https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/f4beccb4c049803e5cf8221ba46c3a67.pdf c2b692b7ff0d4af8e902720d59b0d4da PDF Text Text CHAD HANSON The Last Flight of the Yellowstone Cutthroat The state of Wyoming is a square. Other states have borders that follow the contours of rivers or mountains. Ours shoot straight over the land­ scape. Then they connect at four comers. We are a box. No bumps or rip­ ples. While preparing for a trip, I stare at a map of the Rockies and think of John Wesley Powell. He ran the Colorado River in a wooden boat before we could even dream about the Grand Canyon. After the mission, Powell returned to the nation’s capital to report on the prospects waiting out to the left of the Mississippi. His assessment included warnings of drought and intermittent streams. He urged lawmakers to mark territories to match reliable watersheds—the keys to life in the dry West. For his trouble, Congress drew straight lines across a rendering of North America, routing new states onto the map in the process. Of them, Wyoming and Colorado are perfectly unmoored from reality: two man­ made squares set side-by-side on a rumpled assortment of plains, forests, deserts, canyons, and glaciers. Early Americans had a knack for reshaping the world to suit their interests, but today we see the price we paid for our attempt to define geography on our own terms, as opposed to those of the region. I am headed north to spend time on a stream that is home to an endan­ gered type of cutthroat trout. Cutthroats made their first appearance on the west coast of the continent. Their ancestors were salmon that swam up from the ocean into freshwater. Some of them liked the setting so they chose to stay. Then tectonic plates started to buckle. Earthquakes shifted riverbeds. Whole schools of trout became landlocked, and once they became isolated, the fish developed unique characteristics. In the case of cutthroat trout, at the height of their distribution, fourteen variations swam the waters of the West. Two of them are now extinct. The Yellow Fin cutthroat vanished from an area of peaks and forests near the town of Leadville, Colorado. Regional mining expanded in the early part of the twentieth century. Hungry crews of miners took too many 24 �fish from local streams. The trout were too easy to catch, and the toll was too great to sustain. In Cutthroat^ the definitive book on the subject, Patrick Trotter suggests that Yellow Fins disappeared fifteen years after they were discovered. The Alvord; cutthroat shared their fate. The Alvord Basin of northern Nevada became home to a handsome mauve and tan species, back in the Pleistocene Era. The fish grew accustomed to changes in water tempera­ ture, so they flourished in their native valley for millennia, right up to the point where settlers began stocking rainbows from the state of Washington. Rainbows and cutthroats spawn in April. When they swim the same waters, inbreeding occurs and pure strains of cutthroat are dis­ placed by a genetic hybrid: cutt-bow trout. At the same time, cutthroats also begin to lose the race to catch and eat aquatic bugs. Despite their name, cutthroats are the least assertive trout in North America. In streams where non-native fish are stocked or introduced, cutthroat populations shrink because they’re less aggressive than browns, rainbows, or brook trout, and on that score I am sympathet­ ic. I find the fish’s pacifism endearing. As a young man I participated as a member of my hometown wres­ tling team for less than ten minutes. On the first day of the season the coach spent time going over the training and event schedule for the year to come. He took a moment to pair us with partners. Then he placed us on a rubber-coated mat. In my case, he paired me with a wiry kid, four inches shorter than myself. Due to my size advantage, the coach put me in a position on my hands and knees. My partner knelt and wrapped his arms across my back and under my stomach. Other pairs assumed the same position all around the gym. Then the shrill sound of a whistle filled the room. The wiry kid slammed me to the mat so hard my brain bounced off the inside of my skull. His fingers grabbed me with intensity. They sunk into my arms and back. After eight seconds worth of grappling, the kid felt satisfied that I was pinned, so he let me go and I stood up. I said, “God damn it! What the hell!” That ended my wrestling career. Some members of our species excel in physical battles. After eight seconds, I learned that I am no good in combat. Cutthroat and I have mellow temperaments. I eventually came to terms with my own personality, but cutthroat trout need food, and when we force them to compete they either get eaten when they’re young or they go hungry by midlife. A line on my map of the Big Hom Range offers a path to the location of a far-flung, remnant school of Yellowstone cutthroat. As the name implies, their genetic roots lead to the Yellowstone River. Their descendants climbed up the west slope of the Rockies. They evolved into their current 25 �state and swam across the great divide. Then they drifted down the Yellowstone, pausing to explore the tributaries. At one point, they entered the Tongue River of Montana. Years ago, cutthroats gained access to the Big Hom Mountains through the waters of the Tongue, but as they made their way into the region, forces inside the planet pushed the range up from the surrounding terrain. Creek beds fell away and the heaving Earth left waterfalls, trapping cutthroats in the high country. The process that stranded the fish also protected them. When Europeans began to settle the region they stocked the Tongue and its watershed with their favorite fish: rainbows, browns, and brook trout. The foreigners displaced cutthroat except in areas where the interlopers couldn’t make it up the waterfalls. In creeks at high elevation, there are still cutthroats swimming without competition. The road through central Wyoming to the top of Big Homs is familiar, but not boring. The prairies of my home state differ from those of the Midwest or the coasts. Rock outcroppings interrupt hills of sage and dehydrated grass. The plains of Wyoming are broken by reminders that the roadside scenery is some of the oldest anywhere. Seventy-five million years ago a shallow sea covered the state. As time wore on, the sea dried up, and the state adopted a climate similar to Florida’s—perfect weather and habitat for dinosaurs. Then for reasons not agreed upon, the region roiled through an era of turbulent mountain building. Sheets of rock pressed up through the soil to form ridges. In the case of the Big Homs and Beartooths, gray walls of granite were vaulted into the air. In the more frequent examples, however, layers of stone were simply upended and shoved up through the dirt— where they stand today—jutting from the prairie at unusual angles. In the winter, I spend weekday nights with my collection of topographic maps. Four seasons ago I noticed a creek that parallels a trail running up to a chain of lakes at the top of the Big Homs. The topo lines suggested a waterfall large enough to have protected cutthroat trout from non-native insurgents. Four months later, I took a trip to the north of the trail over a hill and down into the canyon carved by Archer Creek. My route began at seven thousand feet of altitude. Evergreens stood fifteen yards apart and the for­ est floor rolled like a carpet of pine needles, broken on occasion by bunches of long-stemmed grass. The creek came into view after a twentyminute hike. I made camp on the shore of a pool above the waterfall, and I’ve been back every year since. 26 �This time I start my journey on a path that points toward the top of the mountains. Backpackers use the trail to access the lakes above tree line. The scenery consists of rock, ice, water, and sparse alpine vegetation. The trip is worth the hike. The fishing is extraordinary. The state of Wyoming stocked the high lakes in the range more than fifty years ago, and the progeny of the early fish have multiplied. They grow big in the still water, and during the short summers above ten thousand feet, they’ll eat any­ thing that happens to fall onto the surface. I come upon a party of backpackers in the meadow where I venture off the path. I slip into the trees behind them. As far as they know, I disap­ pear. Soon I hear the sound of Archer Creek bumping and grinding over the east slope of the Big Hom Range. Below the cascade, rainbows occu­ py all of the eddies and pockets, but above the waterfall, there are only cutthroat trout. Over the years, elk and deer wore a trail upstream beside the falls. It’s a steep path, but I make it to the top without resorting to climbing. I’ve camped here three years in a row, and there is no trace of my presence or that of anybody else. Even the sandy bank where I pitch my tent is over­ grown. Life is incorrigible. I think, “What a planet.” Foliage springs up in tufts and patches. I press my ear to the sand and stare at the shoots and leaves that pushed through the soil along the shore. Each blade of grass strikes me as a feat of biology. My tent goes up in a hurry. I pound stakes into the dirt to keep my temporary home safe in the wind. I rest my backpack against a tree trunk, take a seat on a boulder, and press the sections of my fly rod together. While I work I watch the current pour over a row of rocks. The sight of cold water flowing through a riverbed reminds me that the United Nations predicts that two-thirds of humanity will live in water-stressed nations by the year 2030. In countries all over the world, people see freshwater as a priceless gift and a precious source of life. By contrast, when we wake up in the morning our first order of business is to poop into roughly two gal­ lons of clean water. I think, tomorrow, I’ll just find a spot in the woods where I can squat. I hike upstream to find a series of fishing holes. The first one comes up fifty yards from my campsite. It’s a bend where the creek smashes into the left side of the canyon. On the outside of the curve the water rushes past the rock, but on the inside the creek slows to a more restful pace. Fish are fond of the layout. They float in the calm water on the inside of the curve, but their eyes never leave the swift current along the wall, which serves as a conveyor belt for groceries. I loft an imitation grasshopper onto the top of the bend and the current carries the fake bug. 27 �As I watch the fly shimmy with the ripples of the creek, a cutthroat leaves his position. He disappers into the bend. Then he emerges from the flow to strike the grasshopper. I raise the rod. The line jumps off the water and then it stops. The hook is set. The trout races downstream but I follow him along the bank. He swims back and forth from one side of the creek to the other, but I manage to close the distance between us. When he is within arm’s reach, I step knee-deep into the stream. I dip my hand into the water to keep the fish from feeling my skin on his body. Then I shake the hook from his jaw­ bone. For a moment, I admire the elegant work of natural selection. During the past two million years, the spots on Yellowstone cutthroats migrated south and parked down next to their tails. That left their sides free to shine like fields of ochre wheat on the prairie. The trout’s black eye looks toward the water, and I know our time is through. I ease him back below the surface of the creek. Upstream, all of my favorite bends and pools fish well. Two miles from camp I take a trout from a run lined by a row of boulders. I release the fish, and while I stand in the water I find something about the moment that forces me to pause. I climb onto a rock beside a deep stretch in the middle of the creek. I lie on my back and look up at the sky. High cirrus clouds adorn the horizon like malleable veils. My taste in clouds changed as I entered middle age. As a young man, banks of cumulus clouds captured all of my attention—thunderous plumes of moisture represent power and turmoil. I thought the clouds’ potential for weather connected them to life here on the ground. When I was young, I used to sit in the grass outside of my house watching storms roll in to shake up summer afternoons. I still appreciate puffy, gray clouds stocked with water molecules and charged with electricity, but these days I prefer light wisps of haze, holding to the top of the atmosphere. A honey bee buzzing through a stand of lupines interrupts my cloud watching. The German biologist Karl von Frisch won a 1973 Nobel Prize for his work on the habits and vision of honey bees. It turns out that bees possess a set of eyes that contain tiny light receptors, each one covered by a lens with polarizing capabilities. Their eyes see beams of light as they strike and bounce off objects. Our eyes do not work like that. For example, when we look at the sky we see a uniform palette of blue. But the sky appears blue to us because the sun’s light scatters over dust when it comes into the atmosphere. All our eyes can do is feed us a rough image—an illusion of monotone. By contrast, when bees look at the sky they see sheets of light cascading from the heavens in a myriad of directions. �A flock of four white pelicans appears over the tree line to the north, and I wonder about the process Earth’s creatures went through as they evolved. It strikes me that we received more than our share of cognitive capacity, but I try to imagine what the world would look like if pelicans had our ability to think and speak. If pelicans possessed our talents, when they talked their voices would sound like Garrison Keillor’s. Their conversations would be thoughtful and their stories would end in taut, sophisticated punch lines. When they spoke they would take long pauses between sentences. They would breathe through their noses and think about what they were going to say before they spoke again. Their language would not include words for war or pollution, because they would not be necessary. Their cities would tower along the shores of our waterways, and every one would be refined and delicate, like bird feathers. I decide to wander back downstream toward my camp. The shadows on the ground are growing as the sun descends. I make it back before dark, but I notice the bottle of gas I use to run my stove weighs less than usual. I forgot to fill it up before the trip. I try to boil a pot of water, but the fuel runs out. There is a plastic holster on the outside of my pack, meant to hold a water container. I discovered years ago that the diameter of the holster is actually just right for a wine bottle. I pour a glass into my metal coffee mug. Now it is dusk. I listen as the wind slows down and whispers to a stop. Then the ripples in the pond above the waterfall dissolve. The moment seems like the most peaceful in the history of Earth. I soak in the solace while I sip my cabernet. It isn’t until the mug is near empty that it occurs to me that the planet is hurtling through space, whirling in circles on its axis. I realize that my only shot at a hot meal is a campfire. Dry twigs litter the ground between the trees along the shore. A chunk of pine bark lights quickly, and the flame spreads over the sticks I piled together. When the coals are hot I set my pot onto the charred remains of pine cones and branches. For early people, fire represented high technology. When they learned to build and maintain fires, it must have felt like the universe was on their side. It seems that way to me this night. My cup of split-pea soup tastes better than it should. As the evening slips away, the wine bottle drops below the half-full mark, and the word “beautiful” makes it into every one of my rumina­ tions. “I can’t believe how beautiful the pine trees look along the shore. The stripes of rock on this canyon wall are so beautiful^ Etcetera. 29 �I notice my first star of the evening. Then others reveal themselves as the sun’s light escapes behind the peaks off to the west. At high elevation in the Big Homs, new stars never stop appearing in the darkened sky. There are so many, and they are so close, if you walk with your head tilted upward it feels like you are stepping into outer space. It’s too easy to for­ get that there are stars in the sky when you sleep beneath a roof in the city. When we look up, we see the same picture that creatures saw during the Jurassic. Over the course of history, the seas and continents shifted. Every manner of life has been transformed. Entire species or classes of animals came and went. But the stars remain the same. I see the same set of constellations that Neandrathals looked at from the openings of caves. My view is the same as that of Galileo or Leonardo DaVinci. The con­ stancy of the stars somehow makes me feel at ease, so I pull the zipper on the tent’s screen door and fall asleep. In the morning, I wake to find a ridge of gray storm clouds stacked over the peaks to the west of my site. It’s a common scene. The Big Homs are well-known for producing intense and unpredictable weather. I decide that I have time to eat a handful of granola, pack my things, and hike back to the car before the lightning starts. The camp packs up quickly, but I am hesitant to leave. I rest my back­ pack on a log and take a seat beside the pool. It is still calm, despite the impending bout of wind and rain. While I watch the surface of the water, a bee flies out of a willow bush along the shore. He flies over the creek. His trajectory is haphazard. First it is high, and then it’s low. He sputters in circles back and forth. Then he sets out toward the bottom of the pool, bouncing across the surface, alternating between bursts of flight and wet landings. His eyes allow him to see through the glare on the water. He is looking for pollen, but he is confused by the layer of liquid rolling over the plants on the streambed. The bee is not the only one looking for food. I watch him touch down on the pool and bounce up again with a fifteen inch cutthroat in aerial pur­ suit. The trout jets out of the water underneath the bug, but the leap doesn’t carry him high enough. The unwitting bee sticks to his path and the fish falls back into the pool, sending ripples through a reflection of the blue sky and gray clouds on the surface. The same events repeat them­ selves. It happens again and again. The bee keeps flying toward the far end of the pond. The trout keeps leaping after him, and I keep watching them with my mouth hanging open. I realize, if I had a camera, I could stop the fish’s motion while he arches in the air, and it would look as if he’s soaring through a battalion of clouds. 30 �The bee finally reaches the end of the pool. The trout lunges, and his jump takes him over the edge of the waterfall. I scramble to a point where I can see the current clobbering the stones below, but I cannot see the fish. It’s hard to imagine that he could have survived the rocks and the force of the creek crashing down onto his body. I lift my pack and tug its straps. Then I start the hike back toward home. While I walk, it occurs to me that the trout chose a perfect way to end it all—flying into nothingness—chasing a thing he could not reach—driven by the pure impulse of appetite. 31 � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. 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Title A name given to the resource The Last Flight of the Yellowstone Cutthroat Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div id="dublin-core-rights" class="element"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text five columns omega"> <div class="element-text"><a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a></div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2012 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Chad Hanson Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chad Hanson Journal Publications, CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.e.2025.01_ChadHansonPapers_18 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The <em>North Dakota Quarterly</em> is published by the University of Nebraska Press for University of North Dakota