View from the North 40: The attraction is not the water

The Universe has been conspiring this summer to make me long for one of the few things I miss about living in the mountains of western Montana: Clear water. Lots and lots of clear, cold water.

It gathers in lakes, vast and small, roils and surges in wide rivers, tumbles down mountainside creeks, trickles up through fresh springs. It pours cool and remarkably tasteless from the tap and leaves not a single stain on the counter top or the laundry. I didn’t appreciate it enough, until I lived where bodies of water were scarce and the clarity abysmal. Don't talk to me about the taste.

Some hot summer days I stare across the wide golden horizon of the prairie that I quickly grew to love 30 years ago, but feel the visceral memory of those cold waters, and I long to jump into a deep and dark reservoir that can take your breath away from the chill.

I remember times like when I stood on the end of a dock with a glass-smooth expanse of water stretching before me to a dark wall of tree-covered mountains.

I remember the echoing call of the common loon mingled with Dad's voice as he gave my older brother and me sage advice for our first swimming lesson — "Just keep looking at the shoreline. Kick and flap 'til you get there" — right before he threw us off the dock into Thompson Lake.

Our loud squeals of protest and the resounding smack of our gangly bodies meeting the water's surface scared the loon quiet. But even through the chaos of splashing and gasping for air, I could hear Dad's laugh as he called out to the rest of the family, "Ten bucks says the little one beats her brother to shore. She's a scrapper!"

You know, every time I went under I could still find the shore through that crystal clear water. That's good water.

You can imagine, then, my horror the first time I saw Fresno Reservoir, the aquatic pride of north-central Montana, fed by the mighty Milk River after it has meandered hundreds of miles through gumbo hills.

I had been keen to cut the summer heat that day with a brisk swim in snow-fed waters — but stood on the mucky shore staring in gap-mouthed horror at the largest mud puddle I had ever seen.

That afternoon was mostly a blur of dismay until the gnats, fondly referred to by locals as sand fleas, attacked. Their fervor drove me to brave Fresno's muddy waters where I promptly forgot my five years of swim team and mastery of four different swim stles. I spent the next 15 minutes furiously dog paddling to keep my chin above water while grunting "ew! ew! ew!" and sputtering frantically every time a drop of muddy water splashed onto my face.

Not one of my hardier moments, but in my defense, I was totally taken off guard by the condition of the water, its nonrefreshing warmth and milky opacity. I could not see the parts of me that were beneath the water surface. That just seem terribly, terribly wrong.

I don't know what I had expected from Fresno Reservoir. I'd seen the Milk River from a safe distance. I'd tasted the soda water that came from the faucets.

I'd heard the rural legend, too, of that couple who raised cattle on the expansive prairie just south of Canada. They noticed abnormally stunted growth in their calves so hauled water for the livestock — but continued raising their children with the well-water, apparently considering them to be expendable.

I guess it wasn't all bad for the kids, though. The way I heard, it all the kids were the size of normal sixth-graders by the time they graduated from eighth grade as 18-year-olds. Except for that one with the rust-red beard, but she got a job as a jockey so everything worked out alright. Now there's a scrapper — must've been the water.

(Potable, usable, delightful water is, apparently, a condition relative to location at [email protected].)