Rivers
When we lived in Lewistown, we would make the trek to Great Falls every few weeks to stock up on groceries. In Montana it is not uncommon to drive two or three hours to get to a Sam's Club, Costco, or Walmart. Our Sam’s club in Billings is peppered with Wyoming plates when I visit now. On the road to Great Falls there is a stretch of highway that follows Big Otter Creek. The creek is but a few yards wide and in late summer the water that flows through it amounts to a trickle. This little creek crosses and re-crosses the highway as it meanders through the countryside. I remember being amazed at the number of bridges that the County had to put in just to run the highway between those two towns. I looked on a paper Montana map and Big Otter Creek doesn’t even show up. I had to Google Map it, then zoom in on the image to even see it. Thirteen bridges. Thirteen bridges over the course of a few miles. To build so many bridges rather than straighten the creek, considering it is cheaper to move dirt than to build concrete crossings. Now that defines respect.
In Ohio there is one cold water inland trout stream, the Mad River just outside of Dayton. The river derives its name from its mad (crazy), broken and winding route. Well, at least it did before the Corps of Engineers channelized it. Straightened it out. Now it is a long, nearly straight waterway, almost a ditch. Trout need to be stocked because they struggle to reproduce. I’ve fished it many times, and got some nice fish out of it. But it is nothing like the natural streams and creeks of Montana. I can only imagine this “crazy” river in its original glory, winding through the countryside providing bends, rapids, pools, and undercut banks; a natural habitat for cold-water fish.
Rivers deserve our respect. Even a dry river leaves its mark on the land, showing us the end result of how many years, decades, centuries its water carved its way through dirt and rock. The earth's veins, pulsing with blood. Only flood, drought, the efforts of man through the act of diversion, dam’s, or disregard can affect its route. It is nothing short of amazing that the rivers we read about in grade school, the Mississippi, the Columbia, the Ohio, the Colorado, the Missouri, the Yellowstone; these rivers are still flowing today. It has not been forever, as changes over history; ice ages, glaciers, and tectonic shifts created them, and may well in the future erase them. They continue to flow, despite the best efforts of man to pollute, siphon, or otherwise abuse them. They define geographic borders, they still carry on their backs the commerce of trade, provide food, and recreation. They lull us to sleep with the sound of their movement as they polish rocks and gravel. They cool us in the summertime, and humble us when gorged with winter run-off. They can consume us if we fail to respect their power, their strength, their unending movement. It is no surprise that the method of escape should you fall in is to point your feet downstream, cross your arms, try to bounce off the rocks, and let the river take you where it will, hopefully a slow shallow spot where you can find purchase on the rocky bottom.
A river as a metaphor about life is very appealing. Especially to people like me who like “life” wrapped up neatly and tied in a bow. There are no ends to the lessons we can learn from moving water. Many hours I’ve stood watching a river flow, wading in thigh high water, or floating in my little drift boat just thinking about deep philosophical shit. There is something about the flow of moving water that quick-charges my inner Socrates.
You can’t always see the river bottom, but you get a good sense of what is below by how the water flows. This is helpful for both fishing and floating. Eddies, swirls, rapids, riffles all provide ready clues as to what is going on underneath. I think the same can be said for people. Anger, fear, hatred, sadness; all might well be outward manifestations of what is deep inside us. What we see is what is visible on our surface. I’ve thought about my own life, and how I might have portrayed myself to others. Below my anger, the thing that did not show on the surface, was probably insecurity. Below my distrust, probably fear. Now, when I see people react to situations I really do try to remember that I don’t know what they are really feeling within, beneath their surface. It makes it easier not to judge.
On a river there are quiet spots where you have time to marvel at the scenery, and there are fast moving rapids where you can afford no attention but to avoid hitting the next rock. When the water is high from spring run-off it can sweep you away and drown you in a heartbeat. Who among us hasn’t experienced quiet times in our lives where everything seemed just right, followed by turbulent times where we needed our full facilities just to get through the day. And there is a long list of people swept under, people who weren't prepared for the rough spots. I've been caught in life’s fast water my share, but I’m not unique in this regard. I must have been at least a little prepared, or perhaps I was just lucky, because I was not pulled under. Many who have or are being swept under may have not been so lucky. Knowing fast water might be right around the next corner helps me deal with life when it seems out of control.
The Yellowstone is what I would refer to as a braided river. There is a main flow but there are also multiple diversions that ultimately flow back into the main channel before diverting again somewhere downstream. These braids can be as thick as the main channel, or they can be slow and shallow and choked with obstruction. It is not always apparent which is the main channel, and you may find yourself on a stretch that just dies out when it runs into higher ground, and you then may need to backtrack. Isn’t that what a life really is? Or we can follow the path that was carved into the dirt and rock by generations of our clan, roiling through the same route; career, predisposition, prejudices. Water that has flowed hundreds of years with so much momentum. How very hard it is to move from the mainstream to one of the lesser channels. No wonder that we find it so hard to track a new route, and frustrating that the water moves so slowly and is so easily obstructed when we do. To me where the braids in my life join the main channel represent connectedness. Family, community, friendship. My life’s little diversions so far have thankfully all brought me back to the main channel. For that I am so grateful.
Maybe that is why I love rivers so much. I can’t drive over a bridge crossing a river without straining my neck to see its flowing water. I can’t walk next to a river without staring into its movement. I can’t stand in a river without marveling at its power.
And I can’t sit and reflect next to a river without being thankful for its wisdom.
