One woman's quest to ease her pain leads her to the banks of the Cache la Poudre River.
The Cache, I call this stretch of water. Or sometimes, even, My Cache. And indeed, my life has been spent along the banks of the Cache la Poudre River-a waterway that tumbles out of the mountains in northern Colorado and calms down into a meandering, quiet river at the base of the foothills near my home. I grew up on a ranch that bordered the river, playing with my brothers, sitting alone, chasing cows, riding horses, fishing. I was a quiet child, intent on getting away from the chaos of six brothers and two sisters and enough animals to qualify the farmhouse as a zoo. The river beckoned me outdoors where it was clean and quiet, safe and calm. The Cache became as much a part of my internal landscape as were the other essentials of my life: parents, books, nature, loves.
The name of this river comes from the first French trappers and means "cache the powder." In one story, a caravan of trappers and travelers were attacked by Indians. In another, the travelers simply needed to lighten the load. In either case, legend has it, they buried their extra gunpowder. Cache la poudre.