January On The Bow

The Bow River with her constant movement, full of life, is my companion, my lover. While I walk along her shore, scramble up and down her banks, ford her tributaries, we dance together.

She shares her moods. Not by telling me in a quiet, pillowed whisper how she feels, but through her actions, through the secrets she shares with me.

So it was, yesterday.

There was hopelessness then. The ribald ice covered her up at Louise Bridge. I was broken-hearted when our dance ended as though victorious winter had commanded the band to stop playing, mid-waltz. Emptiness dogged my trudge homeward, head down, unrequited.

But yesterday she reared up her beautiful head and came back. She rebounded.

An explosion of life that renewed our vows.

The first twinkle of her eye came in the form of two black and white ducks, mergansers, cavorting in an open spot on the river, dodging ice, swimming head down, diving, popping up cork-like beside ice floes. There was celebration when the river, almost pridefully, drew my eye to these two harlequins of the ice.

A young man stood on the bank. He had a fly rod, a fishing vest over his winter coat. Dangling his lure in the water, he was a study of rapt concentration, eyes afire with excitement. When I approached his hands came up, perhaps two and half feet apart. Then he pointed down to a huge fish swimming in the icy water. A rainbow trout, perhaps seven pounds, still groggy from the near freezing water. This great fish, barely moving, reaffirmed the river�s vitality. It re-established our bond.

Two mallard ducks zoomed by in tight formation, exploring possibilities.

We danced again, the river and I, worlds apart, yet sharing secrets of life, back and forth, in and out, over and over.

And then her masterpiece. A beaver sat almost prayer-like on the edge ice. His chiseled head faced upstream, massive tail half covered with snow. He, like the trout, was groggy. I approached him and watched for half an hour while he basked in the lingering afternoon sun. A wild creature not thirty feet away, happy to let me be with him. He watched me, telling me not to come any closer with a slight flick of his front paws. Together we absorbed the waning warmth, stretching this gift to its limits.

When the shadows captured our rendezvous he slid into the water, turned into the current and disappeared. No splashy tail flip to signal alarm, just a quiet slip under the surface. Vanished in a brief ripple whisked away by rushing water. I waited, hoping he, like the mergansers, would pop up to prolong our visit. But he was gone, returned to the sanctity of his home place.

Despite winter�s interruption, my deep bond with the river was re-kindled by life in this seemingly lifeless place. This brief respite from January�s clenched fist renewed the river�s soul. I began, again, to sway to the rhythms of life. Warmth coursed through me as I began to understand that during this brief Chinooky interval my partner was smiling. Her joy was palpable. Contagious. I danced toward my home place rejoicing. Troubles waned. My lover had placed her hand on my shoulder and reaffirmed our bond. All was well.

Tim Rogers
Copyright � 2003