Does river foretell eruptions of Mount St. Helens?

For out here, along this wild, winding stream, the locals know something the scientists don't: Sometimes, this river speaks. And when it comes to Mount St. Helens, its waters tell the future.

Ask Elwin Bottorff.

Between mowing lawns, tending orchards, running cattle, raising deer, butchering elk, smoking salmon, trapping coons and raising hens, hogs and honeybees, the "retired" 76-year-old lumber-mill manager just might have time to talk about the fluid clairvoyant that runs past his front yard.

After all, the man neighbors call the unofficial "Mayor of the Kalama River" has been reading its waters for 40 years -- just as he was that morning, a month or so back, when the river spoke about the mountain again.

Bottorff recalls: "When I saw the river that day, the first thing I said was, 'That goddamn mountain is screwing around again.' Then sure enough, about a week later, here it comes."

A good week before seismograph needles in labs across the Northwest started jumping, and several days more before geologists, volcanologists and -ologists of just about every other stripe warned of impending eruption, Bottorff and the good folks who live along the forested banks of this southwest Washington stream already knew.

It all began early on a cloudless day in mid-September, locals say, with the Kalama's waters running low and as clear as gin.

"So clear, you could read a newspaper through the water," says Barbara Orzel, whose fly-fishing family runs Prichard's Western Angler, the local bait and tackle outfitter, snack shop and community hub along Kalama River Road.

That day, fly fishers already were casting lines to riffles and runs churning with steelhead and coho. Carcasses of spent spawners wafted rotten smells into an otherwise evergreen-fresh canyon. And the steep, rugged hillsides flanking the river flamed in the reds, oranges and yellows of autumn's glorious palette.

"Just a gorgeous day," Orzel says. "Then, pretty soon, here it comes; so eerie, it was almost like you were on another planet."

That's when the Kalama's waters suddenly turned, changing from gin-clear to chalk white.

"One hundred percent white," says Bottorff.

"Just like milk," adds resident Bill Swihart.

In fact, for a good 24 hours, locals say, the river ran white, roiling like a cloud slowly from somewhere upriver, down through the tree-shrouded canyons, past two state fish hatcheries and around the snakes, twists and bends of the lower stream that eventually feeds the mighty Columbia.

And then, just like that, the Kalama cleared up again.

For the folks who've lived around here long enough, the reason for the abrupt color change was no mystery.

"There was no question in my mind, or the neighbors' either," Bottorff says. "We all knew. I mean, my God, in 24 years it hasn't done it."

At least Bottorff hasn't seen his river run like milk since 1980 -- just before St. Helens' infamous eruption that turned skies here dark, covering homes, cabins and cars -- even "breaking down all my rhododendrons" -- under a thick blanket of ash.

"Of course, it's the mountain," Bottorff says. "And I tell you what: The minute that water clears up, you can't keep fish off your hook."

Scientists who monitor the mountain aren't convinced. To them, the locals' theories about the river, are, well, all wet.

"I can't think of any mechanism related to volcanic activity that would change that river's color," says Jon Major, a hydrologist with the U.S. Geological Survey's Cascades Volcano Observatory in Vancouver.

Although the Kalama originates from a natural spring above McBride Lake on St. Helens' southwestern flank, Major says, the volcano's recent rumblings probably had nothing to do with the river's changing hues.

Rising molten rock within the mountain -- the kind of activity St. Helens is now experiencing -- has been known to stir up minerals and raise temperatures in hot springs much higher up the volcano, Major says, altering water colors there.

"But the Kalama's headwaters are probably too far away for that," he adds.

More than likely, Major reckons, the color change locals witnessed came when a stream bank gave way, or a small landslide occurred, dumping light-colored sediment into the stream. And that's not unusual, Major says, noting that streams around Oregon's Mount Hood experience similar occurrences.

And during this past August, Major notes, areas around the mountain recorded the most rainfall in 18 years -- a deluge that likely softened riverbanks and hillsides so much that one or the other gave way, coincidentally sliding into the Kalama just days before the mountain reawakened.

Such explanations make the people who know this river best shake their heads and chuckle. They point to one scientist's theory proffered in a local newspaper account as to how absurd such rationalizations are: The river may have changed color, that scientist said, because someone tossed white paint into it.

"We had a good laugh about that one," Bottorff says.

And landslides? Bottorff scoffs. "N-O. No. Impossible."

"I don't know about that," adds Orzel, who notes that sediments from heavy rains or slides usually turn the river "a brownish, cup of coffee with a lot of cream" color -- but certainly not milky white.

Plus, with what's happening now at St. Helens, "it's just too much of a coincidence," Orzel adds. "I betcha a dime to a dollar she's the reason."

Gary Suhadolnik isn't one to take that wager. A retired state Fish and Wildlife officer, he worked the St. Helens region for most of a 35-year career, even undertaking the grim task of a body-recovery mission after the big blast of 1980. Throughout his career, Suhadolnik got to know the Kalama like the back of his hand.

"I'm not belittling the scientists, because I'm sure they know their stuff," he says. "Maybe these guys look at us and say, 'What do these people know?'

"But I can tell you this. The Kalama never turned white -- except during volcanic activity."

And Suhadolnik notes that the spring that feeds the river -- "the most beautiful little spring you ever saw, bubbling right out of the ground" -- originates not far from ancient volcanic lava tubes. "Logically, there has to be a connection," he says. " Least, that's my gut feeling."

That scientists won't even consider that possibility, locals say, is nothing but a shame.

"It's ridiculous they wouldn't show some interest," says Dorothy Swihart, who with her husband, Bill, caught the Kalama's latest milky flows in snapshots from the deck of their riverside home. "If the river does this every time Mount St. Helens did its thing, it could be a good forewarning."

Scientists aren't monitoring the river, Major says, simply because there hasn't been reason to. Such color changes "didn't happen to any other river" near the mountain, he notes. And, he adds, "if something like this was happening" -- either in 1980 or any time since -- "no one's ever told us about it."

"I just can't see any direct connection," he insists.

But locals here say they don't need scientists or their explanations to believe what they already know: Sometimes this river speaks. Just like it did again last month.

P-I reporter Lewis Kamb can be reached at 206-448-8336 or lewiskamb@seattlepi.com

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