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1st Place, Adult Writing Division: One More River to Cross by Robin Sias
It wasn’t until the sun bounced off the Big Wood River directly into the scratched plane window that I considered, even for a moment, that things might, just might be okay.
We had been traveling for seven hours, my three young children and me. The trip began in Connecticut well before dawn, a trip we had made many times before. But today was different. Today our tickets were one-way; the start of a journey that everyone called a fresh start, whatever that was, from a divorce that had torn us asunder.
Suddenly, there it was. Curving through the Bellevue farmland, swollen in late June run-off, glinting in the midday sun. I could feel the pull of the current against my legs. I smelled the slightly mineral river smell. I breathed my first breath of the trip. We were home.
I first set a felt-soled boot in that river in 1983. Most people come to Sun Valley to ski. My family came here to fish. At 13, I’d never been on a ski lift, but I had been plodding around rivers, rod in hand, for years. My father used to only half-kiddingly advise me, “You’ll need to know how to fish so you can go with your husband.” I do, and I did, and I actually taught him to fly-fish. But so much for that.
The last stop on a sweep of western trout rivers, Sun Valley’s legendary waters drew us in and kept us coming back. I, a recalcitrant teen, initially spent as much time sitting on the banks of the river, a bikini top under my waders, a book in my hand, stubbornly not fishing. But that made me love the river even more. Catching is satisfying. But wading, casting and even just sitting, staring and listening, eclipse a fish on the end of a line.
The older I got, and the more time I spent in the Valley, the louder became the call of the rivers. Trail Creek and Copper Basin. The Big Lost. Different waters, equally mesmerizing. The first time I stood waist-deep in the strong pull of the Big Lost and looked up at that mountain range, I knew that someday, I had to live here. North of town, south of town, above the reservoir and magical, mystical Silver Creek. Rivers that disappear into mythical underground caves, rivers of no return.
My Ketchum kids will be river kids. They understand the stillness of the river, even though it is constantly flowing. They appreciate its meandering purpose and its sense of play as it eddies and circles back upon itself, never in a hurry. They somehow intrinsically already know the peace that first glimpse of river provides.
When I glimpsed the rhythmic waters of the river as we approached the airport, I trusted it. The rivers would cauterize the wounds. They would wash away sins and baptize new beginnings. The running water would ground us and listen to us and give us its gifts.
1st Place, Student Writing Division: A Storm of my Wildest Wishes by Lisa Laurel Hart
Pulsing with power, a mighty storm has consumed the valley. Riding the micro-burst, a series of ghostly wolves howl more breaths of wind. The old gray house shakes, and I sit enjoying every moment, with an orange fire crackling and popping, and my fuzzy warm blanket wrapped around me. Curled contentedly on the couch, I watch steam rise from my cocoa cup, hoping that the power goes out. “Beep...beep...beep,” interrupts the television set. Every head in the large living room turns to read the severe storm warning, for specifically Hailey, Ketchum, and Bellevue. Then, suddenly, all local residents are plunged into the dark. Too dark to find a candle, my dad, mom and me, let the darkness consume us, with its eerie, haunting creeping, chilling feeling. Now that we are left in the dark, I can easily watch for jagged cutouts of lightning. One splits the sky, curving the mountain, and forking into a million tiny tree roots. Then I begin to count to see how far away the origin of the electricity is. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...and then a hungry rumble shakes the ground, two miles away. Another strike shatters the sky and five seconds crawl by, before a slow, low, growl rattles the windows. It barely finishes before another set of lightning flares flatly across the sky, followed by a quick heart beat of thunder. Then another flash traces the backs of the clouds, followed by a long drum roll of energy. Now buckets of water pour endlessly out of the clouds, halting the lightening show. Then suddenly, the storm ceases, we wait, then it comes back stronger than ever. The water comes straight down with large chunks of hail mixed in, each bit punching the ground. Now we guess it must be close to bed time, so we walk slowly up the stairs to our rooms. When we reach our beds and climb in the covers wrap themselves into a colorful cocoon around us. The rhythm of the rain and hail, rocking us to sleep, I for sure love a fierce storm. In the morning, the lights flicker back to life, and a large rainbow arcs widely across the sky. Stepping outside onto the still damp porch, there is a sound of silence as the sun wakes, and paints pastels of colors across the Wood River Valley. She pulls out a bag of silver glitter, and harmlessly sheds dew on all the items outside. She wipes the evidence that a storm was here with a quick wink of her golden eye. Examining her work, and fixing any flaws, she flares more yellow to show that she is satisfied. Once the valley is to her liking, she resumes her task of warming the forever-changing land.
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