Ode to the River by David Jessup

Dear People,

Let me introduce myself.  I’m a river, Big Thompson by name, or Big T for short.  I’ve been around for millennia.  The Arapahoe people called me niicie, but a couple hundred years ago, some wandering fur trapper somehow got his name attached to me and I’ve been called Big Thompson ever since.

I’m not very long as rivers go.  Seventy-eight miles from my source high in the Rockies to where I flow into the South Platte River.  But I make up for my shortness with the power of my flow.  I mean, not every stream can claim a rocky canyon like mine.  Took me eons to dig that thing.

With the help of my siblings, Little Thompson, North Fork and Buckhorn, not to mention lots of distant cousins, I drain 533,000 acres of land my watershed.  The western part is covered with beautiful conifer forests, home to deer, elk, bear and dozens of other critters you value.  My verdant hillsides and marshy wetlands filter your water to keep it pure.   Out east its mostly prairie, or was.  Now there are farms and fields and towns that wouldn’t be there without me. 

Back in frontier days, you humans used me to flush your wastes down river.  That’s mostly illegal now, much to the relief of your downstream neighbors.

People, I know you appreciate me, and I’m happy to oblige.  I slake your thirst, water your livestock and grow your hay and vegetables using scores of those irrigation ditches fingering out over the land.  I recharge your wetlands, prime your pumps, water your lawns, wash your dishes and fill your tubs. 

You’ve made me into a working river, for sure.

But you also love me for the fun I provide.   Visitors rent your hotel rooms so they can walk my banks, paddle through my pools and fish for my trout. 

Oh, and did I mention my great esthetic beauty?  I don’t mean to brag, but a lot of you seem to swoon when you behold my sparkling rapids, deep pools and rocky canyons.  I get a lot of likes on Facebook.

Sometimes you get upset with me when I flood, but please don’t blame me.  I don’t control the weather.  I only drain the runoff.  I felt just as devastated as you when 144 humans perished in the 1976 flood.  The 2013 deluge wasn’t so bad in terms of lives lost, but it did a heck of a lot of damage.  I appreciated how a group of you formed a Coalition to raise money for restoration projects to stabilize my banks, widen my channel, and rejuvenate my fisheries.  I’m feeling a lot better now, thank you.

But what about the future?  People, I don’t envy you as I look ahead.  If you think there’s not enough water in me now to satisfy all your demands, what will you do when there are twice as many of you in twenty years?  Are my flows going to dry up?  Will the farms and ranches be abandoned? They say water’s for fightin’, but maybe you can figure out ways to cooperate on conservation projects.  It’s going to get warmer and drier, and my snowpack is going to melt faster.  Forest fires are going to burn hotter and longer.  Every time that happens, my forests won’t be able to contain the runoff, and my channels will be full of sediment.  What will you do then?

There’s lots you could do.  You have shown you are creative types.  You are good at keeping forests healthy, designing structures to withstand the next flood, preserving open space, restoring trout habitat, rebuilding diversion structures that benefit my flows while helping the ditch companies.    You have a lot of great projects in mind.

But where will the money come from?  You are going to need a plan. 

I wish you luck.  My story isn’t finished.  I’ll keep rolling along well after you’re gone.  But how will your story end?  People, yours is a “choose-your-own-adventure” kind of story. I’m eagerly waiting to hear what you choose to do.

All my best,

Big Thompson