The story of my father and the river

The story of my father and the river

by Carmen Gloria Morales 

Memories Long Lost…unless we come together to stop this nonsense and save our river.

My name is Carmen Gloria Morales Fernández, Bbut those who know me call me Yoyi. I’m 47 years old. I was born, raised, and expect to die in Renaico, my hometown. Today I’ve decided to write about the history of our river, but also about my father, Juan Alberto Morales Valenzuela. For me, he and the river are one and the same: my father and the river are connected. He no longer exists on this earthly plane, but for me and for many people who knew him, my father lives on in the river. Why is that? I’ll explain now.

I still have one small clipping from a local newspaper—an interview with my father from 1986. I was twelve years old then. In the article, my father talks about his love for fishing and hunting, and tells the interviewer that he began these activities when he was eight years old, thanks to the natural surroundings of our hometown. These experiences made fishing part of his DNA, so to speak, and he fished until the end of his days.

In those years, our river was big and full of life. It attracted tourists from other regions of Chile and even from abroad. They would go out on it in boats, or jump in from trampolines or the railroad bridge and swim in its crystal-clear water. This wasn’t dangerous at all, even though the water was so deep that it was impossible to see to the bottom. There were a lot of fish in the river back then, including salmon, trout, silverside, and carp. My dad was known for the good luck he always had as a fisherman. People knew about that and often hired him as a guide for tourists that were as passionate about fishing as he was. He would take them out in his own boats, which he built himself out of wood. This was the best material for them, he felt, mainly because it was less dangerous to capsize in the river’s rapids. A wooden boat always stays afloat, no matter how hard the currents try to sink it.

So my father would always take tourists out on fishing excursions, because he knew the river well, including the best fishing spots. On one particularly successful outing, his group caught 35 salmons, each weighing about a kilo. Plus 45 medium-sized silversides! It was all thanks to his knowledge of the river, as well as his patience, dedication, and love for what he did.

The river was our source of sustenance. And a source of joy for my father, because it gave him the freedom to take his boats up and down the river, enjoying its natural beauty, fluidity, clarity, strong currents (in some parts), and magnificent strength.

Now, all of this is lost, even at the area we called “the umbrella,” between the rail bridge and the road bridge, where my dad set his boats out for rental. Today, you can walk across the river, especially on the border where the Araucanía Region meets the Biobío Region. From the road bridge, you can see how a green, slimy algae bloom now coats the riverbed. It must be because the current has weakened over time. It seems like the water is now stagnant. I hope I’m wrong, for the good of the flora and fauna that live within and around our Renaico River.