I thought it was the river, but it's my car.
I wrote about the river dying last night, and then I got in my car, started fine, headed around Tillamook Bay and it just stops! Right as I'm at 55 mph! Hard steering, barely any brakes! I made a split decision to turn in ahead of an oncoming car so that I could get into the Ghost Hole viewing area. I made it, thank God, but almost hit the railing, cuz my brakes were so bad... Whewie!
I wrote this on my front page today...
It was my car that I sensed dying, not my river!
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August 19th
I'm thinking that she lies there, still and barely moving, thinking that she's dying. She has a slow, low, flow. Bare white rocks are exposed and collecting sunshine for the first time in years. She's listening, and I think she hears it coming... death is certain this time, with this record low water.
"There are salmon on their way up here, and I have no water to carry them." She sounds desperate and hoarse. Never has she been so close to death.
It is late summer, and all around her things are turning to a dull brown. It is the time of year when death whispers through the dry breeze.
Tall trees surrounding her, drop the first sediment of dying leaves. They join the dusty sediment blown from the beaches and swirl lazily in the slow deeper pockets. They barely move.
The river shows every sign of dying. Along with the other forms of flora and fauna, that once, not long ago, promised life eternal with new overgrowth.
The Spring, which brought bright green moss to the few rocks exposed in the deep current, danced the dance of all creation.
I spent the evening trying to convince her.
I lay my fly rod in the rocks. I had tried to use a fly in the shallow riffles to summon a trout. To show her that indeed, she still carried life. But embarrassingly, I failed. The river was still and quiet. My fly, useless.
I bent to my knees, at the rivers edge and spoke.
I told her of rains that would come to fill her banks. I told her of the large salmon that would come to visit her very soon.
"First, my dear river, we will have short bursts of rain, and your cutthroat will come to see you."
I reached out to touch the slimy mosses that lay still between the dried rocks.
"This moss will be washed away soon and you will feel fresh and clean again."
I shivered at a burst of wind and the coolness of the air.
The nights are getting cool, do you feel it? Do you remember? It happens every year!"
She listened. I know she did. As I spoke I began to see small fish surface in the pool above me.
"After the cutthroat, we will get heavier rains, and strong winds, storms... remember? The salmon will come home to you! Soon they will fill those deep pools! I pointed. ... "and then run through your riffles and spawn around the bend, just like they did last year."
No answer.
I forced my sore legs to a stand and began to walk away. As I turned, my eyes caught a glimpse of a cutthroat that had enjoyed my persuasive speech. He came clear out of the water, and landed, creating a ripple that stretched all the way across the still water.
The Kilchis could convince you, from observation, that it is dying... It's eerily quiet and breathes a breath of near death.
In the Fall, the rivers seasons are reversed.
It is then that my river comes alive.
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The goal in Life's Journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "whooo hoooo (!) what a ride!"
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