6.19.13 RiverLove

 Bundling impatient dogs into the car, we head the few miles down to the river,

 passing by a local farmer’s field, where everything glistens from last night’s sprinkling. 

With all the  recent rain, the path today is deliciously muddy and sloppy, 

the old dog not finding this useful, the young one completely delighted.

In the meantime, the waters are full of debris washed away from the rains, logs 

and branches, some trees across the way actually downed. 

If you look closely, there is another group of fishlings making their way downstream, their small mouths gobbling evening insects that conveniently cluster just above the water, small circlets, thousands, as the swift current carries them away. How many creatures here depend upon mosquitoes and other less than desirable insects for their very survival.

This is what snuffling officially looks like, being a major occupation of when you are canine and almost 16. Snuffling involves training your person to accept that they are no longer at any  helm as far as you are concerned, and to patiently follow their every single desire. Walk here. Stop here. So they get the first go at a walk, devoid of annoying 3 month old pups, a moment of peace and quiet and self-determination, as people pass by, ask her age, (almost 16) ask if she can see ( mostly no) hear (not that well) smell- a champion.

 Tonight, asleep on her (our) her bed, she smelled most probably a bear going by, as it was a 3 alarm dog alert- up and barking and the whole ruff up, head to tail, as the pup watched and listened and learned, sniffing the air expectantly. So yeah, smell. Hence, the pleasure of…river snuffling. Up northerly is my office, where i can wander outside after work, and slip down the old hidden wood staircase to the river’s sharp curve, and stand watching the branches trailing in the current, the calls of those who spend their lives on the riverbanks.

The wind comes up, the enormous space-ship cloud formation shifts,

 and almost covers us in cloud-glory. 

The brush growing rapidly from all the precipitation, getting its root systems prepared, going as fast as they can, in genetic recognition of the predictable dry spell July and August will bring, where they simply sustain themselves until fall’s heavy nighttime’s dew provides a reprieve.

 There are small secret places within the brush, where, if you peer within, there are the river’s waters rushing by far below. You catch a glimpse of birds living quietly , the swaths cut by larger wildlife, who wait until you are far away at home and fast asleep , to safely make their way down to the water’s edge for a cool drink, a dip, and river sustenance.

Walking along the path, half the people greet you, 90% obsess about the pup. 

At a certain point, I hear the noisy plop of a surprised beaver, 

submersing themselves til I pass away and they have their safe privacy once again.

 Leaves and grasses are still covered with droplets, from last night's rain.

Finally the old dog is done, and somehow always knows the direction to the car, nestling in her front seat (the place of power, just like when we were all little, with siblings or cousins and all, so it is with canines. Funny. ) 

And out bounces the pup, ready for his turn to run and race and pounce and 

hurl himself into the brush, smoosh his pup nose into mud, dig, roll ,

 and ensure his adequate muddled coverage for the ride back. 

One more beautiful peaceful evening at the river.

6.18.13 Riverlove

I have begun adding posts of  frequent visits to the beloved Connecticut River at The Alexandra Dawson Conservation Area, at times only with the intent of sharing photographs of how the river looks today...how, in fact, this small slice of earth looks....today....in this one tiny place.....spinning in the universe.....in the midst of endlessness. Lest we forget the wonder of it all, versus needing to buy gas, go to work, take out the garbage, and use machines. There. RiverLove.

Done with seeing clients, it’s mid afternoon as I drive a few miles home from my office, whistle to alert the dogs as I get out of the car, change into mud/river/dog- proof clothes as they bustle about,  all of us waiting expectantly to go have an adventure on  the river.

Bundled into the car, we are off, palatable excitement…shifting paws, dog noises, til we arrive at the Alexandra Dawson Conservation Area, a strip of land following along  the Connecticut River for a few miles, a piece of heaven. This small area is an unintentional secret, just a block or so from Route 9 in Hadley, yet a whole wild world unto itself.

Rain it did  once again last night, and the ground continues through the day to be damp, the skies darkened. The old dog is no longer fond of the muddy areas of the path,  but instead, loves the slow aged meander, and the long, contemplative snufflings.   Satiated by her smaller stroll at almost 16, I return her to the car from her precious moment of pup-less-ness, and then release the impatient 14 week old German Shepherd for his ranging romp. Full of inestimable delight, he leaps into the grasses, discovers anew the blossoming of some neighbor’s peonies, pauses, neck craned as he eyes the wonder of  birds flying overhead, and relishes the mysterious experience of broad gusts of wind that pass us by. All the while, the powerful Connecticut  pulls round its ‘Honey Pot’ curve, sending sprials eddying as the urgent waters press by the firm riverbanks on their way.

Today all creatures that thrive on insects are happily filling themselves, the bright blue, cinnamon and white summer swallows streaming in wide, elegant arcs overhead, and then with remarkable agility, swooping across the waters, feeding themselves and their young. Many days, there is a grouping of thousands of young fishlets of one kind or another, traveling down en masse, their bodies not visible, but the circular ripples made by their evening gusto of dinner sprinkled all across the waters. It took me years to begin to notice these populace of the river, and I never know what type of fish either was released, old enough, or began traveling down with their own timing, at just the right moment in development for them to leave some small protected enclave and be large enough to survive the passage. So often, if you stand and look for the rippling, you suddenly realize the magnitude of the population of young fish being carried in the current, down down toward their destination. When I mention this to known and unknown fellow river visitors, they shake their heads in amazement, once the SEE the signs of the masses of young creatures, living quietly alongside  our own selves.

It is a quiet evening on the river, no Herons or Hawks today, even the Blazing Yellow Finch absent. When one visits one place, day after day, an intimate bond begins to form, together with the gradual knowledge of the cycles of the place; the movement and timing for each wildlife creature and plant, each that come and go, have offspring, bring forth leaf and bud and flower, all in a choreography of sustainable wisdom.  The herbalist, sea vegetable farmer,  contemplate, and writer Larch Hanson speaks of this as a ‘Sense of Place’, a part of life so essential and yet quickly losing ground in today’s fast funny life full of things to want and all distractions that have that capacity to keep us…from our own selves.

As an herbalist, I watch the lives of so many plants that, for themselves, hold various healing properties, and for humans and other creatures, have support they provide also, as each one comes into fruition and then, their time  spent, passes by.

As an herbalist, I watch the lives of so many plants that, for themselves, hold various healing properties, and for humans and other creatures, have support they provide also, as each one comes into fruition and then, their time  spent, passes by.

We reach the end of the path, and the pup stares at the sign blocking further access, a bit curious, a bit on guard with the strange object. I laugh, tell him it’s fine, as we turn about,  retrace our steps. A blustering June wind picks up, shuffling the grass heads heavy with rain, blowing through the trees lining  the ancient river bank, as The Connecticut  makes its age-old way.