Crick or Creek

It’s become something of a regional sport in Montana, ridiculing new arrivals and the looney contortions they perform to fit in. So and so from a Chicago/Atlanta/New York hedge fund moves to the state and buys a ranch. For some reason, owners of hedge funds never buy homes, they buy ranches. Next stop, the local Ranch Supply headquarters, where they buy Carhartt jeans, jackets and boots. And since they can afford anything they want, a new cowboy hat. For those of you who aren’t from around here, high quality, 10X cowboy hats aren’t cheap. You could spend a few nights in a pretty decent hotel for what a good one will set you back. But what the hell, it’s only money.

Of course, dressing like a local will only get you so far. You have to talk like one, too.

Here’s how that works: See that little stream over there? All that pretty blue water burbling over multi-hued stones and winding through sylvan glades? That’s called a “crick.” It most certainly is not called a “creek.”

Yeah, I know all about the King’s English. I went to Journalism school. So listen up: If, for instance, you planned to go fishing on Horse Creek, and perchance you were to mention that to a friend, you would say that you were going fishing on Horse Crick, accent on the noun “Horse.”  If, on the other hand, the name of the creek had more than one syllable, as in “Cottonwood Crick,” you would still accent the entirety of the word “Cottonwood.” Say it out loud: “Cottonwood Crick.” When you get the hang of it, it almost swings, like a good Sinatra song, the accent always on the word preceding “crick.”

So, for twenty five years or so, that was me. I was a Cottonwood Crick kind of guy, not Cottonwood Creek.  All my years of forced devotion to English Grammar and proper syntax rode out the door on the back of my desire to be like everyone else. I was no hedge fund owner, but I was no fool, either. When in Rome…

And then one day, I just couldn’t do it anymore. By then I’d lived in Montana long enough that I could stake out a claim as a bona fide local. But I just…couldn’t…do it. I went back to saying “creek.” For some reason, it feels more honest to me.

But now I occasionally get the look. I’ll say “creek” instead of “crick” and I’ll get a furtive glance, a flicker of cognition, the trace of a smile. The implication is clear: You ain’t from around here, are you boy?