The River That Speaks

When I was a boy growing up in Klamath, I tried to give directions to a local elder and ended up getting corrected in a language that predates Columbus, Plymouth Rock, and every one of my schoolbooks. That was the day I learned to pronounce Tlamati instead of Klamath, and I realized the river had a name long before we began building bridges across it.

We didn’t learn Yurok in school, mind you. Back then, the curriculum was heavy on the American Revolution, the Civil War, and the California Gold Rush and light on anything that happened this side of the Mississippi before 1870.

But on the playground, in fishing boats, and around backyard fire pits, those old words still floated up like mist off the river. My first Yurok word was Ch’eeshah–dog.

I learned it from an actual dog, or rather, from my friend Sandy, who hollered it every time his pup went tearing off after a squirrel.

“Ch’eeshah!” Sandy would shout.

And that dog would freeze mid-sprint, ears cocked like satellite dishes, and come bounding back. I thought it was magic. Later, I learned it was discipline, tradition, and the kind of bond built over generations—something we never quite grasped, no matter how many hot dogs I sacrificed.

Then came Sa’ahal, which I took to mean “village,” but quickly learned meant something much richer. It was the name for a place along the river, not just any village, but one that belonged to the river.

The way they say it, Sa’ahal sounds like a breeze pushing through the trees. You don’t just live in Sa’ahal. You belong to it.

That made me rethink every “Welcome” sign I’d ever gone past.

And then there’s Re-kwoi, which I mispronounced for years as “Wreck-wah.” But no, it’s Re-kwoi, where the river finally meets the Pacific Ocean.

It’s a place where salmon turn from silver to red and begin their final swim. I remember standing on the bluff as a boy, wind whipping around my ears, feeling like I could see Japan if I squinted hard enough–and thinking, this is the edge of something holy.

Somewhere between Ch’eeshah and Re-kwoi, I started hearing the river speak. Not in words, exactly, but in a rhythm and pulse that begin to line up with the beat of my heart.

That’s a poetic way of saying I spent a lot of time skipping rocks and failing to catch steelhead, but I like to think the river taught me something anyway. Nowadays, I can still pronounce those few Yurok words, and I try to pass them along when the chance arises.

It’s a small thing, I know—four words, some memories, a little reverence. But in a world where everything gets renamed, paved over, or turned into a campground, hanging onto those old words feels like tying a string between the past and present.

Not to hold on too tight—just enough so we don’t forget who whispered to the river first. And if that ain’t worth remembering, well, I reckon nothing is.