The Mimbres

THE MIMBRES / Sharman Russell THREE YEARS BEFORE my husband and I bought land on the Mimbres River, an unusual amount of winter snow and spring rain prompted what locals authoritatively called a "hundred-year flood." That left us ninety-seven years. We were also reassured by the large dikes buUt by the Army Corps of Engineers between our agricultural field and the river-bed. These dense gray mounds of gravel, contained improbably with heavy mesh wire, were ten feet high, twelve feet at the base, and ugly. They efficiently blocked our view of the river which, at that time, was not much of a loss. Although things were to change quickly, when we came to southwestern New Mexico the price of copper stood high, unemployment was low, and—on our land—the Mimbres River stretched bone-dry. Like many country-dwellers not born in the country, we find it hard to believe we were once so naive. We actually sought out river-bottom land. We didn't think in terms of rusted wheel bearings, smashed foot bridges, soil erosion, or property damage. We didn't think of rivers at all in terms of property: rivers were above real estate. They were gifts in the desert. They were frail blue lines that disappeared on the map. In the arid Southwest, rivers—even intermittent rivers—were to be coveted. In the coming years, we came to know the Mimbres River better. On my part, it was not an idyllic relationship. The only road to our house is a rough and rutted trail of packed dirt that goes over the stream bed. When the river does run, about seven months of the year, water seeps into our car bearings and the brakes freeze at night. When the river runs too high, we stall in midstream and must be hauled out by a friend's four-wheel drive. Those of us on the wrong side of the river, a neighborhood of some seven families, tried to deal with the situation. We built an elegant wood and rope "swinging bridge" for pedestrians and at the gravelly bottom of the stream installed cement culverts—only to have both swept away by spring run-off and heavy rains. On the occasion of such rains, the Mimbres became impassable by any vehicle. Whenever this seemed imminent, my husband and I parked our car on the side of the river that led to town: fifty miles to Deming, New Mexico for his teaching job and thirty miles to Silver City for mine. The next day, we would get up early, walk a half mile to the crossing, and wade. The cold water didn't bother my husband: the problems of this part-time river only intrigued him. In the early 1970s, New Mexico's The Missouri Review · 255 Sou and Conservation Service had experimented with our section of the Mimbres by cutting down all the cottonwoods. At that time, they believed that eliminating these great trees, some more than a hundred years old, would mean more grass for cattle. Today, it seems an inspired act similar to putting cans on a cat's tail. Without the cottonwoods to hold the soU with their roots and slow the impact of water, subsequent small floods swept over the six miles of newly denuded ground like an efficient mowing machine. When the channel was dry again, the eroded result could only charitably be called a river. My husband's dream was to bring the old Mimbres back. To this end, he planted branch after branch of Cottonwood in the hopes they would miraculously grow. Miraculously, they did. He charted the revegetation of willows, chamisa, walnut, and mullein; and he personally scattered the fluff of cattails. In a meditative silence, he walked the gray dikes built by the Army Corps of Engineers and saw a greener future. On the morning of the second hundred-year flood, we woke to a triumphant roar and strangely clear view. Below our house, what had last night been a field of winter rye was a mass of brown water lapping at the goat's pen. Something important seemed to be missing. It took us longer than seems...