Saturday, the sister, the dog, and I went on an excursion to look at water. We have had one of the wettest springs on record. The weather has been cool, overcast and drizzly for weeks it seems. And although the verdant green that has carpeted our prairies is lovely to behold, I crave sunshine and warmth. An abundance of water is a relatively rare thing in our prairie state, and a wonder to gaze at when it happens. The North Platte River is historically a lazy, meandering stream dammed up in a series of reservoirs utilized for flood control, power generation, and agriculture. Not to mention the recreational value of lakes full of fish and fun. But all those dams have calmed and domesticated the Platte. Whereas she used to spread out "a mile wide and three inches deep", she generally flows like a placid, well mannered lady through eastern Wyoming and across the farmlands of Nebraska. Occasionally, she asserts her place as the mighty bearer of water, that omnipotent force that man both worships and fears. The dams to the west of Casper almost never reach capacity. The elegant spillways have been dry nearly every year of my life. Alcova, that gorgeous body of intense blue, fingering its way into canyons and crevices of equally improbable red, has a conventional concrete spillway, resembling a large water slide. Most years it has a trickle of green tinged, mossy water sliding down the very center into a calm pool clogged with water plants. Great place for frogs. A bit further upstream is the behemoth of early dam technology, Pathfinder. Pathfinder dams the mouth of an incredible sheer cliff wall canyon and created a sprawling reservoir of water whose surface is whitecapped always from the constant, wild, Wyoming wind. Instead of the deep red and azure blue of Alcova, the waters of Pathfinder are constant swirling darkness among stark, rugged, rocky terrain that changes color with the changing weather and direction of sunlight. Only a few miles apart, the two artificial lakes are as different as day and night.
We drove up to the dam at Alcova first. When we were children, one could drive or walk across the dam seeing lake on one side and the spillway on the other. Now, due to security concerns, you can only drive to the bottom of the spillway. The water rushed over, sounding like the hiss of a waterfall. Mist and foam rise from the surface, and the spillway is full from side to side. Orderly, modern, and completely controlled by man, this water is our servant. Thousands of swallows build nests along the sides of the dam and spillway, and we were lucky enough to watch a small flock gathering the bright red mud from a puddle to build and repair their nests.
Curiosity appeased, we took the route around the fringe of the lake and one little diversionary side trip to the site of the Cottonwood Creek Dinosaur Find.
So interesting. The rocks that contain fossils of all sorts vary from mud shale that looks as smooth as a tile floor to an conglomerate that looks like an over graveled concrete mixture, and is indeed a natural version of that.
The trail goes in switchbacks up the steep, mostly barren, hillside. But the miracle of water has had an effect here as well, and there was a significant variety of wildflowers growing from the most precarious and improbable locations imaginable. Out of solid granite, up from cracks, a lone tuft from an otherwise completely bare hillside, their fragile beauty proclaimed a dominance over the stone that only comes with water.
The sister is wearing sandals, so our climb was halted about halfway up. Of course, I spotted a 'shortcut' on the way down which took us through a narrow passage between a couple of huge boulders, and across a crevice that looked like broken ankle makings. The sky was threatening to lose the rain that had been building up all day, so we hurried a bit. That trail was no place to be when it got muddy.
So interesting. The rocks that contain fossils of all sorts vary from mud shale that looks as smooth as a tile floor to an conglomerate that looks like an over graveled concrete mixture, and is indeed a natural version of that.
The trail goes in switchbacks up the steep, mostly barren, hillside. But the miracle of water has had an effect here as well, and there was a significant variety of wildflowers growing from the most precarious and improbable locations imaginable. Out of solid granite, up from cracks, a lone tuft from an otherwise completely bare hillside, their fragile beauty proclaimed a dominance over the stone that only comes with water.
The sister is wearing sandals, so our climb was halted about halfway up. Of course, I spotted a 'shortcut' on the way down which took us through a narrow passage between a couple of huge boulders, and across a crevice that looked like broken ankle makings. The sky was threatening to lose the rain that had been building up all day, so we hurried a bit. That trail was no place to be when it got muddy.
We resumed our quest for adventure with the next stop at Fremont Canyon. Fremont Canyon is a remarkable, narrow, sheer walled passage that is named for John C. Fremont, the explorer. Our mother had once read that the Louis and Clark expedition suffered a capsized boat in this canyon, losing surveying equipment and other goods in the process. True to her irrepressible urge to explore and investigate, we spent many summers climbing in and out of the shallow end of the canyon, and wading the always swift river in pursuit of that lost treasure. We never found anything, of course, but the memories are much more valuable than any artifacts we may have discovered. We always took a picnic, and honestly, we probably forgot that we were looking for "artifacts" the first chokecherry bush, wild raspberry, lizard or frog we spotted. I'm certain that mom looked. Us kids were just along for the ride! I have a scar on my left ankle to attest to our adventures there, due to my extreme sensitivity to poison ivy.
The canyon bridge was the scene of a horrific crime the summer I turned thirteen. Two young girls, sisters, driving to their neighborhood market, came out of the store to find they had a flat tire. Of course, there were two helpful men waiting to give them aid. The girls were kidnapped, raped, and tossed like thrown back fish into the swirling water beneath the Fremont Canyon bridge. One survived that ordeal, but paid dearly for the terror the remainder of her life. She finally succumbed to the damage and took her own life many years after her young sister's tragic death. The site has become tainted by that event for many. I, myself, cannot peer off that bridge without feeling the oppressive evil that happened there. There is a coldness on the bridge that I am certain didn't exist before it lost its innocence. I stare with rapt attention at the turbulent green water beneath, and I wonder which of those girls experienced the least torment. I am certain that it wasn't the one that survived.
A short distance down the road from the bridge, a roaring becomes louder and louder. If the dam wasn't known to you, you would think a tornado or freight train was upon you. Park, and then either scramble over the surface of solid granite, or follow the trail if you are inclined to not break rules. I chose the rocks. There were many puddles formed in the rock platform's lower places and the dog enjoyed a wade through. The roaring grows louder, and now you can see mist rising from an unseen crack in the earth. Once you approach the canyon's edge the sound is nearly deafening, and the mist surrounds you. Pathfinder is not a sedate, domesticated dam like Alcova. It is hewn of huge blocks of locally quarried granite, narrow at the bottom of the canyon and widening in the natural opening. Some of the original buckets, cables and other works are still standing after nearly a century. The work was an immense engineering feat for its era. Many lives were lost, and the magnitude of its impact is apparent. Pathfinder does not have spillway in the conventional sense. There are two tunnels through the solid rock that water is released from and from which the power is generated. However, when the water exceeds the reservoir's capacity, it simply overflows, sidesteps the dam and comes crashing over the side of the canyon with a power that takes one's breath away. The incredible sight is something most residents witness only a few times in a lifetime. This year makes my third view of this spectacular event. It spilled in 2010, as well, and I'm certain two years in a row is some kind of record. I was not here in 2010, but I saw the previous spill in 1984. And one other time, I believe about 1973(?).
The water, as it hits the bottom of the canyon is stirred up into a marbled white and green that looks exactly like Wyoming jade. Its beauty is frightening and soothing at the same time. There will be no fear of drought this year. Crops will be well watered. The prairie will be green and blooming. And yet, there is a fragility to our control of the water. It could assume its power over humanity any time it wants to. And we would be helpless in its omnipotence.
Life is full of natural phenomenon. Life washes over us like water. Cleansing, purifying, suffocating, destructive. Sometimes we have spiritual floods. Sometimes we have spiritual drought. But true to an omnipotent force, we can pretend to control it, but life has, so to speak, a life of its own. And nearly always, we are better for the flood, stronger for the drought, and welcoming of the soothing baptism that will come.
