river lover

Last Thursday—bodies crammed into semi-dry, sand-pocked bathing suits, inner tube cinched to bike trailer, kid-friendly provisions jostling in the backpack—we were out the door to meet friends at the Animas River. Just before hopping on bikes, my friend Sue called with the cryptic news that she heard from a neighbor who heard from a friend who saw on Facebook: a mining spill at the Animas River’s headwaters in Silverton was coursing down the river, the one into which we were fifteen minutes from jumping.

Photo by Jonathan Thompson of High Country News, accompanying this excellent article.

That night we joined a throng of people on a river beach to bear witness as the toxic plume—an opaque orange bisque—merged into the previously clear water. Like a vigil for an ill friend, maybe the one friend every local has in common, we showed up without much more to offer than our care. The orange water flowed past us. Orange. There were gasps amongst the crowd. Parents hissed anxiously at their kids to get back from the edge (ok, that was us). People stared in shock at the infested waters, some discussing theories and predictions, others in what seemed to be quiet prayer. It seemed unthinkable that any living creature could survive these waters painted in thick metals.

Photo courtesy of Mountain Studies Institute

As NYT writer Julie Turkewitz says, the Animas River is the cultural soul of this patch of Colorado. It’s the heartbeat, the lifeblood, a wild aqua ribbon bustling with heron, deer, muskrats, kingfishers and children. It’s the place where this summer my kids found a garter snake with a live fish in its mouth; the place where canada geese lead fuzzy, yellow goslings through the paces of childhood; the place where teenagers soused on hormones tether their inner tubes and pledge forever love; it’s a place that offers something wild, something adventurous, something soothing, as well as shelter and food to many different species.

Having a wild river run through town is like having access to an ever-changing public art installation. It’s the very definition of dynamic, its seasonal and climactic changes are the true current events of this town. In the winter it’s iced over on brutally cold mornings. In the spring the river swells in rushes of sediment-brown run-off. In the summer, the water is clear, cold, and inviting. And in fall, the river shrinks, its rocky bones exposed. This river is the backdrop of our lives, a living metaphor reminding us of the nature of change.

I am also aware that in many ways we are all guilty. We all benefit from mining—hello, ieverything—but it happens on other continents and fouls other people’s backyards. Really, this is a small sampling of the way our desire for the next cool thing always has repercussions.

There is some good news. Macroinvertebrates and fish seem to be holding on. The surface water is, one week later, at pre-event levels for heavy metals. The issue of toxic mining debris has entered public discussion. There is some bad news. The toxic spill continues to pollute downstream waters. The orange muck has settled into the banks and river bottom, and is draped over rocks. There are 400 more mines around the headwaters of Silverton, potential disaster sites in the making. Many farmers and ranchers depend on this river for irrigation. A portion of our drinking water comes from the Animas.

There is still much unknown.

One week later, our sandy bathing suits still hang in the bathroom waiting for better news.

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