The sight of blue water through the bush has always made my heart beat faster. I used to follow the creeks looking for fish holes. The colour of the river gave them away. The river is low now but not slow. I love this country, but it doesn’t love me. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way I prefer it. You can slip up a thousand times without incident. You only need to slip up once beside the creek or walking the canyon. It’s unforgiving but beautiful.
The tamaracks have nearly shed their needles. Somehow the clouds lifted long enough to show the sky. The dogs did their best. Ara stood guard at the truck. I carried Slinky to the water’s edge and she drank from the river and roamed over the rocks. They’ve certainly kept their end of the bargain in our friendship without asking much in return.
Some of the river rocks were smooth while others were sharp and etched with the stories of unrest and upheaval.
I cut up some firewood before heading home. It will be next year’s supply as we have plenty for this winter. The blocks were heavy and I worked up a sweat. The dogs were constantly underfoot. By 4 the light was dipping. On the way out I turned up Rock Creek to grab a few sprigs of cedar and look at God’s fingerprint. My mother Isabelle, named it such and you can only see it once the leaves are off the trees.
Nothing works like the sound of water over stone.