This happens every year

The river continues to rise. A café au lait rush of roaring melting snow ripping down the canyon. The mighty Rio Grande contained by the steep bluff of rocks cut from years of this spring ritual. The island we hop onto in summer is submerged. The plank used to cross the gentle expanse in fall has been washed downstream. I look for its unnatural straight edges and rectangular shape of wood floating somewhere out there in the huge expanse of the Reservoir, two miles downriver. What was large enough to carry my weight across the river will appear as no more than a needle in the haystack out there in the vast still waters of the lake, waters waiting their turn to rush and rip again when they reach the other side and resume the river’s course.

And until we build a bridge or the waters subside, suddenly I find myself trapped here on this side, surrounded by tourists and traffic and in-laws on one side, and the raging river on the other. It’s not that these things are all unpleasant, some are surprisingly wonderful, but I feel myself as a caged beast unable to roam free. The wilds of winter and my room to roam are suddenly taken away. I learn to adjust. It’s not all bad. But I am no longer alone, no longer in touch with the mountain, and a part of me is lost.

This happens every year.

Roaring, rushing, raging. The sound penetrates the windows of the Little Cabin, old windows, old glass, seemingly seeping with time, distorting the view with lines of weeping age from single pane glass probably eighty years old.

The waters will calm. The snow in the high country above tree line is lesser each day, now no more than patches, stripes, pieces of the whole remaining, holding tight, losing ground. Work in the high country calls us, my escape to wilder worlds as my home becomes too tame in summer.

My home. Funny I should still call it such. And so it will be until I find another place to pour my heart into the land, and mix my blood with the rush of another raging river.

2 thoughts on “This happens every year

  1. Gin,

    I have enjoyed your last posts, especially about the change in climate seasons, and people seasons. Hope you all had a great Father’s Day, and that Bob took a little time off to enjoy it.

    So when are you headed up to the ditch? Hope Norman enjoys it.

    We are leaving for the Black Hills in the A.M. tomorrow with three granddaughters in tow, so it should be fun and a challenge. We are planning to be back sometime next week.

    Have a great week and hope the cityslickers mind their manners.


    • Thanks, Al. Hope you are enjoying a great father’s – and grandfather’s – day! Forrest made Bob waffles for breakfast, and a rain check for a motorcycle picnic ride (when Bob gets his tire repaired). Off to the ditch tomorrow, without Norman this time, just a quick trip to buck some trees and check on the flow. Quick? All day, but only one day, and I can’t wait. Unless we do choose to wait… just one day as we’re expected to have snow! You enjoy a wonderful trip in the Black Hills – what a great adventure for you and the girls!
      And yes indeed, the city slickers have all been good folks. You know it’s just this former city slicker with the anti-social tendencies that has the problem. :)

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