Dorothy, the old water judge in Bozeman, ninety-one years old, laughed a big loud laugh when I read her the priority date off Gunnars certificate. Then she said, Mrs Lindstrom, 1872. There is almost nothing in this state older than that right. The resort cannot touch you. Nobody can.
Montana water law is first in time, first in right. The oldest right wins, always, and Gunnars water right on the Madison carried a priority date of 1872, older than the ski resort, older than the town, older than most of the laws the state runs on today.
The man in the expensive sunglasses told me the water board had reallocated the valleys river rights and that Gunnars right was never properly transferred to me, that I was using the river illegally and they would shut the wheel down unless I sold. Every word of it counted on me not knowing what was in the stuck bottom drawer of Gunnars rolltop desk.
It was not stuck that night. It slid right open, like Gunnar had been waiting. Inside was the 1872 certificate, and his note. Senior right. They cannot touch it. Call Dorothy.
He said my water was illegal. My water right is older than his great-grandfather, older than the state water board, older than the idea of a ski lift.
Dorothy walked me through transferring the senior right properly into my name, which is a morning of paperwork, not a reason to lose a river. A senior 1872 right does not get reallocated out from under you because a resort wants a lift base. It gets honored, because the whole system falls apart the day it is not.
The resort went looking for a lift base somewhere they could not out-age a dead man. Gunnars water wheel still turns the old saw on summer days for the tourists, and my grandson and I keep the mill open on weekends.
Gunnar built that wheel with his own hands and cut lumber for half the cabins in the valley. He also held the oldest claim on the Madison and kept the paper in a drawer for the day a man in sunglasses would come for it. First in time, first in right. Gunnar was first, and he stayed first.