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3rd Place, Adult Writing Division: An Aqueous Canticle by Lee Brown
On the day I was born, FDR was president, Pearl Harbor peaceful, and tourists were arriving at Sun Valley’s recently opened Challenger Inn. Yes, since that day I have been awed, inspired, and nurtured by two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen. Even more importantly, it has been my good fortune to be the pupil of a patient tutor---the oceans & rivers of the world and the streams & springs of the Wood River Valley. As life is formed in the amniotic environment of mom’s reservoir, we remained touched by water in ways never fully understood such as the deep pleasure of a hot shower. Casting the net wider, however, suggests larger lessons about life are offered by the aqueous world if we are but receptive to this gift.
Water as Solid - December 1967
All elements of a vintage “Warren Miller Day” are present: spectacular cobalt windless sky, squeaking fresh snow, and minus five. My wife takes the single chair in front of me and begins the ascent up River Run. Half-way across the Big Wood River, the lift stops so abruptly our chairs oscillate in syncopated fashion making us appear as bungee jumpers coming perilously close to the swift current. Nervously, we make idle chatter in the futile effort to combat growing numbness until, mercifully, the cable tugs again. Once on top, Kneissel Red Stars are pointed down toward the outdoor hand-warmer at Round House. Remaining in long-thongs, frozen hands are thrust into the hot air where the mixed blessing of returning circulation and pain so blurs my senses it takes a moment to realize the man across from me is likely the next American president. As if on cue, Robert Kennedy turns and sprints up the Round House stairs not knowing in a short time his fate will be the same as his older brother.
Water as Liquid - October 1996
My hydrologic work is focused entirely on Silver Creek. Paul Todd, close pal and Conservancy Manager, and I launch the canoe at Stalker Bridge to begin the annual fall survey of salmonid “reds.” We alternate who stands and counts with who paddles and steers. Just above the Wilson Creek confluence, the reverie of a glorious autumnal day is broken abruptly by a low branch which so clobbers me I take Paul and all equipment into the ice cold stream.
Water as Vapor - August 2007
As a younger man, scrambling in and out of streams festooned with heavy instruments wasn’t a concern. Today, even though I won’t admit it, not only is agility an issue but I’m also losing the ability to multi-task. Nightfall is coming, and all I want to do is complete the last flow measurement. Sting and I park the aging Toyota FJ40 near an entry point to the Cove Canal that is easy but upstream of the survey site. Stinger is alert and looking intently toward Gannett Road; since his “Setterness” is always pointing I dismiss it with a shrug and enter the water. The ditch becomes more incised so by the time the site is reached; fast moving water is waist high. Hammering in the tape’s anchor, something causes me to look up the near-vertical bank where Sting’s gaze is unflinchingly westward. In a gut-wrenching flash, it’s clear what he has known all along, a storm cell is almost upon us and I have not sensed the approaching lightening. A quick and desperate assessment reveals that even if instruments are abandoned the bank is too clay-slimed steep for escape. Stinger looks down at me the white around his otherwise brown eyes signaling fear; odd, I think, because while he loves gunfire he hates thunder. Peril is both obvious and close; surrounded by my life’s work, all we can do is await the outcome.
Lessons Learned
Rivers parallel life. Always in a cycle, freshet creeks are born pure in high mountains where, like children, they are vivacious, non-productive, and self-centered little “takers.” On the other end, the terminal delta is where the aged become slow and polluted, shallow and braided, yet generous “givers” moving inexorably toward a larger destiny. In between these extremes is where things become interesting as streams morph into deep and powerful rivers whose countenance becomes productive, perhaps even dangerous. It is during this reach where the un-expected is commonplace and things can change in an instant.
3rd Place, Student Writing Division: The River Is My Soul by Jim Williams
The sun blazes brightly in the sky. Clouds drift lazily through the warm summer air. The gravel flies from under my feet as I walk down the road. Loud children play on the play ground across the street at the park. Tall trees lean gently with the breeze. They cast long, tempting shadows of cool. Behind me I hear the sounds of life. Cars driving and people shouting. Leaves rustling and children and adults laughing. All the noises of society and its problems swirling around me like a vortex of mass confusion. I reach the dirt road that leads to a gate...a gate to freedom.
I pass through the gate, leaving the vortex behind. I feel nothing but relief...
I’m alone now. Nothing but the calming sounds of nature surrounds me. Birds chirping and fluttering from branch to branch. The leaves dancing in the breeze. The crunch of dirt and leaves under my feet. But the sound I crave most, the most beautiful sound of them all. It would take an angelic choir to rival it...
The sound of the River
I close my eyes. Breathe deeply. And smile. Inner peace begins to fill me. I continue my lazy saunter down the earthy path. Listening and thinking. Trying to empty my mind. As I walk I start to lead myself towards the water. I close my eyes and inch closer to the cool running water. I open them again and look down and smile. The water is skimming past my shoes. I feel the slight mist on my face and it refreshes more than my body...the mist cleanses my soul...
I begin to run...the River racing me to my favorite spot in the universe...
The trees and shrubs begin to blur. The wind blows past my face and whizzes past my ears. I turn left and jump the log. The River still not slowing its pace. When I finally see the clearing in the distance I my heart races faster.
Finally I am there...my own paradise...the meaning of my summer...my own little world...
I come to a screeching halt and look around with smiles. I go to the water and look inside. I see my reflection. In that I see me. Not my physical things but all my rights and wrongs...I toss a stone on my reflection...and I am new.
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