Journal: Down the Potowomac River | Ilene Evans
ONE: Door to Mordor
Here I am, in the heart of Mordor, as a friend describes the innards of Washington D.C. I started my Potomac Labor Day pilgrimage at the headwaters of this mighty Potomac River and watershed. I started this journey in wonder. Water sings and speaks and cries, even screams. As one of the mighty elements, she has a voice that will be heard. Earth, Air, Fire, Water. We are made of these things, and yet we sometimes lose perspective of just how much a part of them we are, more than they being small parts of us. When we ignore them, there is an enormous price to pay. It is time to pay my respects and reflect.
Living at the headwaters as I do, there is a sense of the beginnings of things. Where the small droplets trickle down from the mountain rains sand then well into pools and creeks and flows; washing and feeding as it rolls. The start of the river is a sacred place, a holy place, a birthplace. I think of it as a story of the river ‘s beginnings, it begins quietly, but assuredly. It seeks out others to join in its travels and turns with so many other streams that feed into what some native peoples called the Potowomac River. I think she is a friendly, social being. She has room for others and welcomes them to join and fill her banks. The headwaters are quiet, simple, rushing along stone and branches. There, the song is of the layers of pebbles and rocks washed down for millennia. How old is the river you ask? Hummm… how old indeed. Some say it is three million years old – long before people lived along its banks and fished the waters, making settlements. There are things in this world that are so much older than we people and our memories. How long have the fish been in the river? How long? Hummm… How long have the birds been here? Ah, there’s a chickadee… how long has the river heard their song? Hummmm?
With such small beginnings, imagine my amazement as I drive into the nation’s capital to see an enormous and powerful expanse – a waterway that rivals the ocean even before it meets one. It is vast and millions of years old. The Atlantic is waiting, by way of the Chesapeake Bay. And the power of this river becomes very real to me. Two people have drowned in it this year. I am reminded of the hidden currents, the keeper currents feared by kayakers and the novice river riders. The waters lie still, or so it seems when looking from the shore. But beneath lies a power, an unpredictable power in currents that run deep, pulling, and pushing with invisible force. Oh, the Keeper currents? Yes. I am told that they will pull a rider to the very bottom of the river. The instinct is to struggle against it, in which case you will surely drown. But if you let the current take you, it will carry you down and bring you back up to the top, shooting you out again. Unseen mysteries and powers are at work here.
I am reminded of the stories that move with the people in a similar way to the currents. Some are easy to see, easy to remember, and some are hidden, lost, almost forgotten. But the river knows. The river, like the earth remembers. She carries the accumulated blessings along with the curses. A river cursed? How can that be?… Well, I think the river has known abuse on a scale beyond our own generations neglect and overuse. But she has also seen the efforts to restore, reclaim, and rebuild it to its early health and harmony. The river is resilient. It is strong. But it can be damaged. Three and a half million years. What is that to the mighty Potomac?
TWO: Accokeek
As I drive to Accokeek, the park and reserve across from Mount Vernon, I pass names of the schools like Howard Divinity School and Catholic University. There has been a call to rise to be our best selves in the religious movements. It is just one of the currents that runs parallel to the mighty Potomac. There are the currents that carry the stories of our ancestors like Nanny Helen Burroughs Dr. Then it’s over the water bridges so crowded, so busy, and in constant motion, currents of people and currents of cars, busses, trucks, scooters, and gym shoes. Again, the confluence of so many different waterways pouring into the river and meeting in forced integration. Of course, the currents are strong, of course the flow can move mighty stones and sand. We are such a reflection of that multiplicity of purpose, intent, and mission, driving the waters insistently toward the ocean. How the river harmonizes its many branches is not always peaceful and in fact, the waters hide much of the violence in such confrontation. The currents run so differently from the riverbed, waters get quiet in places, in caves and coves and drops only to rejoin the cacophony further downstream.
The road to Accokeek Park snakes through a dense forest and grove. Bits of the wild, left to the natural elements, with houses and projects of reclamation and protection scattered on each side of the asphalt ribbon. One car is following me as I come down the winding lane and we pull into the parking lot, half full of visitor’s cars and vans. The park has a teaching farm, and an historical living history to share with the many students, schools and families who come. I see the gentleman in the car that was behind me, take his fishing gear, and disappear down a path. I smile – coming to the shore to fish. It was not long ago that the river was so toxic that fishing, swimming, and most water recreation was not allowed. That seems to be changing as the river regains a healthy review.
I first head to the visitor center – (there are signs instructing us in the parking lot to start our visit there). At the center, I am immediately confronted by the colonial framework for telling stories. There are stories of first contact, betrayal, murder, and the confusion of cultures. The many bands and tribes who met the early settlers, looking to make home on these shores. Much of this I find disturbing because I know these stories are complex. Some people cast the country’s origins in terms of winners and losers –in my opinion, we all lost and in many ways are still losing. I walked out to the pier which faces George Washington’s Mount Vernon home. I understand a new word to me, viewscape. The park has its designation and protection much to please the visitors at Mount Vernon. Hum. How Posh…
POSH – my late teacher and friend Reid Gilbert made sure that I understood the origins of this adjective. We apply it to anything indulgently beautiful, ornate, extravagant, also applied to the rich, wealthy, and privileged. Our celebrity culture encourages the POSH lifestyle. It stands for the sea faring terms as a ship may sail in and out of ports: Port Out, Starboard Home. It’s all about the view. Controlling what one sees and keeping from view the things one would rather not see. The privileged can afford to pay to see only what they want to see and pretend that the rest doesn’t exist. That special ticket allows them to have the best view whether coming in or out of the port. I find that phrase accounts for attitudes and yearnings yet today as a status symbol. The park’s very preservation reflects the practices of the POSH.
That does not stop two gentlemen fishing off the pier and that makes me smile. It reminds me that even though most of us cannot afford a POSH ticket for the cruise, we can find our own beauty, so much beauty, joy, love, and laughter in the magics of everyday things. The POSH view does not guarantee happiness.
The Potomac River mirrors our own conflicted and complex story. Nation building, some call it. Others call it colonization. Power – water is power. And who controls it, masters its mysteries, commands the wealth to be gained from it. Power in harmony is a concept lost on the mainstream culture. Power in dominance seems to guide most of our political and community leaders.
I started down the gravel path to The NATIONAL Colonial Farm. It is meant to be a living history museum of both the setters, the enslaved, and the freemen who worked the lands. The Farm was quiet the day I went. The buildings host a number of activities that would have been common in the small farm production of tobacco. They raise sheep, use the wool, and have a full garden, and activities for students and families who come to visit colonial life on a small scale. The people who carry this story are part of the paid staff and are deeply committed to the value of telling their story with integrity to the life and times; the good along with the not so good and downright ugly aspects of those lives and times. They include….. Cate Sharper, her husband, a free man and their son.
The park presentations keep alive the mixed heritage of freedom this country has entertained. It is clear that only some people were meant to be fully free in this context. Freedom, though it may be bought, had its limits. This is a difficult truth lost on those who would lionize the founding fathers as Christian saints, for they were neither. They were landed gentry whose magnanimity only extended as far as their cultural roots: white men of power and influence. The family of this living history farm are considered middle class tobacco farmers. Their struggle did not include the people whose land the settled or the people they needed as labor. The linear morality of early settlers did not allow for them to see themselves as anything but earnest honest hard-working people. Their complicity in the perpetuating human trafficking, and land theft were justified in their religious zeal.
I think about this as I walk the treelined driveway, past berry bushes, staggered fencing, the sounds of birds and bugs. It is a beautiful walk to the cabins, past the gardens. There are two mothers with strollers and children moving form building to building. They have met up for children’s play and discovery day. They stroll in the grassy meadow. The feeling of the place is gentle today. I wonder what it is like of an active harvest or planting day.
THREE: Nanjemoy Wildlife Environment and Educational Center
I am ready to find the Nanjemoy Creek Environmental Educational Center …… I find my way moving out of the congestion of the capital and its surrounds. This area is more and more rural, dotted with homes. Most of the people I see are black families and people of color, taking out trash, cutting grass, doing chores. I am looking for Turkey Tayak Rd. where the Nanjemoy wilderness area educates the schools district about the Nanjemoy Creek, marshlands, channels, wetlands, animals, and plants. The name of the road gives honor to the tribal chief who worked to build bridges for the community to advance its identity and ensure its longevity. I met Turkey Tayak’s grandson, Sebi, last year and enjoyed his visit to my house at the headwaters of the Potomac River. It only seems right to return to the land he calls home. It is a beautiful drive. When I turned onto Turkey Tayak Rd. I looked for some kind of visitor’s center, but all I saw was an unmanned observatory… humm. So, I headed to the next driveway. There was an office marked there, but no one around as I pulled in. then suddenly, Tim appeared, looking like a park ranger and I looked like a lost visitor, so we made an immediate connection. I told him I was looking for the water, to see the creek and get a feel for the land and such. He welcomed me and said he would get a golf cart to make our travel easier. As he was leaving, another gentleman in a long green apron appeared and looked like he might be heading to the kitchen of the bar-b-que pit. I couldn’t tell which and so I made a comment about the importance of a chef…. He laughed and said, “Well, if mice and gophers and small carrion were on the menu,…” he was your man. He had been getting the food ready to feed the raptors which lived in the enclosures there. They were part of the educational programs. He offered to show me more when I got back from my ride with Tim. They were delightful. Tim, a naturalist from Missouri, originally, and he came to the Nanjemoy area because his wife grew up there and the job opening at the Center was just what he was looking for at the time. So, he has become an integral part of both the caretaking of the land, in returning it to a more natural state as well as the student sessions when the schools are open.
I remark on the osprey nest close to the pier is also a favorite landing place for the eagles that nest there. Such an interdependent ecosystem. Tim said that the gulls and fish-eating birds that leave tell-tale bits and bones on the dock. You can tell who comes and goes when you see what they leave behind. At the water’s edge, there are the worn stones and logs that brackish water wash and carve, leaving homes for the little creatures. The salt content there is just high enough to have blue crabs, but not oysters. Four parts per thousand, not enough for a salt marsh.
The Posey Easement is the land the park uses. The surrounding lands were given back to the Piscataway people. If you followed the creek down further, you would end up in the Potomac and on into the Chesapeake Bay.
Tim drove us and round the property and through one of the fields where they will be planting heritage seeds, having cleared out the Japanese Stiltgrass. Stiltgrass grows everywhere and crowds out a lot of the native species. Tim was excited about the new plants that will become part of the reclamation. We drove further in a different part of the marsh and walked along a board walk that kept our feet from sinking into the mud. The river’s flavors are outstanding here. The aroma is mild at the march. Fresh and brackish, not too salty… There was a raised wooden outlook there, where the students can get a good sighting of the various plants, flowers, trees, and vines around. The tide had come in, however, and we decided not to get our feet wet and stayed on the dry boards. He said that there have been beds of wild rice there in the past. They may try to encourage that again.
There is a great effort to bring back native plants and to remove invasive species. That is a really big job at this point. The introduced species are so vigorous and strong, they have won battles in disputed territories all over our region. The stories of dominance and control are not lost on these naturalists. The competition between native species and native peoples have found similar challenges over the decades. Some of these plants are so beautiful and look so natural in their setting now, few would recognize them as aggressive invaders. I have been charmed again and again at the garden centers, not knowing any better. So, out comes the English Ivy! When we know better, we are obliged to do better.
Tim has helped identify some of the tubers that can become a part of this new visioning of the wildlife preserve. I have made my visit at the end of summer, just as fall is tarting. It would be an entirely different experience to be here in spring. I understand that the storms and tides change the flowing and growing of the plants and animals. There will always be change, and dramatic change where nature is concerned, but our travels have brought new seeds and critters and added to the complex ecosystem, straining and stressing the balance.
Mike, The naturalist who cares for the raptors was waiting for us when we pulled up to the enclosures for the birds. I am invited to take a look – up close and personal. The Bald Eagle, the Red Tailed Hawk, the Barred Owl and the Screech Owl are permanent residents there. They have had injuries that will not allow them to go back to the wild. They are used in the education program and what a sight they are! My photos were not very good, because I didn’t want to use a flash in the enclosure, but what an honor to be in the presence of such majesty. These guardians of the sky fly confidently up and down our river. They hunt and fish and mate and build their homes in the woods and keep all of us watching the sky.
Their familiar calls keep everyone alert. The Retailed Hawk announces his/her sentry duty with one long Keeeerrrr. The Red-Shouldered Hawk makes that call between eight and twelve times in a row. At home, at the headwaters, we know who is in the neighborhood because of all the songs and calls. When the other birds get very quiet, you know the hawk is on the hunt.
If you have ever caught or held a feather, you know how mysterious they are: so soft, so strong; no singular feather could guarantee flight, but all together, with the diverse shapes and sizes and strength loads come together? There is a feat of flight. The wing feathers, the tailfeathers, the tiny feathers on the face and head around the beak. There is the warm downy feather undercoat. The wonder of each bird, large, small, carnivorous, or vegan, they amaze and teach us the economy of life. Each wing beat, each heartbeat, each season, is a gift.
This season, I watched a nest of mourning doves hatch and fledge, via my friend’s diligent webcam. If you were looking at those tiny featherless forms, you would never guess they were ever meant to fly. Such is the wonder of life on the Potomac.
Tisiphone… The day came to a close with a special peek behind the scenes. The Red-tailed Hawk had a name. The falconer who handled her before her accident called her by name and so she came to recognize that sound symbol. Her name was Tisiphone. That was the name for one of the furies, in Roman Mythology. She was known as the avenger of murders. A name is so particular. When I called her by her name, we were connected in another way, a deeper way. I was very grateful.
The story of the river comes with all the life along its banks and shores. The river is the life blood of so many countless creatures and lifeforms. I have a deeper understanding of just how long these relationships have been going on, forged long before people came along to make home here. These nature centers and environmental initiatives attempt to keep perspective of our place in a larger world of life. Too long, the idea of being at the top of an evolutionary hierarchy has blinded us to the perspective of just how small we are in the big universe. On my exploration here along the Potomac River, even in relation to one river, we people are a small inhabitant. The numbers of fungi, avian life, fishes, and amphibians, creepers, crawlers, and four-leggeds, far outnumber us. That night I dreamt of things wonderful and wild. What must it have been to be a free hawk hundreds of years ago?
FOUR: Saturday at the Farmers Market
With the next morning came a special invitation to a city treat: a farmers’ market. Fruits, vegetables, soaps, candies, languages, breads, new causes, and concerns. The market square draws in all the different kinds of folks. The mix of accents and words adds to the feeling of neighborhood. Doesn’t everyone need fresh tomatoes, potatoes, beans, and a great loaf of bread? There is coffee in your favorite flavor. A band was playing oldies, rock, and sing-a-long songs for light hearted amusement and entertainment. As they might have said in 1940 – the joint was jumping. Young, old, lots of dog owner’s, strollers, and sun hats. The colors of the venders made a collage of all the good things summer has to offer. She bought some peaches, and I got a few tomatoes. After my very quiet day in the wilderness, this was a cacophony of sounds and colors. I had a hard time finding a focus, I was just mesmerized by it all. This is another picture of the ways the river is reflected in the people who gather beside it. The ever-moving currents, the flow of people from one part of the city to another, the varied rhythms and temperatures mirror the complex composition of the river.
The invitation for breakfast came from my new colleague and friend, Nadia. She thought this would be a good place for us to find breakfast and get to know each other better and learn about the kinder side of Washington D. C. She drove like someone wo is used to traversing a labyrinth. I have always been confounded by the street layout in D.C. and the many one-way streets, round-abouts and odd alleyways. Nadia was a pro. We had a legal parking place in no time. I have to acknowledge this very particular skill set. I compare it to that of a kayaker – in the way they are able navigate and to anticipate the changes and restrictions of travel. We take a lot for granted in our everyday lives. When navigation seems easy, we lose sight of how many complex systems within us are at work, remaining upright, a clear sense of right and left, up and down, long and short distances, estimating the right pressure for each step, even the balance on uneven surfaces. Navigating the city is as complex as navigating the river. The currents in the river are notorious for their surging strength. I posit that these currents are mirrored in aspects of the city of Washington D. C. down to the way people mover through their neighborhoods and get to work or play every day.
We took a short walk to a favorite restaurant, Bus Boys and Poets. There we were able to find a good mix of cuisines, cultural favorites, and delicious food. We curled into an eddy, a calm moment in the raging river around us. There are so many concurrent currents. There were rivers of people, thought, of art, of past times, rivers of words, and music, and paint, and sound, and colors. This restaurant is home for many creative energies. After resting in that quiet moment, we went back out into the flow along the street and found the car exactly where we left it.
FIVE: Rockville
With the next morning came a special invitation to a city treat: a farmers’ market. Fruits, vegetables, soaps, candies, languages, breads, new causes, and concerns. The market square draws in all the different kinds of folks. The mix of accents and words adds to the feeling of neighborhood. Doesn’t everyone need fresh tomatoes, potatoes, beans, and a great loaf of bread? There is coffee in your favorite flavor. A band was playing oldies, rock, and sing-a-long songs for light hearted amusement and entertainment. As they might have said in 1940 – the joint was jumping. Young, old, lots of dog owner’s, strollers, and sun hats. The colors of the venders made a collage of all the good things summer has to offer. She bought some peaches, and I got a few tomatoes. After my very quiet day in the wilderness, this was a cacophony of sounds and colors. I had a hard time finding a focus, I was just mesmerized by it all. This is another picture of the ways the river is reflected in the people who gather beside it. The ever-moving currents, the flow of people from one part of the city to another, the varied rhythms and temperatures mirror the complex composition of the river.
The invitation for breakfast came from my new colleague and friend, Nadia. She thought this would be a good place for us to find breakfast and get to know each other better and learn about the kinder side of Washington D. C. She drove like someone wo is used to traversing a labyrinth. I have always been confounded by the street layout in D.C. and the many one-way streets, round-abouts and odd alleyways. Nadia was a pro. We had a legal parking place in no time. I have to acknowledge this very particular skill set. I compare it to that of a kayaker – in the way they are able navigate and to anticipate the changes and restrictions of travel. We take a lot for granted in our everyday lives. When navigation seems easy, we lose sight of how many complex systems within us are at work, remaining upright, a clear sense of right and left, up and down, long and short distances, estimating the right pressure for each step, even the balance on uneven surfaces. Navigating the city is as complex as navigating the river. The currents in the river are notorious for their surging strength. I posit that these currents are mirrored in aspects of the city of Washington D. C. down to the way people mover through their neighborhoods and get to work or play every day.
We took a short walk to a favorite restaurant, Bus Boys and Poets. There we were able to find a good mix of cuisines, cultural favorites, and delicious food. We curled into an eddy, a calm moment in the raging river around us. There are so many concurrent currents. There were rivers of people, thought, of art, of past times, rivers of words, and music, and paint, and sound, and colors. This restaurant is home for many creative energies. After resting in that quiet moment, we went back out into the flow along the street and found the car exactly where we left it.
SIX: Great Falls
My cousin and I planned our excursion to the Maryland side of the Great Falls. That is the side where the canal is. I wondered what it was that motivated such an undertaking. The length of the canal alone is daunting in terms of engineering feats. The canal was the answer to the unnavigable series of falls that call tourists from all over the world. It made a way for commerce to expand as barges floating on the eater were pulled by mules over the many miles upriver. Many families made their living on the canal and made it their home. Now, the entire length of the canal has been preserved as part of the National Park system. Many tourists, bikers, hikers, historians, and engineers take advantage of it for recreation and education. It was a short walk to the overlook of the falls and we had plenty of company that day, both human and canine.
The old Tavern that once served as an inn and stopover for travelers is now a visitor center and uses rooms for children’s’ workshops and presentations for the public. I stop in to get maps and a better picture of the canal as it is proposed to be restored in places to give demonstrations of the works and workings of the water and the ships. Moving the water from the river in a lock system takes time. The boat they are restoring is there beside one of the locks and you can imagine the grass filled ravine filled with water and the locksmiths working with the ships as they pass through to the next lock. We are at #14 in the series of 28.
Since dogs are not allowed on the overlook, we take turns crossing to get the view. I hold Zoe, the chocolate lab, so fortunate to be well enough behaved to go on field trips. My cousin is able to take her time with fellow travelers and enjoy the view. Other dog owners wait by the side and have a rest in the hot sun. Groups of young ladies, families speaking German, Spanish and a few that I do not recognize, wait for their party with their canine companions. I am happy to be into the shade for a bit. When it is my turn, I take a deep breath. This is a moment I have been waiting for. I have anticipated my first reactions with a little fear, because where I live and work, the falls are gentle and there are lots of places where you can walk and swim in them. Not here. These falls are huge, big, scary, and oh, so powerful. As I come to the center of the bridge, I can see that I was right. This is a place to respect. The power of the water alone is overwhelming. The sound of the rushing against the rock in the narrow corridor is all you can hear. People can smile, but not really have any conversations. The view is stunning. The bare rock gray-brown against the white water and deep blue pools; a moving living sculpture. The sides of the flow grows deep green in sharp contrast. I dare to take my photos and videos. I feel daring standing in the center of the bridge. I feel as though the water could pull me in at any moment. And I find that it is not a place to tarry. I feel as if I am airborne and as I return to the path to my cousin and Zoe, I am relieved to be back on shore. But I wouldn’t have missed that view for the world. Whoever built that bridge for the overlook gave all of us a great gift. The power of the river is going directly into the nation’s capital. I needed to see that. People crave power, we need to be able to be active agents in our lives, true. But this gives me a sense that sometimes people acquire power that they are equipped to wield. Some become so intoxicated with their sense of power that lose perspective on just how small we really are in comparison to nature’s real power.
SEVEN: White Privilege
My cousin’s husband told me a story that put the peril of the police in sharp perspective for him. He said that I could share his story here with you. Just to let you know, he’s a white fella, who sings the blues – well. After all, he is married to my cousin, an unafraid powerful black woman. He is more than a little aware of his place in this world and what it meant for him to marry a black woman and her family.
It was just about two years ago in Washington DC. And I was leaving work and of course, I work at a government facility. And I’m driving home and on a major road in DC Connecticut Avenue, a major artery, and I’m stopped in my tracks in my car -by a mail truck that is turning in front of me illegally. And I got upset and I’m in a sports car with a top-down convertible sports car. So, I stood up in the car and screamed at the mail truck driver. I screamed at obscenity out- it was what I did. Because I was driving home from work and somebody was holding me up. This this mail truck driver turned I stood up in my car with no roof on it and screamed at him. And then once he turned, I tore off up the street, you know, spun my tires and drove up the street like a like a crazy person. Got about six blocks up and there’s lights behind me the cops are pulling me over. And I thought, “Oh crap, I’m in for it now.” So, I pull over and I’m sitting in my car waiting for the cop to come up. I’ve still got the top down and everything in this system. cop pulls up to me. He’s a -he’s a white man, a white officer. And he pulls up and I’m thinking okay, be very careful what you do. Don’t – don’t end up getting shot. And he says, “I you know why I pulled you over?” and I said, “Maybe.” and he said, “Yeah, that was pretty ugly back there.” He says, he says, “I saw what you did back there.” And I said, “Yeah,” I said I was upset. I said he did a stupid thing. And so, he said, “Can I get your license and registration?” and he went back to his car and he came back a few minutes later. And he handed me my license and registration back. And he looked at my badge. I had a lavalier on with my State Department badge. And he says, “You said you work for the government Mr. Yonkers?” and I said, “Yes I do.” I said, “Do you think do you need to see my State Department badge for identification?” And he said, “no, that’s okay.” And he says, “I just want to want to warn you, He says “You can’t do things like that in public.” He says, and he says, he says, “I’m sorry to pull you over for this.” He said, “… but if I didn’t pull you over,” he said, “people saw what you did and if I didn’t pull you over, I would get in trouble. So,” he said, “Be more careful Mr. Yonker,s and have a good day.” That was it. That was it. And I drove away from it confused, thinking I had done something wrong. I was expecting to be punished for it, you know, in some way a ticket to something. You know, but I have to say the things that I see in the news went through my mind, because I see stories about black men being stopped all the time for littering and they end up dead. Or, you know, in a job with that, not being able to reconcile what had just happened to me. And I got home the first thing I did was tell my wife about it.
EIGHT: Listening to the Trees
I am returning to the search for “native species” in this quest to name the trees in my cousin’s backyard. I get to use my new plant identifier tool It is working very well today! We settle for knowing so little about the world around us. At the back of my cousin’s house is a tremendous stand of trees. They have to be quite old. When I asked them what kind of tress they were, they didn’t know. I was surprised, but ready to remedy the situation. It was fun, checking out the bark and leaves and branches. The dogs played at our feet, and we kept finding examples for the identifier. Ah HA! Poplar – Tulip Poplars – the biggest I remember seeing. There were Beech trees too. One more – A Japanese maple. Very ornamental – Oh, no – I think it is one of the invasive species. Well, it goes to show that even at the garden center, you need to know which ones will over grow and outrun the native plants.
NINE: The Return – Moving Upriver
Like the salmon returning to spawn, I head back home upstream. It is one of the hottest days of the year and so, the car become a cool cave for my travel.
TEN: Back at the Headwaters
I’m listening to the pulse of the river; the heartbeat is strong here in her beginning.
Sharon Day had led us in the river walk, as guardians of the waters, the Anishinaabe women lead in restoration efforts across the country. She taught us the songs that are sung to help the river’s spirit, to heal it and to lend our strength to hers. It was at this sight one cold October morning when she led us in prayer and song to beginning the long walk of this mighty 400 mile river to its mouth. She took her bucket to the muddy spring and filled it as best she could, there at the Fairfax Stone. The day was cloudy, rainy, and cool, but her heart was focused on a mission. I was able to join in the walk for one of the early legs – it was for about a mile that I carried the precious treasure. Then, I passed it to the next woman, waiting to share the burden. There were men who walked alongside, carrying a staff and alerting traffic, when necessary, to keep the women safe. Their burden is to protect and also to be guardians of the fire.
Every time I visit the headwaters site, I feel I am standing on holy ground. That sense has never flagged. Now the site is a WV state park, but it has little adornment. And I think that helps it keep its quiet beginning, its identity.
Shh.
The river is low
and slow
today.
The bottom,
visible with it’s rocks and fallen leaves,
Green, and yellow, and gold
Red scattered here,
scattered there
Twigs entwined …
in the trickle of the water – sing: ah – ahahhhahhha ahahahahaha ….
The call of the crows and the red shouldered hawks,
The blue jays that are still here, though the fall is for certain
The sand appears and then it disappears
down the slow moving stream
The quiet of the river
Rests,
Quiet,
Slow,
Rest,
For the rains will come …
and the waters will wash down,
and the river will rise again,
And her heart will beat strong against the bank.
I have come to see myself as some kind of guardian, not the warrior with a sword kind of guardian, but one who is mindful. Keeps love active and naming the good, beautiful, and engendering. I have found this river gives so much, even when we are not looking. The giving of life, the taming of the mountains, hiding treasures for the patient seeker, its songs that carry the frogs’ and turtles’ songs too, the blue heron, the eagle. All their songs are part of this wild place. I saw a shy little baby black bear this week, then down the road, several new fledging turkey tribes, and so there are so many young deer this season. Even six points bucks have made their way to our apple trees. Mother deer and babies skitter and play in my meadow. Then down the ditch line, a random red fox and ground hog. So many make their home here on the edge of the wilderness. We have plenty of pests too – but they belong, as do we. How pesky are we to the ones who knew no other world but the mountainsides, these easy to cross streams, these living banks. We are to share the riches. Nature’s abundance is hanging high up in my apple tress right now; round and red and luscious. That is the model to remember. The pattern is abundance, when we are willing to harmonize as part of the great orchestral symphony. I like that we start here as a trickle. We should learn how to manage abundance more slowly.
There’s a Way
There’s a way that the river curves that makes me feel like I am melting into the soft edge of the bank, flowing and melting with the warm shifting sand. Snuggling in, I bond into the curves as fluid, as bank, as sand, as river. For river is more than water, more than its shores, more than its banks, more than its reefs and tangles, more than its bottom, more than its’s mud, more than its grasses, fish, frogs, snakes and flies, dragonflies, and ripples. I curve with the river and loose the stiffness of my two-leggedness. I become supple and pliable like the softened clay, taking the shape of the strength surrounding me, taking in my body the energy of all the forces within and without. Above and below. I am fluid, flowing skin dispersing so all the atoms touch and are touched, all is stroked, all is held. I add to the rivers. I add to its knowing. We ride and fly across the land. We are free. Spraying falls, splashing curves, we play and ride all together. When I come away, stepping quietly back on the shore, my soul is no longer dry.
I love the river – especially when she sings… and I found that I need to be by the water. Water is life. Sara Thomsen’s song starts, Mni Wičoni :Water Is Life – we are one…
River – River Song –
I hear the river’s songs in stories; Stories that span eons.
Stories told in
Schools of fish
Flocks of migrating and nesting birds
Swarms of bees
Singing summer katydids and crickets and
Hibernating families
Boring and digging and building the shorelines
The sounds of living free.
This river of freedom
Lightening and thunders
Rapids and Rock Falls
The life of a river – three and a half million years
Running, leaping gurgling, bubbling
The Fresh, the swamp, the marsh, coves and culverts
The narrows and the wild river song
People came late to the rivers song, its story so long
… Three and a half million years late to the song
Weaving into the edges love and laughter
Weaving into the river loss and life and blood
The river runs and runs and runs
I try to catch up – run beside the river, bouncing and leaping, sliding and falling… and running again…
As I run alongside the river, I see myself! Ahh, keeping pace, sliding across the bank, , hore to shore, moving in the under current easy… easy, … then stronger and stronger, deeper and deeper the current pulls and there I am moving easily along the bottom. The soft bottom of the river all sandy, smuschy mix of stone and rock and clay and sand. , then up, up… cooler the water, then warmer, it keeps moving, never stopping the river runs and runs and runs.
The river remembers it all … waters gathered before the glaciers began to pull the earth with all that water, water freezing and frozen pulling higher and higher till the earth was left in peaks and caps. Reshaped and held in place. A sculpture. began to pull the earth – with that water higher and higher till the earth peaked in caps…
From the grains of sand to the granite stone, sandstone, the composite folding and refolding. The river ever remembers it all.
The tiny creatures, the winged, two legged the four legged the two legged again. The river remembers it all. The river remembers the crashing and diving, smooth, strong, pulling, pushing, eking through crevices and cracks, shifting beds, finding the narrow, the easy push, stubborn, insistent, the river remembers it all.
The river remembers the soft yielding grasses, and loose stone through mosses branches, through rock, hard rock and the crash against the rock, and the pull against time. The River remembers it all.
The Song the River sings…
How many octaves to the river’s song? The one AHhhh ahhhhh- Pitch higher)
The roar of the rapids the rich and mighty gurgles (Gurglesssssssss) .The song that the river sings; and dances as it sings.
I hear the voices of the fishes, of the Chickadee, of the hawk, of the nuthatch, of the turtles, (gerlunk) of the frogs and peeps. I hear them sing together like an orchestra. They raise their pitch, and they tell the meadow next to the river and the river listens and hears and takes in the sound into the river’s song. It is a song of love. It takes the sounds into its long gentle arms: its gentle power – power that smoothes the stones. And feed the branches, the roots, the leaves, the drip drip drip of the rain into the water. In the deep winter there are places that yield to the cold, solid in form, and we go to the rivers edge listening to the the ice that crunches as we cross, her narrow path. Only now can we walk over the river. With the springtime muds and floods and flows and springs and ebbs and eddies, the flow wwwwwww (CrunCH CrUncH) Knowing that frozen moments – these frozen flows are rests in the song. – the breaking sounds of the ice are soon gone. With the springtime muds and floods and flows and springs and ebbs and eddies, little sand banks in places – the flow will be free and there will be the familiar places where the crayfish hide and the minnows dance – dashing – And we know we are home.
Water droplets holding fast
Once, the river covered everything.
Maybe that time will come again and the river will cover everything once more.
Water droplets holding fast
Am I that hard rock pushing back against the water, resisting the flow, the steady stream? When I see the branches hanging over the rushing river, filled now with snow melt, slow and steady. Filling and filling the river til she is broad and buxom. The sound is rich and full. I soften. I yield. I feel a warmth as the tiny parts of the rivers stream drip to form droplets so slowly that they are freezing in place as the dawn v breaks on the mountaintop. The day will warm and the frozen droplets will melt and we can see a miracle. Transforming magic in the quiet shadows, lost to anyone in a hurry.
I love the soft hanging droplets, poised and waiting, paused for now, frozen for now, and when they drop it will be an explosion the into the streams miniature tide and that tide will swell with that one drop. Who would notice those tiny water droplets joining the river song.
Once, the river covered everything. Maybe that time will come again and the river will cover everything once more.
2023 Potomac Pilgrimage Journey – Ilene Evans