Gallatin River
Growing up in Idaho, I came to notice that highways we drove followed rivers. I then defined my knowledge of the place I grew up by the river canyons I followed like when driving up the North Fork Payette River for weekend trips to McCall with my family, the South Fork Payette to get up to Stanley and the Sawtooths for Boy Scout trips, the Middle Fork of the Boise to car camp with high school friends, or the Salmon to get to U of I in Moscow. In a way, I knew where I was by the rivers I travelled.
The Gallatin River provides the same sense of place in Southwest Montana. Many of us call this place home because of our love for this river, and it’s certainly well-loved. I’ve spent dozens of days and nights on the Gallatin this past year (2020), trying to see it in ways that both celebrate its beauty and explain what is going on in this place that we call home.
A lot of us experience the Gallatin River like this: in the dark, on snowy roads, in a line of lights, hoping there’s not a traffic stopping accident so that we can get home early enough to go to bed and get some sleep before we wake early the next morning to do drive the canyon again. For three winters I did the commute. I’d leave home before first light and return home after last light. This was how I saw the Gallatin River: through groggy eyes, fogged up windows, and a glare in my line of sight. When the time change happens in March, its mind blowing. You see the water, the trees, and the sides of the canyon and remember what you’ve been missing. You realize how draining the commute has been all winter, and you can’t wait for ski season to be over so that you can drive Highway 191 to the place along the river to where you want to enjoy instead of racing by in the dark.
