you ever looked at a river system from the sky? Ever seen the arteries reaching out across landscapes on the driest inhabited continent on earth? It’s hard not to see the similarities to the systems that sustain our own bodies. We are 75% water after all.
As doctors and scientists across the planet scrambled to create vaccines to stem the spread, I too searched for my own solutions for an ailing river. But I quickly learned that mistakes made over centuries can’t be put right overnight. Good things take time, and a lot of patience. But with a concerted effort and a re-think of our most crucial priorities, anything is possible.
Through creating Revive the Northern Rivers almost five years ago I have shared many stories, made plenty of mistakes, and learnt more than I ever could have imagined about the most important river in my life. Ultimately water has been a great connector and it has led me to some great water people.
Since I don’t get this chance very often, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge some of them now. Marcus Ferguson for his infectious curiosity, good humour and deep knowledge of this place. Anthony Acret for his quiet patience and determination. Greg Telford for his wisdom and unwavering resilience. Rob Macfarlane for one of the most important books I’ve ever read. My parents for leading me to water. And my future wife for listening to my hare-brained ideas and helping me transform them into something coherent and sensical. Thank you.
Last week, Miica Balint posed me a question for a story that she put together in the lead-up to Richmond Riverfest. She asked, simply, ‘what is a river to you?’ My reply was as follows:
A river is a living system; an entity unto itself that sees and feels things much like we do as people. To connect with a river over a lifetime is to make a friend, someone you come to understand on a deeper level and ultimately someone you’ll do whatever you can to care for and celebrate.
Today is a day for celebration; to connect with our river. But tomorrow I ask of you one thing. Take five minutes out of your day and ask yourself the question,
‘what is a river to me?’
It could be one of the most expansive and important questions you ever ask.