Swift Water A River Essay
BY SCOTT BOSSE
I was born as snowmelt high on
a mountain slope where wolverines and grizzly bears tread. Some of my earliest human inhabitants called me Cut-tuh-o'gwa, or “swift water.” Today I am named after a white man who, in turn, was born on a distant continent and never laid eyes on me. In my highest reach below the lake that also shares my name, I slither through meadows of sage and sedge, twisting and turning upon myself like a coiled snake, preparing to strike out on my 120-mile journey. The life force of my current here is barely perceptible and my crystalline appearance reflects the cotton clouds sailing across an ocean of sky. 46
MOUNTAIN
Venture into my headwaters and you will encounter the deep solitude that has vanished from most of my reach. Close your eyes and listen, and you will hear the faint trickle of my movement, the rustle of the wind in the lodgepole pines, and perhaps the primeval croak of sandhill cranes ricocheting off the hillsides. Look in the mud beside me and you will find prints of all kinds, from tiny frogs to massive moose that bed down in my willowy fringes. Where I emerge from the wilderness in a maze of willows, I start to encounter anglers casting for trout in my opalescent pools and beneath my undercut banks. Wade
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into me here and I run clear and cold, my body sustaining stoneflies, mayflies and caddisflies that fatten the trout during the short growing season. Except for the ribbon of asphalt that follows much of my course, I appear much the same way I did after the glaciers receded 10,000 years ago. Further downstream, below the confluence of my most tempestuous tributary, my pace quickens and the buff-colored limestone cliffs to the east soar to greater heights. There are houses and lodges scattered along my banks now, and their antiquated wastewater systems leak pollutants into my waters through hidden
