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8 April 2001

South St. Vrain Creek

If I could just capture this sound! Swiftly moving water over stationary rocks. Pockets and pools and splashes and bubbles and ripples and swishes. Water tumbling and rushing and hurtling headlong downstream. I think I could live with this sound in my yard. I think I could sleep with his sound in my dreams. Puddling, pouring, meandering stream. Warm sun, cool breeze with just a hint of the rich earthy smell of damp dead leaves. The trees are leafless, lifeless, sleeping. But the grass has already come green. New life on the old earth, same cycle of one season upon another. The death and rest of winter followed by the life and warmth of spring. Welcome back old friend! We welcome the promise of more light and life. Welcome back, welcome back!

19 July 2008

South St. Vrain Creek

Years ago I drew a sketch of these stone steps beside the creek. I’ll have to look up my journal entry from that day…I think it was spring, long ago, but spring.

The surprise for this day is the wild plum bushes. Cottonwood was expected and chokecherry as well but I didn’t expect the wild plum. The bushes are spreading well, they must like this spot. The chokecherries are hard and green and like the plums they won’t be ripe until August.

The Fisherman starts atop a big rock in the thick of the rushing stream and I worry about the balancing point. I hike downstream a hundred yards to find a fishy spot where the water slows and he’s quickly in to his knees. No “fancy casting” like the little boys but straight and sure, home tied flies flapping their feathered wings to tempt a hungry fish or two. The Writer takes up a pose on the topmost step. The rocks are warm and the pictures I take are either up or down from this rocky spot. Up into the clouds and the trees and down into the water. There’s even a shot of the shadow of my own hat scribed on the rocky steps. The Fisherman passes by, clumsy on land in waders and boots. “Two bites, same fish” he says and “I caught a couple nice bushes though.” He stops for a drink of tea and is back on the trail to wet a line upstream.

This spot is barely off the road so the water music is interrupted by car noise but traffic is lighter than I expected. We’ve had a couple of visitors who turned off thinking this shady glen would be empty. There is plenty of room for parking but they were gracious enough or picky enough to back out and leave us alone.

The Fisherman has flawless timing but right in the middle of the sentence the Writer feels his eyes then hears his step. “Let’s move upstream” he says and before she climbs down from her perch a carload of kids pulls into the spot. They are all laughter and energy and ready for a cool dip on this warm day.

We’ll be back in this spot in jelly season. The Fisherman might be convinced to fill a pail or two because wild plum and chokecherry are his favorites. He still teases the daughter about the year he convinced her to make rosehip jam with all the work for such a small reward. But for now the quiet peace is punctuated with wild laughs and the fish have gone deep and it really is time to go.