The River's Path

Bald Eagle by Lauren Bond Kovsky

There's a whole world that we have NO idea about. This world is home to eagles and herons and mink that even I, as a lifelong naturalist and nature girl, have never had any idea about. When I started exploring the rivers east of town, I discovered a magical, wondrous place that is literally teeming with wildlife... it's surrounded by development, oil wells, cars, and cows. Does anyone know about this place? Does anyone know where the river goes when it leaves town? Does anyone know how much water is withdrawn from the river for irrigation? How would the river flow without barker and gross reservoirs? How would the river flow if we didn't use more water than we need? If we KNEW this place?? How could our life change if we knew this place?

Pelicans by Bob Braudes

Watersheds. The natural delineation of the country. We all live downstream....What lives downstream? Eagles, owls, muskrats, mink. Who gets killed due to the abundant litter gathered in piles in the eddies and against the bridges buttresses? The pelicans. How would we know? Only if we know this river. Only if we know that pelican would we know that it had broken its wing trying to escape from a flotilla of debris.... And that it no longer soars in the skies above the St. Vrain river.

Where did that trash come from? What's the water quality here? What does fracking on the shores of the river do to the water quality? How much oil and sewage and god knows what comes through the drains and the sewage treatment plant's outlet?

Great Blue Heron by Paul K

There are so many questions I have about this place and our effect on it. So many. What I do know, though, is that the lower st vrain river is a magical place. There's a family of bald eagles that are thriving. There's an absolutely huge rookery of herons. There's at least 2 families of owls on the shore, and many many red tailed hawks. There's deer and mink and raccoons and fish and snapping turtles and a coyote and more.... What I see here is hope. What I see here is hope. What I see here is a relationship waiting to happen. What I see here is a way to heal our relationship to the natural world. What I see here is..... something no one knows about. And they need to know. Everyone needs to know.

St. Vrain riffles by Wendy Gronbeck

This is part of why it's essential that my work begins at home, not at a retreat center upstream. The retreat needs to be downstream... That water connects us to home. It connects us to the rainwater from our roofs, it connects us to the snow covered peaks that we ski on and see every day. It connects us to Nebraska and Missouri and Iowa and Kansas and Illinois and Arkansas and Tennessee and Mississippi and Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and... beyond. To the rest of the world. To every other culture and to the rain and to the trees and the Amazon and to EVERYTHING.

Lauren on the river by Lawrence Braun

Water connects us to everything. This is why I am attracted to rivers. This is why the river's path connects us to everything.

It blows my mind that these rivers connect us to everything. Really.... to EVERYTHING. The molecules of water that I am floating on are the same molecules that my mother drinks in her glass in Maryland and that fall over my waterfall in Pennsylvania and waters the cedars on the Olympic Peninsula and fills the Pantanal in Brazil during the wet season and was the very same molecule that my ancestors drank, and that sustained the dinosaurs. It blows my mind!!!!!

Killdeer by Wendy Gronbeck

The river's path connects us to history and to the future. It connects us to the eagles and the dinosaurs and our ancestors and to future generations. I feel this as I float down the St. Vrain river, and it blows my mind.

This is what being on the river means to me.

Platte River watershed display at the Lake McConaughy Visitor's Center.  Photo by Lauren Bond Kovsky

(Thanks to all of my Boulder Naturalist Outings members for the incredible photos and the joy of sharing these magical places with you!!!)

Laughter beneath sandstone cliffs

How does it get any better than this?

I went to a networking meeting on Wednesday night and a woman named Rikka Zimmerman spoke about getting out of our own way. I was intrigued. Her work is all about living in the question, and one of her favorite questions stuck with me. I have played with it and felt it, explored it and noticed my gratitude for ordinary moments. How does it get any better than this?

Indeed.

Dave and I took my canoe through a part of Boulder Creek that is rarely boated. I'm not sure if it's even legal. I saw this area so close to my house first on a bike path and then by canoe last October. But what I wanted more than anything is for my husband to share my excitement. There is so much to explore right here. I've spent so much of my life exploring on my own, a side effect of being an only child. I like exploring solo, but it's so much more important for me to share this. I will still explore alone, but I want my Boulder Creek adventure to happen with Dave.

We slipped the canoe silently into the water, and I remembered what it feels like to disappear into a different world. There's nothing like it. I had forgotten exactly what draws me to the river.... It's not even the journey, it's the initiation of it. It's heading away from civilization and being surrounded by birds and cottonwoods, not a human soul in sight.

This is what I love about this river. So many people in Boulder are outdoorsy, hiking the same trails and floating the creek in the same places. How many people know where Boulder Creek goes after it leaves the city limits?

In this place, we see no one. In this place, we are in a different world, away from the crowds, flanked on the side by pockmarked sandstone cliffs and by field on the other. We feel like we're in a different world.

We float on, avoiding fallen trees and sharp corners, laughing as the tree branches cause me to fall backward, into the canoe, feet in the air and gasping for breath because I can't stop laughing. Seriously, did it happen again???? At least I didn't tip the canoe. Now, when Dave and I switched places, the story ended a little bit differently. He leaned back, lost his balance, and I gasped as the boat tipped. In slow motion, the boat tipped, we laughed hysterically, I jumped out and pulled the side of the boat up to keep the water from filling the boat. He said he did it on purpose. He said he was just imitating me. Sure, Dave, sure you were. Mmmhmm.

We fall into silence as the creek runs beside the sandstone cliffs, so close we could reach out and touch them. We are in a different world. Suddenly, we hear a flap of wings and two birds screeching. A golden eagle flies away, with two swallows scolding him, shouting and diving. How can those small birds cause such a reaction? Those little birds are fearless! And the eagle flies over the cottonwoods and disappears from sight.

We see great blue herons taking off from the shore of the river. Red winged blackbirds flock in the cottonwoods, calling to each other and maybe to us? There is something tan on the river side, silent and unmoving. It is the same color as the cliffs. As we float on, we realize this stone being on the river isn't a stone at all! It's a cow! She sits in the river and not even her ears twitch. She hasn't a care as we pass her.

Later on, we saw something floating in the water. It looked dead. We didn't realize it was a snapping turtle until we passed it! The turtle was tilted, half submerged, its skin looking pale and sickly as it slowly moved its legs under the water. He was HUGE! Then he noticed us as we turned back to look closer. He took off and swam under the boat! I guess he wasn't dying, after all! We watched until he disappeared into the mud at the bottom of the river.

Dave's sold on the adventure! He said he would even consider selling our kayaks and instead explore all of these rivers in eastern Colorado. I have my partner in adventure. My wish came true....

How does it get any better than this?

Onward!

Following the river

Imagine, for a moment. Imagine wandering past the lakes at the St. Vrain state park, passing the edge of the park and wandering along to the river. The St. Vrain river, which flows much more gently this far downstream than it does in the Lyons play park. It's hot. I feel faint, almost, sweating so heavily that my clothes are sticking to me and the now hot water in my backpack does absolutely nothing to refresh me. Yet, still I walk.

After leaving the park and crossing a ditch, I end up on a bike path to nowhere. It's deserted. The path goes under 3 bridges- cars and trucks zooming along above me. Cars and trucks, drowning out every sound... except.... Bank swallows. They swoop and dive and call and there are so many of them it seems as though it's a cloud above me. A cloud that sings and calls and dives. A cloud of eyes, watching. The cars zoom overhead and no one knows I... am... here. I am here.

Except the birds. They know.

I wander along the river, imagining my canoe slipping into the water, disappearing downstream, slipping past farmland and cottonwoods and landowners that very likely would not be happy with me if they knew I was imagining camping on the edge of their land as I float downstream into the unknown.

Cheatgrass gets stuck in my shoes, poking and prodding me, but I do not retreat back to the paved bike path. I am drawn to the river, cheatgrass and all. It's perfect for my canoe. I sometimes imagine slipping into a river and following it all the way to the ocean. This river. I imagine my canoe slipping into Boulder Creek, only a mile from my house, and living, unnoticed, along the highways and farms and cities, hiding in the willow thickets, with the swallows to guide me.

I decide to walk back. I return to the bike path only to realize that I've barely gone anywhere- it's only a 5 minute walk back to where I started! To the left of the bike path, I see birds in a nearly empty reservoir. I see Canada geese and snowy egrets. Snowy egrets!!!! I feel like I'm at my grandma's house in Texas as a teenager, watching egrets fly with their huge white wingspan, I had never seen anything like them, back then. I can't remember the last time I've seen them.... Maybe in Texas as a teenager.

I wander back to the bridge and I look up at the trucks passing over me. No one can hear me. No one knows I'm there. Except for the swallows. They know. I start to sing. Loud. I sing the song that has haunted me for years and years. Here I am. I went down to the river to pray. Studying about those good old ways and who shall wear that thorny crown, good Lord! Show me the way!

Don't you want to come down? Down to the river to pray!

Here under the bridge I sing to the swallows, and I wade into the river, finally cooling off, and finally feeling.... that this is where I belong!!!! Singing to the swallows, standing in the river, smiling at nothing and everything all at once.

I notice the tracks in the mud next to me. There are raccoon and coyote, skunk and heron, fox and... otter? I think so! Maybe my friend the otter is listening to me sing at the top of my lungs too! There is something missing in that mud, though. There is something very significant missing. I see no human footprints except my own. I see no domestic dog prints. All I see is wildness in the mud and on this river, and I wonder if anyone has been here before me.

I'm sure someone has. I'm sure someone else loves finding the secret homes of swallows under the bridge. I am sure that someone else has had the same idea of sliding their canoe into the river here. But right now, the idea feels like it is fully my own.

This is where I belong. This. Is. Where. I. Belong.