“Field Trip Day!”

Those were the three words everyone was speaking in Ms. Howlett’s class that morning in September. Ms. Howlett and her class were on their way to the Jocko River to learn how you restore a stream.

To reach the river, Ms. Howlett’s class only had to walk for about 15 minutes. But because the kids in the class came from all over the valley, many of them had never been there, at least not to stand on the river’s banks. The closest they had come was to drive across one of the two highway bridges that crossed the river. But there were a handful, perhaps a third of the class, that had grown up on the banks of the Jocko, fishing and swimming in its pools, building forts in the cottonwoods and pines on its banks, and sometimes crossing it on the enormous downed trees that occasionally drop across it.

“Class,” Ms. Howlett said. “Quiet! It’s time to go to the river. Grab your lunches, and don’t forget your journals.” Out the door they went into a bright September day, the sky blue as the forget-me-nots that grow on the river’s banks.

The Jocko River—all fifty miles of it—flows through the Flathead Indian Reservation in northwestern Montana. For thousands of years, the Salish and Pend Oreille Indians lived along the river.

The river provided everything the people needed to lead good lives. From the river’s banks, they harvested plants of all kinds for food and medicine. From its waters, they caught bull trout and cutthroat trout and whitefish. On its floodplain they hunted, taking white-tailed deer, mule deer, elk and grouse, ducks, and geese.

Often, they camped along the river, and wherever they camped, they smoked and dried meat, processed plant foods, played games, told stories, danced, sang, built sweathouses, and prayed. They called the Jocko River, with its clear waters and abundant food, their home.

Just over one hundred years ago the valley began to change. The government in Washington, D.C., opened the Flathead Indian Reservation to settlement by non-Indians. Gradually new people arrived in the valley to claim land.

They built ranches, railroads, highways, and towns. Where the river was in the way, they moved it and straightened its meanders. They cleared large areas of the floodplain of native vegetation and replaced it with crops or grass. They took water from the river to irrigate, so much water that at certain times of the year the river dried up in places. They grazed cattle—thousands of them—on the floodplain, all the way from the river’s headwaters to its mouth. They logged the mountains above the river, sometimes clearcutting tens of thousands of square miles. Between the towns they built homes, some right on the river. They built bridges, dikes, levees, and canals.

In the Jocko itself they introduced fish: not native species, but non-native fish from other parts of the world—species like rainbow trout, brown trout, and brook trout. In short, the twentieth century changed the Jocko River, its fish and wildlife, and the Salish and Pend d’Oreille people.

Now Ms. Howlett’s class was on its way to a part of the river that the tribes of the reservation—the Salish, Pend d’Oreille, and Kootenai—were spending millions of dollars to restore. They were mending a twenty-two-mile stretch of the river so native fish and wildlife could once again thrive and so the members of the Tribes could continue their traditions.

At the river, Mr. Johnny Arlee, a tribal elder, and Mr. Craig Barfoot, one of the biologists in charge of restoration, joined the class. Each of the students found a big rock or log to sit on; in front of them, catbirds, yellow warblers, orioles, dippers, and a host of other birds sang.

Over the sounds of the river Ms. Howlett said, “Mr. Barfoot wants to talk with you about what makes a healthy stream.”

Mr. Barfoot, the fisheries biologist, stood to speak. “A healthy river is what we all want, but how do we get that? Probably the simplest way is to stop doing the things that harm the river and let the river heal itself, which it will do over time. It is a process we can speed up somewhat by paying attention to four words,” he said, “and those words all start with a C: cold, clean, complex, and connected. Streams that are healthy for native fish and wildlife are cold, clean, complex, and connected. Let’s talk about each of those words.”

“Cold: The native trout in the river—bull trout and cutthroat trout—and the insects that feed them can only thrive in cold water. Streams stay much colder when they are shaded by trees and shrubs. So to keep streams cold we need to protect the riparian area—the ribbon of trees and shrubs that grows along the river. If the riparian area is protected from clearing and weeds it will grow tall enough to shade the river.”

“Clean: Clean streams have clean water and clean gravel bottoms. Native trout need clean gravel to spawn. Sediment—soil and silt that washes into the stream—smothers trout eggs and kills them. Many aquatic insects also need clean gravel. And, of course, people need clean water for drinking, swimming, and other things.

“Riparian areas should be kept clean because in the spring, high water spreads onto the floodplain and can carry whatever is there into the river. Garbage, cow manure, oil, and other chemicals can harm fish and wildlife and have no place in the riparian area of a healthy river.”

“Complex: A complex stream has lots of different types of habitats, such as pools, riffles, runs, and glides; lots of shade and undercut banks; and lots of logs in the stream. Each kind of habitat provides something trout need; each is part of a healthy stream. Streams will become complex over time if they are left alone.

“It is also important that riparian areas are complex. Complex riparian areas have tall trees, medium-sized trees, and short trees. They have lots and lots of different species of shrubs and herbs and grasses. They have dense thickets and open areas. Complex riparian areas have many different types of habitats, and that means more wildlife.”

“Connected: Healthy streams are connected to the floodplain. That means during floods, water is able to flow not only in the stream channel but also over the banks and onto the floodplain, where it soaks into the ground to become groundwater. Then, later, when things get hot and dry in summer, that groundwater is available for the riparian plants that live on the floodplain, and that helps wildlife.

“A healthy riparian area also helps fish. When flows in the river get low, like they do in late summer, the groundwater flows back into the river. It keeps the water level in the stream high enough so that the fish and insects don’t dry out and die. Because the groundwater is cold, it cools the river, which also helps the fish. For the Jocko River to be a healthy stream it needs to be connected to its floodplain.”

“But ‘connected’ has another meaning, too. Trout spend different stages of their lives in different parts of a river system. They spawn in one part, grow up in another, and live as adults in another. Each of these different living places can be thought of as a link in a chain. Each provides something the fish need. When the chain is broken, even if it’s just a single link, the trout population will suffer.

“Before dams were built on the Clark Fork River, some Jocko River bull trout traveled all the way down the Jocko River and into the Flathead River. From there they swam downstream to the Clark Fork River and then on to Lake Pend Oreille, a distance of over 175 miles. Later, those same fish traveled upstream all the way back to the Jocko to spawn. These bull trout were called migratory bull trout because they traveled out of the Jocko River. They grew large—up to twenty-seven inches long. The biggest ones weighed over twenty pounds. Now, because of the dams that block the river, those fish can’t travel to and from Lake Pend Oreille, and that kind of migratory bull trout has disappeared from the Jocko River.”

“There is another kind of migratory bull trout that still visits the Jocko River. Instead of spending its adult life in a large lake like Lake Pend Oreille, it spends it in a large river, in this case both the Flathead River and the Clark Fork River. These trout return to the Jocko to spawn, and like the bull trout that once migrated to Lake Pend Oreille, they get big, often over two feet long. There used to be thousands of these fish returning to the Jocko every fall to spawn. Now there are just a few. That’s because the Jocko and the Flathead Rivers are not as cold, clean, complex, or connected as they used to be.

“A third kind of bull trout also lives in the Jocko River. It’s called a resident bull trout, and it never leaves the Jocko. It is born here, grows up here, spawns here, and dies here. Resident bull trout tend to be small; they rarely get any longer than twelve inches. Like migratory bull trout, they are not doing well. They used to live throughout the river. Now you can only find them in a few places because the Jocko River is not as cold, clean, complex, or connected as it used to be.

“Those are some of the most important things that make a healthy river,” Mr. Barfoot said, as he sat back down with the students.

“I think now it’s time to hear what Johnny has to tell us about the Jocko,” Ms. Howlett said, and she asked Johnny Arlee, a tribal elder, if he would talk to the children. Johnny came forward and sat on a rock and began:

A long time ago on this river, at the place called Nɫq̓alq͏ʷ (Place of Big, Wide Trees), there lived a young woman. She was a gifted hide-tanner and quillworker—skills that usually only the older women of the Tribe possessed—and she was exceptionally skilled at finding roots and berries when they were ripe and ready for harvest. Even as a young girl she knew, from carefully watching her grandmother, the ways elders would take a little bit of the first foods they gathered after the root feasts and pray, offering a gift for the returning food. The people respected her and said, “She is such a fine young woman. She works hard. She is generous. Everything she does, she does well. And, she is tall and strong, and beautiful. She will make a good wife for one of our young men.” They called her Naqey.

Indeed, the young men in the camp liked Naqey very much. They were always offering to carry firewood or water for her, and they often brought her gifts—elk teeth ivories, ermine hides, shells, feathers, and finely decorated hide scrapers. Each young man tried to court her, to win her favor, but Naqey went about her work. She thanked them for their kindness and the gifts, but otherwise she paid little attention to these suitors.

In the middle of the Chokecherry Moon, when all the young women were busy harvesting berries and the men were fishing and preparing for extended hunts, a stranger—a young man named Aay (Bull Trout)—came to visit Naqey. Naqey was picking berries by the creek when she saw Aay. He was different from her people. The way he wore his hair was unfamiliar. She did not recognize his clothing. He wore a smoked buckskin robe painted the color of water with beautiful yuc̓mn (red paint) spots with sč̓iɫt (white-clay) halos. She admired the uncommon workmanship, which she thought flawless. His earrings, made from iridescent shell, were strange to her too, and very beautiful. He smelled of fresh spring water. “I have come from a lake a great distance to the west of here,” he said. She noticed he had great strength and thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen. Immediately she knew she loved this man.

After that, Aay came often to visit Naqey. They spent many hours walking by the river picking berries, talking, and sharing stories of their two peoples. Every morning when Naqey rose, she thought of him, and she would hurry out of camp to the place where they first met to wait for him. When she saw him coming she would say to herself, “ʔe ni! How grand he is!” She liked him very much, and their time together was the happiest Naqey had known.

One day she said, “You must stay and show yourself to my parents.” But Aay looked away and said, “No, I am too poor. Your people would not like me.”

Still, he came every day to visit her, and one day she told her parents about him. But because she had been visiting this man in secret and because he was different, they did not like him and did not want him around their daughter. Her parents went to the leader of the people, and the leader called everyone together. All were in agreement that they disliked Aay. The next time he came, they shunned him. The young men taunted him, and Naqey’s parents told him not to visit their daughter anymore. So he left. He was angry at what had happened and at how the people had treated him. Of all the ways the Tribe could show its disapproval, shunning—which meant complete rejection by Naqey’s people—was the most serious and insulting. But more difficult than that, Aay’s heart was broken with the thought that he might not see Naqey again.

Aay’s home was at a place called Nč̓m̓č̓mci’netk͏ʷ, which means “in dark waters.” Today we call this place “Lake Pend Oreille.” On the way he spoke with the water in the river: “K͏ʷ ʔiqs nsewɫk͏ʷm” (“I’m going to ask of you to follow me”). “ʔiqs ɫc̓im ɫu sqelix͏ʷ tl̓ Nɫq’aḷq͏ʷ Sewɫk͏ʷs” (“I want to punish the people from the Jocko River”).

Water told Aay, “Here is the song for that purpose,” and then sang a song.

Later, Aay sang Water’s song. As he sang, he could feel its power. Indeed, the song had great power. It made all the water follow him. The Jocko River dried up. The bigger river, too, that the Jocko flowed into, was now nothing but an empty riverbed, a trail of bleached boulders and cobbles. Water’s song had dried up all the water—the springs, the creeks, the rivers—all the way to Lake Pend Oreille. Now the young woman’s people would have nothing to drink.

The animals, too, became thirsty and left their country. The People could not catch fish or find game. Soon even the food and medicine plants began to dry up. The People’s food stores quickly grew low.

The girl told her people, “You mistreated Aay. You were unkind to Aay. That is why he has taken the water with him.”

The leader called his advisors together to make a decision about what they should do. They decided the people should make the long walk down the dry riverbed to Lake Pend Oreille to make amends. The journey would take many days.

They gathered what little water they had and packed their dried food into buckskin bags and parfleches and began their journey downstream to where the Jocko joins the Flathead River. They called this place Epɫ čt̓et̓ʔú Sčilip, which means “Where the two rivers join and there are wild plums.” There, they set up camp, and immediately some of the young men spread out to search for water while others hunted for fresh meat. But they returned with nothing. There was no water, no game. Even the plums had dried hard as rocks.

The second day, they traveled farther down the riverbed and made camp at Čɫl̓q̓͏ʷéw̓s, which means, “A small prairie with flat, open land between hills.” Here, another big river, the Nmesule, joined the Flathead, but it, too, was dry. The prairie was so parched that clouds of dust rose when the people crossed it. The elders knew they must be brave, and they showed no fear. Again they sent the young men out to hunt for fresh meat and to bring back water. Again the young men returned with nothing.

On the third day they stopped at Nc̓c̓k͏ʷi’k͏ʷ (Place of the Elderberries Water), but the elderberries there had dried up. Only a parched wind rattled the dead leaves. The people looked at each other with fear, their throats sore from the dryness.

In the morning they traveled to Sq̓eyɫk͏ʷm (Place of the Sound of Falling Water), but there was no sound of water and no game. The silence there disturbed them greatly, and again the elders encouraged them to remain brave. Together they prayed for water.

On the fifth night they camped at the confluence of the Bull River and Clark Fork, at a place called Nnq̓͏ʷoƛ̓š (Animals Running through the Woods). This place was still, the trees leafless. Even the bushes along the place where the creek had been were dry.

At Nnenesletk͏ʷ (It Has Two Creeks), where they had camped many times in the past and had always had success hunting elk and picking huckleberries, they found nothing. The place was absent of all living things, and the People felt certain they would soon die of thirst and hunger.

Finally, on the seventh day they reached the place where the river flows into Lake Pend Oreille, a place called Nč̓m̓m̓cí (Mouth of the River). At first it looked like the lake was dry, but when they looked very hard they could see water far in the distance, and they felt great joy and relief. They thanked the Creator and moved quickly across the dry lakebed to the water’s edge, where, for the first time in days, they drank. They went to sleep that night listening to the sounds of the water on the shore.

In the morning they made a canoe from bark and heaped softly tanned buckskins and finely decorated clothing in it. They dressed Naqey in a buckskin dress that the elder women of the camp had made beautiful with quillwork and paint. They placed shell necklaces around her neck and earrings in her ears. They combed and braided her hair and scented her with fragrance. When they had finished, their chief prayed that the gifts might be accepted and that they might now be reconciled with the water, fish, plants, and other animals.

Naqey climbed in the canoe and sat on the buckskin blankets. At once the sky became overcast and the air grew heavy. Rain began to fall, slowly at first, then it poured out of the sky. Springs burst forth and streams started to flow. Lake Pend Oreille began to fill. The People, soaked by rain and full of joy, watched the water in the lake rise and float the canoe. Then they saw Aay in the distance, swimming toward it. When he reached the canoe he climbed in and joined the young woman. The two stood and, smiling, Naqey called to her people: “Y̓etɫx̣͏ʷa, m̓ ʔesya eɫ x̣stwil̓š. Taqs q̓sip m̓ eɫ čx͏ʷuymncn” (“Now all is well. I will visit you soon”).

Night came, and the people camped at their traditional place on the lakeshore at the edge of the woods, this time with peace and reconciliation in their hearts, knowing they had set things right again. In the morning they left offerings on the lakeshore before beginning their long journey back. All along the way the rivers and streams rushed clear and full. Birds sang and bathed in the water. They saw elk and deer and moose and bear. The plants grew strong. All was well again. All was good.

After a short time Naqey traveled back to the Jocko River and told her people, “I will live at Lake Pend Oreille, in the fish country. The people there are just the same as here, and they live in the same way.” This made her people happy.

Later, she returned with her husband, bringing gifts of fish. She told them, “From now on, people here will always be able to catch plenty of fish.” She returned a third time to show them her newly born children. After that she went back to Lake Pend Oreille, and her people never saw her again.

That is why every year the bull trout return to the Jocko River to spawn.

When Johnny Arlee had finished, one of the students asked Ms. Howlett if there were any gifts that people could give to the bull trout now, so that the fish could come back to the Jocko River as plentiful as before.

“This Jocko River Restoration Project is a way of giving back,” Ms Howlett said. “It is our gift to the bull trout and to the plants and animals that live on the Jocko; it is our way of giving back for all that they have given us. Maybe Mr. Barfoot can tell us about some of the things the Tribes are doing to restore the river.”

“One of the things we are doing,” Mr. Barfoot said, “is that in some places, where the river needs help, we are reconnecting the river channel to the floodplain so each spring the river can replenish the groundwater that flows beneath the floodplain. Then, in the summer when the weather is hot and dry and the river is low, that same groundwater can flow back into the river. Because the groundwater is cold it will help keep the river cold.”

“We are replanting native trees and shrubs on the floodplain that shade the river, which also helps keep it cold. To clean the water we are stabilizing and replanting unstable stream banks and fixing forest roads that have been eroding and adding sediment to the river.

“We are also managing cattle in a way that reduces the impact they have on the stream: carefully planning when and for how long they can graze along the river, developing springs away from the river where they can drink, and fencing sensitive riparian areas. We are working with ranchers and farmers to minimize the amount of irrigation water they take from the river.

“In places where the river has been severely damaged, we are rebuilding the river channel and floodplain to make more habitats; in other words, we are making the river more complex. We do this by adding river meanders, side-channels, and large logs and rocks to the stream to provide places for fish to rest and hide. Our tree and shrub planting is helping to make the riparian area more complex.

“We are removing barriers—like culverts and irrigation diversions—to connect habitat so that native fish can repopulate areas where they once lived. At the same time, we are taking steps to control non-native species. And we are reconnecting the river to the floodplain by removing levees and dikes.”

Johnny Arlee rose again to speak.

“The most important thing we can all do,” he said, “is be careful in how we treat the river, making sure that whatever we do, we do nothing to harm it.

“It is our tradition to give thanks for the things the river gives us and to return something in exchange. As the elders tell us, a long time ago the spiritual leaders would send the young men into the mountains where the streams began. The young men gave blessings upon each stream for the abundance of clean water for people, for plants, and for animals that depend upon water for their livelihood.

“So the most important gift we can give the river and bull trout is to take care of them and protect them. This is your responsibility for the future.”