Waters of Change

The waterfall was a place where daydreams were formed, then floated aimlessly downstream with the current.

     When I was a boy, my family lived for a time in the country. Behind our home was a stream. It cascaded down a succession of rock shelves for perhaps two hundred feet before finally gushing over a five-foot waterfall into a small basin just big enough to swim in. Under huge overhanging Hemlocks, I would sit on a slate ledge that protruded out over the water and throw small pieces of bread into the little pool. Chub and shiners darted from the shadows and attacked my offerings in a squirming mass; reflections of light from tiny scales caused flashes of brilliant silver and illuminated the chaos of their feeding frenzy like exploding sparklers.

Crayfish clambered out from under their rocks in the hopes of grabbing a stray morsel, but that seemed unlikely, as the bread disappeared when it broke the surface. I spied on dragonfly nymphs under the water, caught one in the cup of my hands and was rewarded with a painful bite that astonished me. Once they completed their metamorphoses and were air borne they were impossible to catch. Their eyes, like two motorcycle helmets resting on their heads, saw everything in any direction. I could not outsmart or out maneuver them.

Bullfrogs, painted turtles, muskrats, wood ducks, kingfishers and herons were all common residents of my stream. For one who knew where to look, mud puppies, salamanders, snapping turtles, mink and otter could also be encountered. Lift the rock slowly and let the current take with it the silt from the disturbance and look: a newt, a crayfish, a baby snapping turtle. Small, but intricate lives who dwell in a hidden world, and for a curious boy: treasures and mysteries that enriched his youth.

     The stream was called Sawmill Creek. She continued her campaign past our property through forests and meadows, whispering her salutations to Roy Ivor as she slipped around his Winding Lane bird sanctuary and then past the old monastery, before crossing under Mississauga road and emptying herself into The Credit River. There they combined forces for another few miles before pushing their way into Lake Ontario.

     After several days of rain or a spring thaw, the stream would exceed her boundaries and roar past in a rage like an avalanche of frothy chocolate milk. I would rush down to watch this side of her, rare and exciting. The sheer volume of water rumbled like constant thunder that pulsated in my chest and I relished the lusty pandemonium she created in a former place of tranquility.

Days later, when her temper subsided, I could survey the damage and look for treasure left behind in her haste.

     The waterfall was a place where daydreams were formed, then floated aimlessly downstream with the current. The imagination of youth, free from the confines of real responsibility, rising and drifting with the slightest breeze, the hum of a thousand insects or the song of a wood thrush. Often, I could hear music in the cascading water splashing against rock and moss, a virtual symphony of woodwinds, string, brass and drum.

     I listen for those ancient musicians now when I’m near a stream or river. Sometimes I get distracted and can’t tune into her dulcet, but often if I’m alone, I can close my eyes and tune out everything but the music. A breeze blowing through the trees will add harmony, and birds often contribute a chorus. Although the aria produced from rushing water over stone is more than sufficient.

     Today, my wife and I walked beside Chestnut creek and paused to listen for her song. The stream is partially frozen and the gurgling sound it made going over and under the shelves of ice crafted a composition that can be played only during the winter season. She suggested we cup our hands to our ears and when we did the melody of cold water slapping over rock and ice was amplified and sounded like a cathedral filled with the clacking applause of hundreds.

     The spring floods roar out an intense rhythmic beat, the dog days of summer bring down a languid easy love song, and when the shadows grow long after the fall equinox, she sings a soulful song of loss and hope. Her lyrics may often be influenced by my mood, but the music is always her own. Every stream, river or spring flowing to its own tempo, crafted only by the lay of the land and the spirit musicians that inhabit her space.

     Everywhere I have lived there has been a stream or a river that figured prominently in the time I spent there. Names that stimulated my imagination: The Credit River, the Saint Lawrence, the Oswego, the Saugeen, the Catawba, the Elk River and now the New River. Many hours have been spent exploring their banks, kayaking their routes, camping by and fishing their waters. I’ve had close relationships with all of them, but none so intimate as the one with Sawmill Creek. Perhaps it was my age that so ingrained her lessons into my spirit; perhaps it was her spirit that made that age so memorable. Walking beside her – with her – was the greatest education I could have received.

     The first buck I had ever encountered was resting by her banks – invisible in the tall brown grass of Fall. We surprised each other and he catapulted from his bed with a terrific grunt. Long explosive leaps carried him across the meadow, white tail flashing each time his front hooves touched the earth. The experience left me breathless, awe struck. Images of his velvet rack of antlers, bulging eyes and that great thick neck still give me chills when I think of our chance meeting.

     The nests of water fowl, song birds, fierce hawks and stoic owls were many along her pathway and I checked on them all regularly. A fox den, a hollow tree with a family of raccoons, muskrat dens made from cattail, water snakes, the dark skeletal remains of long dead elm trees, their brittle branches like long withered arms reaching for salvation in puffy white clouds against a bright blue sky. And always her song as it rolled over rocks and fallen trees, providing the sound track for this impossible spectacle of perfection and paradise.

      The summer I turned fifteen was spent pulling up surveyors’ stakes and sitting in a tree so a construction crew couldn’t cut it down. My father was transferred in the fall and we moved south to New York state before the devastation began in earnest. I went back years later to do a presentation in a school that had been built on what was once the meadow the buck ran through. Expensive homes lined streets with names like Singing Brook Lane and Rolling Meadows Drive. At lunch I went down to the stream to see if she remembered me and to hear her song. The area had been turned into a greenway with an asphalt trail that followed her meandering path. Some of her banks were lined with white rocks in a wire mesh to control erosion, a sickly brown foam collected in little eddies created by a lethargic current.

     I walked up stream in search of the waterfall. My desire was to sit on the slate ledge and share my sandwich with the fish. A bridge had been built over her for the pleasure of cyclists and pedestrians, a mansion was now looming large in the place of our home and the great hemlocks, ferns and wild flowers that once lined her banks were mostly gone, replaced with the type of landscaping preferred by the more socially refined. The slate outcropping had long ago broken away and lay in repose under five feet of water at the base of the falls. I lifted rocks in search of the hidden lives that once so enchanted this small pool, but they were gone, the rocks now covered in a slimy algae- like growth.

     I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of grief and loss and had to just sit by the falls and try to come to terms with an anger that seemed to have thoroughly permeated my soul. But soon I began to see how this little stream had helped to shape who I had become and influenced my perception of the world and an understanding of my place in it. Slowly my anger was replaced with great waves of gratitude and love and it was only then I could hear her music.

It was strong and beautiful, a summer love song, pure and resilient, her spirit had never left and she inspired me to add to her song

     “Oh, lover of loves, with all my heart I will cradle you in the arms of my mind where once again my memories give you glorious life. I’ll remember you and all you gave me.”

     “Our walks together, when I poured out my innermost self without ever saying a word and you were there, comforting my soul with each step. What I owe can never be paid”

     “Our spirits have been forever entwined, bound together by the maker of all things who gave us to each other, but only for our allotted time.”

     We’ve both changed, she and I. She’s been around for thousands of years and has seen many changes. And how many lives has she helped to mold? How many boys and girls, men and women down through the generations have been influenced by her music? I’ll never know.

But how many more are still enjoying her beauty, her playful dance over rocks and under trees?

They enjoy her for who she is today, they didn’t know her in days of old and have no sense of what’s been lost. When people stop on the bridge, they appreciate who she is now, and what she has to offer is no less for those who know how to listen.