This day just forty years later, a mere split second in the face of time that has seen glaciers melt, no big bull trout lies finning lazily in the cold, clear current of Drywood Creek not under the falls or anywhere else along that once marvelous trout stream. For the stream is dead, not just dead but stinking-putrid with poisonous effluents defecated into it by great plants manufacturing Sulphur and other things. Few fish of any kind live there now, and even when one is caught it cannot be eaten, for the smell of it frying would make a hungry black bear gag in disgust and turn away. Clear down from the Rockies-the still shining mountains downstream to where the great Saskatchewan rolls in lazy turns and bends through folded hills, the whole river system is foul with waste. The sons of the pioneers, full of zeal for profits and so called progress, the self-righteous, blind members of local chambers of commerce, have contrived to turn a beautiful river into an open sewer with the doubtful distinction of being one of the dirtiest, most lifeless streams in the world. Sulphur plants, sugar factories, feed lots, packing plants, and a multitude of waste from cities and towns, along with various uncounted contributions from sources as yet unrecognized, have changed the silver rope of adventure that was a clean river short years ago into a place where a boy or girl cannot safely take a drink, catch a fish, or even swim. Indeed, not very many miles downstream from where I learned to swim on the St. Marys there have been signs along the filthy river bars warning children against wading. The smell of the waste and its disgrace are reaching many noses. The politicians, gutless creatures they have proved to be, now sensing a change from public apathy to anger and disgust, are beginning to make clacking sounds of disapproval, like aged women remonstrating against the sins they have grown too old to enjoy. And well they might, for government is in many ways directly responsible. , Contemplate the incongruousness of the government of Canada, pledged solemnly to preserve the beauty and the wilderness of the Rockies for the people for all time in what is designated as Waterton National Park, yet allowing sewage from the various installations of that place to pour untreated directly into the river, a tributary of the Saskatchewan. Consider, if you will, the plight of a man who was born and lived all his life along the Drywood before he was suddenly stricken in his prime and took up a chronics bed in the hospital; a once powerful, vigorous man, a great rider who loved to train horses; a sometimes arrogant man when angry, yet wonderfully gentle with those he loved. His neighbors liked and respected him and still do, and they were understandably horrified when he suddenly fell ill from lead poisoning, lead accumulated from a spring polluted from residue from the petroleum industry running rampant and unchecked in our backyards. We know the hot flush of hard anger-helpless anger without adequate support from those in authority; even the law courts are loath to move. Our neighbor lies paralyzed, hopeless, nothing much more than a vegetable compared to what he used to be, while his wife and family consider with sad bitterness a government that has failed to recognize the problem in time or do much of anything about it. Meanwhile the giants responsible for the poisoning of springs grow fat. Like Aldo Leopold, I am glad I am not a boy again with no wild place in which to grow up. One does not begrudge that part of the wilds now being used properly to feed and accommodate the people who have come. It is the waste that is the sadness-the blind stupidity of throwing something away that would be far more useful and valuable left in its natural state, or as close to it as possible, so that young people in their quest of adventure and their search for answers to questions in their hearts would know how things were in the beginning. It might be thought by some that the man born blind does not grieve over his handicap too much for he knows not what he misses; but this could only be true if he lived entirely alone with no means of comparison or communication with other men. Todays youth stand in judgment of their elders, some determined to change a system that has proved faulty, others attempting to soothe their dread of change by inducing hallucinations. The latter, though they do not know it, have slipped into the easier pattern of waste. Only the snow-capped mountains standing up against the sky in front of my door show no change. They are a kind of reminder that there is yet the opportunity to repair some shameful scars on the face of this plundered land, but not as much time as some may like to think. For the hourglass is tipped, the sands of time run out, and what looks like the blue, placid waters of a paradise in the distance may be only a mirage-lifeless, sterile, hopeless, and very cold. -Andy Russell
Posted on: Tue, 22 Oct 2013 18:31:06 +0000
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