Informe de la cabecera de cuenca del río Colorado

Para comprender a plenitud a alguien, debes comenzar por su
nacimiento. Por lo tanto, Michelle y yo pasamos los últimos dos días buscando
la cabecera de cuenca del río Colorado entre el frío y la nieve que se
encuentran arriba de la zona de La Poudre Pass, al norte del Parque Nacional de
las Montañas Rocosas. El acceso se hace por la carretera Long Draw, que sale de
la autopista 14 de Colorado. La carretera Long Draw es un camino serpenteante
de terracería lleno de baches que atraviesa 22 km de bosques de pinos y abetos
y pasa por el reservorio Long Draw antes de terminar abruptamente en una
llanura de sauces.

Descubrimos que la carretera estaba cubierta con una pulgada de lodo escarchado
que requería que manejáramos a velocidades bajas para evitar resbalar y caer en
las zanjas de la carretera. El trayecto del viaje nos sirvió como periodo de
preparación para entender mejor el lugar de nacimiento del río Colorado. La
aspereza e incesantes baches de la carretera, combinados con las temperaturas
bajo cero, nos hacían cuestionarnos si realmente tomábamos en serio la visita a
la cabecera de cuenca del río Colorado. Me preocupaba que la Toyota Previa 1991
de Michelle no fuera capaz de soportar el camino, pero la camioneta cumplió las
expectativas que le permitieron lograr ser objeto de culto.

El trayecto de Long Draw pronosticó la violencia que encontraríamos en la
cabecera del río. Enormes extensiones de bosques talados por completo
flanquearon la carretera hasta llegar al desfiladero. El servicio forestal ha
de ser demasiado perezoso al quitar árboles porque, conforme colapsaban,
dejaron algunos de ellos en la carretera; los empleados del servicio forestal
sencillamente talaron con sierras de cadena, a 50 m de ambos lados de la
carretera, cada árbol que encontraron a su paso. A 5 km del final del camino,
nos topamos con una larga represa de poca altura que retenía la escorrentía de
montaña en el reservorio de Long Draw. Teníamos la expectativa de encontrar un
entorno silvestre en La Poudre Pass, por lo que al llegar a la represa fue como
toparse con una pared en la obscuridad.

Las extensiones deforestadas, la represa y el reservorio que encontramos son
lesiones penosas, pero ninguna de ellas es tan mala como la Grand Ditch (Gran
Zanja). Caminamos 400 m desde el final del Long Draw, donde encontramos una
señal que marcaba el lugar de la cabecera del río. De camino a la señal,
pasamos una zanja de 10 m de profundidad y otros 10 m de ancho, la cual llevaba
el agua de oeste a este. Estábamos en el lado oeste de la división continental
donde el agua fluye naturalmente hacia el oeste. Contemplamos la magia negra
empleada por los ingenieros para lograr esta proeza. La zanja en La Poudre Pass
era tan llamativa como una cicatriz profunda a medio rostro de un humano.

La Gran Zanja se inició a finales de la década de 1880 y fue excavada en su
mayor parte por un batallón de japoneses armados con herramientas manuales y
pólvora. Se construyó para sacar el agua, desviándola de la cabecera del río
Colorado a las ciudades en desarrollo al este de la cordillera Front de
Colorado. Cerca de 60 cm de profundidad de aguas rápidas corrían a través de la
zanja. Aprendimos que, incluso antes de que la nieve acumulada logre derretirse
y formar los pequeños arroyos reconocibles como los orígenes del río Colorado,
el agua le es robada al río. Parado en medio del polvo, me pregunto si el agua
almacenada aquí terminará en el campo de golf del Fuerte Collins o si las
vaquitas marinas la agitarán entre sus aletas nadando en el Golfo de California.

Si estudias el nacimiento del río Colorado aprenderás que sus aguas nacen del
vientre silvestre conformado por las nubes de los duros inviernos, las elevadas
cumbres montañosas y la acumulación de nieve. Sin embargo, estas aguas emergen
de este vientre directamente a la explotación. En La Poudre Pass, este río
recibe la primera manifestación de violencia que le seguirá durante el resto de
su vida.

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 Fotografía © Michelle McCarron.

River, I am Listening Now

Years ago, a Deep Green Resistance member hosted the RAGE podcast: Radio Against Global Ecocide. We have posted an archive page of the audio episodes, and we wanted to repost this episode from August 12, 2010. Host Seymour Lyphe holds his first interview with a non-human: the kisiskāciwani-sīpiy (Saskatchewan River) near his home.

Listen to this episode, or read Seymour’s original post:

I used to believe I was fairly good at being in touch with nature. When I walked though the forest I would walk around spider webs, careful not to step on mushrooms. Even in town I would step over ants on the sidewalk, which is tricky because ants are not very linear. I talk with chickadees, crows, and magpies; any bird that will hang around for a chat. I stop walking so a squirrel will not see me and can safely cross the road. I talk with plants and, yes, have even hugged a few trees, which gives a very calming feeling.

It was not until I did the interview with kisiskāciwani-sīpiy that I realized that much of my relationship the real world was, well, less than real. My connection with the kisiskāciwani-sīpiy was one of the most emotional experiences of my life.

It has been very hard for me to figure out how I going to present this; at the same time I believe it is important that I do.

As I was sat down (I slipped and fell in a sitting position so I stayed where I was) to do my interview with the river and record the sound it was making, it become obvious, as it would to anyone who sits by a river, that a river is much more then water running over rocks. It is everyone who lives in and around it. It is the beings who come in contact with it, no matter how briefly. I will play Derrick Jensen’s piece “Pretend you are a River” at the end of this, as it is one of the best pieces I have every read and heard on what it is to be a river. Here is the story the river told me, through imagery and emotion.

The kisiskāciwani-sīpiy was born with the rise of the mountains and was shaped through the ice age. Now it told me it is dying. The glaciers that give it life are fading away.

I was shown images of a time when the forest and prairie crowded against the river, when it had friends to talk with, not the strange yellow or green aliens of today.

Then it all changed.

Imagine you are being poisoned. Imagine that the life blood is being drained from you so the poison becomes stronger. Imagine that you are forced to pass this poison on to all your friends and those who live with you. Imagine you are forced to give this poison to everyone you meet on your path. Imagine that with very fibre of your soul you do not want do to this. You scream out for help but those who listen are gone. And the poison keeps coming.

I saw the death of kisiskāciwani-sīpiy friends, death of those who listened. At times there was more blood then water, then the oldest of friends fell and soon came the strange and crazy ones.

During this time I cried as the river was crying. It seemed to be coming from a depth I have not been to before. I choked and gasped as if I were trying to rid myself of the poisons within me. At times I just writhed in pain.

Afterwards I lay there, stunned by the emotions I had witnessed. I felt I had just an inkling of what it must be like to be tortured or subjected to the worst concentration camp conditions.

I thought also that we who live in the dominant culture really have no idea what it’s doing to the world, to the living earth, for our comfort and ease of life. I’d like to think that if those who are supposedly fighting for kisiskāciwani-sīpiy and other rivers really understood the pain the rivers are in, they would be working that much harder to protect them. But I am not sure, for I have seen very little willingness on the part of environmentalists to give up their comfort for any of the living world.

I also start to understand what it is to be alive in the world, to feel connected to the place I live. I wonder if I came anywhere close to the connection between past listeners and the river. I will make every effort to do so.

After my talk with kisiskāciwani-sīpiy I have come to realize that we are meant to drink living water. The water that comes from pipes is no longer living, and is full of its own unknown concoctions. The problem is that the living water is now poison and we cannot drink it. Tap water is zombie water, zombie water for zombies.

We need desperately to heal the rivers, heal ourselves. We need a resistance that will make it so.

River’s Song: A Poem

Calliope Braintree is the protagonist of two novels by Anne Pyterek, whose work explores rape culture from both the personal and planetary perspective. The poem River’s Song was “written” by Calliope as a tribute to the Chicago River, poisoned and channeled by industrial humans but still living a life of her own.

I am the Atoms and the Space in between,
the Unmanifested heard, felt, smelt, tasted and seen
I am Anger
and Forgiveness
all in one stream.
For I am the Source,

I am the Dream…
I am the scent of holy things,
the sound of shadowy, unseen wings…
ominous…
foretelling black endarkenings.
I flow slowly, ever to the Sea.

I am Wildness,
Authenticity.

Download the whole 40-page narrative poem for free: River’s Song: A Poem.