Over
the last day or so it has rained heavily. That, with the warmer
temperatures, has added to the rapid snow melt. The result has been
flooding, as the water runs to the lowest point; unable to soak into the still
frozen ground. After school today I visited several area creeks and
rivers in Northern Winnebago County. What I saw reminded me of a journal
entry I wrote back in April of 2000. I
wrote this entry almost 18 years ago after driving down to the southeast side
of Winnebago County to visit the Kishwaukee River's then flooded banks.
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Norman
Maclean once wrote, “I am haunted by waters,” or at least the movie version of
his book narrated those words. These
words come to me today as I watch for the second day in a row the rain that
plummets from the sky. Each drop pounds
itself earthwards and then creeps away in silent fashion to hide. This, however, is not the end of its
escapade. As the troops of droplets
gather in the valleys they ready themselves.
Those veiled in secrecy slowly emerge to join the ranks. Within the downpour and the thunder that
snarls angrily overhead, the armies of water build until, with the strength of
numbers, they begin their journey to the nearest creek or river.
The
waters of these swollen rivers haunt me in that they are terrible. They are terrible in the sense that one must
fear them out of respect. The waters
churn. They carve. The river is a living entity that is never
more evident than when it is in this state.
The water races with a furrowed brow and an intense, stern face. It screams, “Don’t mess” from its mouth; and
I don’t. Yet I can’t help but feel a
deep intrigue. I long for a glimpse of a
river running over its banks. Why the curiosity? The power!
The waters of an irritated creek, stream, or river rips and tears the
earth from its banks at each bend. Trees
and rocks are an afterthought, and once strewn forth, they become ripples within
the current. This same hand of power
that strikes unmercifully, however, replaces the land on the opposite side
after chewing it up and spewing it out, albeit further down river and on a
calmer day. Its colors are foul yet
beautiful as the waters gouge its bed and boil it into a bubbling froth. Perhaps it is the sound it makes that forces
one to pay homage. In the midst of the
storm, the wind and rain are one with the current as it roars onward.
Don’t
turn your back to this spectacle, however.
Once the rain stops and the sun burns forth, the land continues to drain
itself of the excess water it cannot absorb.
Now is the time when the surface will sparkle and entice. Now is the time when the water will gurgle
and trickle, lulling you into careless submission; for all the while the water
rises. Its depth is deceptive in the
magical, murky accent. One can feel complacent
in the sounds of a babbling river, not realizing that the small branch that
bobs up and down with the drifting water is the tip of an entire tree now
ensnarled below the surface. Beware the
intensity of the seemingly clam surface.
A river can be shallow and clear.
It can laugh as it wanders lazily, but it can also take a life with violence. Enjoy nature’s fury and rage but with
heightened senses. The same drop of rain
that tickles the nose on your face as it drips off your head can also join
forces with countless others to create a river of wrath. Ever alert while on my haunts, I peer from a
distance at the cleansing power of a moving river and am “haunted by waters.”
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Pictures And Videos From Today:
Dry Run Creek Running Through A Field
Dry Run Creek Racing Under The Bridge With Inches Of Clearance
CLICK ON THE VIDEOS:
The Sugar River Today
The Same Stretch Of The River As Above (Three Days Ago)
Did
you catch the alliteration? The “S’s” of
Snapshot, Snowshoeing, and Snow day brings you into an English class on a day when school was cancelled. That’s alliteration as well as ironic. This blog is mostly pictures, so I’m not going to write much other than to say that today was a good day to slowly pull out of a funk from
recent pressures. After waking early
this morning, and getting something to eat, I shoveled the driveway. Since there was a lot of snow to move, I took
my time. I used the shoveling as “delayed
gratification” so I could do something else later in the day that was perhaps a
bit more enjoyable. After catching my
breath, Cindy and I jumped into our Jeep and ran a few errands before
lunch. Once we were home I took a needed
nap, and then I threw some gear together to head out to the snowy woods.
My
parents gave me my own pair of snowshoes on Christmas day back in 1989. Cindy and I used to have them hanging crisscrossed
in our apartment when we were first married.
Friends used to wonder if they were “real.” Although loved, they were “City Slickers.” My snowshoes are made of green ash and
rawhide, with bindings that my Dad made from old inner tubes. Appropriately, they are Michigan style
snowshoes; which simply means they are not as long as the Alaskan style, and
not quite as round as the Bear Paw style.
In other words, they keep you on top of the snow while allowing you to maneuver
in tight situations.
My
dog Kora and I went out to a favorite area for several hours. I saw four bald eagles while trekking along
(two that were mature with their white head), and one pileated woodpecker (it’s
almost the size of a crow). After
snowshoeing in, I heated some water over my Emberlit stove for a cup of hot
cocoa. Cindy and I are now wrapping up
the day by watching the opening ceremony of the
PyeongChang Olympic Winter Games. For
the next 18 days we’ll be able to watch people from around the world who also
enjoy the activities associated with the snow, cold, and ice.
