We were two or three weeks into building a cabin when the first two-by-four became the target of a sudden, white-hot flash of anger. It was the summer of 2018, in the middle of Washington鈥檚 emerald-soaked Cascade Range, and I was on the phone with my father, seeking advice about some framing conundrum, while my longtime friend Patrick (who goes by Pat) was wrestling a 16-foot board toward a miter saw. When the whir of the blade stopped, it became immediately clear that he had cut it wrong. The sawdust still airborne, Pat reached down, grabbed a two-by-four with the conviction of a Baptist preacher, and sent it flying into the forest with a short, crisp, 鈥�Fuck.鈥�

A lot more lumber would end up in the woods. We screwed up countless times from morning to evening, wasting precious daylight hours. Constructing a cabin was a task that one might say we were 鈥渘ot entirely prepared for.鈥� Sometimes, during those months of toil, our anger burned so intensely that we thought the boards we threw into the woods might never land. They鈥檇 just keep flying, the wood breaking down over time and separating into smaller and smaller pieces until they vanished, as our brains exploded from frustration and worry.

In reality, the whole project was borne out of frustration. A few months earlier, Pat and I had what were arguably good careers: I was a reporter at a national magazine in San Francisco, and Pat was a copywriter at a tech company in Seattle. We were lucky enough to have good bosses and colleagues who had become friends. But we were deskbound聽and felt caged by the typing, phone calls, Slack chats, and emails, all performed under the hum of fluorescent lights. We were overwhelmed by the uniformity of it all聽and troubled that we seemed incapable of finding contentment in jobs that many of our coworkers appeared to cherish.聽Sometimes we hoped for an excuse to quit鈥攁 blowup after a failed project or an absurd request from a boss.

We knew we were fortunate to have good jobs鈥攁nd this was well before our country was facing a pandemic and massive unemployment鈥攂ut we were facing the existential crisis that comes from spending your days doing something you don鈥檛 enjoy and wondering if this is how the next five, ten, 20 years will play out. We were in our thirties, young, but not so young. We鈥檇 seen the articles linking sedentary lifestyles to heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and misery. We wanted to get out of our respective offices and try something different.

We knew how insufferable it would sound: a couple of discontented millennials deciding to leave stable jobs to do 鈥渟omething more meaningful.鈥� People would think we were a couple of wannabe Foster Huntington dropouts. But being a trope and being free seemed better than being trapped inside for the better part of our thirties.

For the past five years, we鈥檇 joked about various alternatives to our day jobs: scuba dive instructor, skydiving teacher, maybe own a cool hookah caf茅 with live music. But one option didn鈥檛 seem as ridiculous as the others: leaving our desks to build a cabin from scratch.

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鈥淎 river is never silent鈥eservoirs stilled my song.鈥� Narrated from the point of view of Washington’s Elwha River, a new documentary about the largest dam removal project in U.S. history starts off on a somber tone before building toward the best possible catharsis: massive charges of dynamite demolishing a pair of meddlesome dams.

The 1,400-square-mile is the fifth most-visited national park in the country, according to the , and the 45-mile-long Elwha is its heart. It is fed by runoff from Mount Olympus and, in turn, feeds thousands of acres of forestland and flows into the Pacific Ocean. But for more than 100 years the river鈥檚 flow was restricted by two dams initially installed, like so many others in the country, as generators of cheap power. Eventually, the dams were discovered to be a strain on the local environment and nearby communities outgrew the need for them. But removing the dams would not be an easy task. It took more than two decades and countless efforts by local community members and environmental groups to tear the dams down and return the river to its natural state.

, currently screening around the Pacific Northwest, tells the story of the fight to restore the Elwha to its former glory, how the project might serve as an example for successful dam removal projects across the country鈥攅ven ones mired in political discord鈥攁nd how opening up the river created a myriad of new recreation opportunities.

Built in 1910 and 1926 respectively, the Elwha dam (108 feet high) and Glines Canyon dam (210 feet high) provided the only power to a lumber mill town called Port Angeles, situated on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Pacific Northwest lumber industry was skyrocketing, and concerns about the dams鈥� environmental impact and effect on public enjoyment of the surrounding forestland were almost nonexistent. (In fact, Olympic National Park wasn鈥檛 formed until more than a decade after the last dam鈥檚 completion.) The only apparent impact was to local salmon populations (which plunged by 99 percent) and to the , which depended on the fish. Dam advocates presented a hatchery as a solution to the fish problem and moved on.

Over time, as adequate, affordable electrical power became available from other sources and the hatchery failed to offset the drop in available salmon, locals started questioning the need for the dams. The Elwha tribe argued that fishing rights, granted to them long before the dams were in place, were useless if the dams eliminated the salmon. So, the tribes, along with environmental groups, began petitioning for restoration of the Elwha and its salmon runs. In 1992, their petitions were heard and President George H.W. Bush 聽to allow the federal government to buy the dams and begin conducting studies regarding the feasibility of their removal. For local tribes and environmental advocates, it was time to go to work. Hundreds of environmental studies later, the decision to remove the dams was finalized.

In Return of the River we see how the process unfolded, how the call to remove the dams endured the tenures of pro-dam politicians and eventually grew into a local movement. Not that there weren鈥檛 concerns about fallout from dynamiting a pair of century-old concrete barriers. What would happen when two lakes worth of water and countless tons of sediment packed against the dam walls suddenly, explosively, surged downstream?

On August 26, 2014, the final series of charges inside the dams and the water began to flow freely like it hadn鈥檛 since the early 20th century.

Less than two weeks after the last demolition blast, salmon returned to the upper watershed. Sediment carried downriver began nourishing an expansive beach at the mouth of the river. Native plants began to flourish in the drained lakebeds.

鈥淚 can鈥檛 think of another place in the country where you can get a front row seat to a restoration project of this magnitude,鈥� said Tom O鈥橩eefe, a local river ecologist and Pacific Northwest stewardship director for rafting advocacy group . 鈥淚t鈥檚 one of the most unique places I鈥檝e ever been.鈥�

Olympic has turned the dam sites into educational exhibits and permanent interpretive centers are slated to open in May. Rafters are entering the Elwha above the old Elwha dam and shooting through what used to be a wall, following new Class III rapids all the way to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. (O鈥橩eefe now paddles along 20 new miles of some of the most diverse whitewater in the country, including sections of Class V rapids.) Hikers are exploring miles of new trails, following those created by stewards who are working to plant over 500,000 pounds of native seeds and over 400,000 plants in the old reservoirs. Not only are these new recreation opportunities available, they鈥檙e getting visitors. The Olympic National Park shows that attendance to the Elwha has increased over 60 percent in the past year.

鈥淗ere鈥檚 a case where we鈥檙e really letting a river be wild again,鈥� said Amy Kober, senior director of communications at the advocacy group . There are about 50 dam removal projects currently active in the country, with more slated to start in the years to come, according to American Rivers. The evolution of the Elwha isn鈥檛 a perfect template for those other projects, but it offers significance beyond its local community, Kober said. 鈥淭he Elwha is resonating and connecting with people nationally. It鈥檚 shown people how fast these rivers can come back and it鈥檚 getting people to talk about the benefits of removing dams.鈥�

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Long before ciders gained a reputation for being too sweet, our nation鈥檚 founding fathers were growing cider-specific apple varieties and swapping recipes. Then prohibition dealt the drink a blow, German-style beers became the nation鈥檚 favorite quaff, and ciders vanished from bars and taprooms. But in the past five years, American cider has undergone a renaissance, with sales jumping some 400 percent and craft producers leading the way.

鈥淲hen you taste a real, traditional cider, you鈥檙e tasting that specific apple, that farm, that soil, and that season,鈥� says Gregory Hall, founder of Michigan鈥檚 and former head brewer at Goose Island Brewery in Chicago.

Most broadly distributed domestic ciders use common apples and add sugar, yielding the candied concoctions you see next to the malt liquor at the store. Small cideries like Virtue, on the other hand, rely on local ingredients and the traditional method: pick, mash, ferment, and serve. The results are more in line with what George Washington produced than, say, Mike鈥檚 Hard Smashed Apple Ale.

Because cider needs only apples, producers foster tight relationships with nearby farms. Virtue has even partnered with local growers to create a group of single-source ciders called the Estate Series, and it happens to be some of the best stuff we鈥檝e tasted. Which is why we鈥檙e stocking up: like wines, vintage matters. What you get this year you鈥檒l never get again.

The Cider Spectrum

Ciders range from dry to semidry to sweet. Here鈥檚 how some of our favorites stack up:

DRY

Isle Au Haut, . The apples, foraged on an island off the coast of Maine, are fermented in open buckets.
January Barbecue Smoked Cider, . Heirloom cider apples are smoked over a mixture of pear, apple, and oak wood and added to the juice.
Virtue Estate Series, . Each dry and wild-fermented cider in the series highlights a specific Michigan orchard.
Wild Pippin, . Made from wild apples sourced in New York鈥檚 Finger Lakes region and aged in French oak barrels.

SEMIDRY

2011 Cidre, . 鈥≒ossibly the most recommended cider on the planet; made from French apple varieties.
Old Fangled Heirloom Blend, . Pressed from vintage varieties in Washington State.

SWEET

Smackintosh, . Fermented from three native apple varieties, this fruit-forward cider has notes of caramel.

SOMETHING FOR THE BAR

Traditional cider too tame? Grab a bottle of applejack, cider that鈥檚 been distilled into hard liquor. Harvest Spirit鈥檚 is made in New York鈥檚 Hudson Valley and weighs in at a brisk 80 proof. Grab it anytime you鈥檇 reach for a bourbon.

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