By Craig Nelson In winter, the rocks at the bottom are what we see first, drawing us under the scalloped patterns, then cottonwoods resplendent with fractured light, and lovely breezes, and the water flows timeless past the rail yard littered with rusted iron and coal dust from the days when the mountains swarmed with lust and locomotives and apparatus to tear the earth, and along the river, the great southwest collides with the high blue mountains, at the bottom of a long valley, and there, lies a river town, where dusty alleys are broken by a hundred years of ...