14 Beneath the beating of the wind I can hear the river beginning. Snow rounds into water, seeps and trickles, splashes and pours and clatters, burnishing the shattered gray rock, and carols downslope, light and sound interwoven with sunlight. —Ann Zwinger on the Green River, Run, River, Run1 Wyoming’s Green iver as Artistic Inspiration Karen Brooks McWhorter COLLIER-READ DIRECTOR OF CURATORIAL, EDUCATION, AND MUSEUM SERVICES, BUFFALO BILL CENTER OF THE WEST The setting sun spurred us on but also compelled repeated breaks to appreciate the valley’s beauty. Turning around, we faced Squaretop Mountain, which, from a northerly vantage point, is framed by the timbered slopes of closer peaks. Like proscenia, the nearer hillsides draw your eye to center stage— to the striking geometry of one of the Wind Rivers’ best-known landforms. That evening, Squaretop’s roughly rectangular profile was awash on its west face with a warm, peachy glow. Its east side and lower reaches were cast in pale lavender shadow. Haze from forest fires in nearby states had softened the palette to pastel. As we approached the boundary of the Bridger Wilderness, reflections of Squaretop and the surrounding moun- tains could be seen in Lower Green River Lake, their repeated forms appearing slightly smudged like a chalk drawing on the water’s surface. Overhead, the cloudless sky was azure blue, but fading fast. Our trio made it back to camp with just enough light to prepare dinner. Soon, we were joined by the rest of our group. There were six of us: Tony; two from ABOVE: Karen McWhorter with her father hiking in Green River Lakes, Wyoming, 2022 LEFT: Artist Tony Foster and Dr. Christopher Brooks, hiking ahead of the author between Green River Lakes, Wyoming, 2022 PAINTING THE RIVER’S SOURCE T he sun sank behind Big Sheep Mountain, which rises abruptly, wall-like, from the western shore of Lower Green River Lake in Wyoming’s Wind River Range. It was nearly seven o’clock, leaving only thirty minutes of light to traverse several miles back to the campground at the lake’s outlet. I brought up the rear of our group of three hikers. Just ahead, artist Tony Foster set a steady pace. A seasoned outdoorsman, he strode confidently yet carefully. We kept conversa- tion to a minimum, working hard to walk fast as the day darkened. Our boots padded rhythmically along the dusty trail, and our hiking poles clicked against protruding rocks. Little else was heard. Atypically, there was no wind (Wyoming is famous for it)—just a light breeze carrying intermittent birdsong. I called out, “Hey, bear!” to warn wildlife of our presence.
