Saddler explains towards the end of this set of essays, why he chose to use the official name of Melbourne's muddy river rather than its traditional name, Birrarung. What we have now, he says, is that what we see is a misunderstood river - that the words the Yarra evoke scorn when it should be wonder (my paraphrasing) and only perhaps if we change our perspective could we see Birrarung. It is also an acknowledgement that Indigenous perspectives are absent from this book.
But it is the first intent which I wanted to focus on to start. This book has been suggested a couple of times to me, but only when it popped up on the PM Literary Awards shortlist did I decide to read it. In full disclosure I tried asking my partner to read it instead. "Do you want to read a book on the Yarra?", I asked. He looked at me perplexed. "It's supposed to be quite good", I added helpfully. "Why don't you want to read it?" was the obvious question. "I'm just not very fond of the Yarra", I pointed out, "You like Melbourne a lot more than I do.". "Well, but I don't really like the Yarra", he said. "I mean, I don't think anybody really likes the Yarra". (He did not read the book, hence I did)
This inescapable reputational problem is confronted pretty directly by Saddler (I think now the subtitle, "A Clear Flowing River" was likely supposed to be provocative, but just implied to me unreasonable rose-tinted perspectives) at the start. The Yarra, he points out, is more a sight of jokes about its terribleness than love. People are more likely to joke about dead bodies floating in it than they are to actually swim in it (which to be fair, is not safe for much of the length). Saddler, however, takes us to a different side of the river (quite literally at times), focusing on the marsupials, birds, mammals and occasional reptile who make the banks and waters their home. The essays largely chronicle a pandemic and post-pandemic discovery journey for Saddler (and the book is highly reminiscent and evocative of the pandemic years), as he explores the river on foot, bike and eventually, by flotation. His Yarra is an abused beauty, a natural ecosystem beset by pollution, weeds, rubbish dumping and climate change, but still operating as a lifeline for species that have lived in the region for millennia. This book is largely nature memoir, less languid than Thoreau, but in the same tradition of writing about how nature makes you feel by writing about it.
Saddler also profiles the various defenders of the river, those Melbournians who devote their time and energies to restoration, rubbish clean up, swimming groups and advocacy. Through interviews, he sketches the complexity of solutions, the frustration with work which must be done carefully and slowly and with a long-term eye, in the face destruction which is often swift and unbalancing. Nevertheless, he imbues this with a hope, based on the small successes, a glimpse, which is very pandemic-like, of a different way of life within our reach.
Having said that, for much of the book, as someone who lives in a bush-rich environment, I had my superior eye rolling moments about Melbourne. The sheer excitement at seeing marsupials just an hour's travel away highlights how very alienated our cities are from our ecosystem. This is a vision of how we could live, but it is a long way from how most Melbournians do live, and the sheer exhilaration at seeing other species go about their lives uninterested in humanity and our stuff, is a reminder that an experience which should be commonplace has become exotic.