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The River
We took the road that leads out past Allen Farm, crossing the tracks and turning right at the old barn on our way to the falls. The river had cut into the bedrock with round water, slashed circles in the rock. With the water low this time of year we could walk out onto the riverbed between rapids all around. We could see the remains of the old bridge and locks higher up, remains of the steamsboat's life on the river. The care-taker didn't run out to wave us away, as he did when it was a bad day on the river but he asked us for two dollars to park on his land.
Millican Falls is at the bottom of a tall bluff. We climbed down the ravine to river level, walking out onto the rocks into the noise of the water. Some say they were thristy when they came upon it, the original Spanish name for the river was The Arms of God.
Looking back on the day
now, I notice how much I took for granted. I didn't see we all shared
some sense of the river and it's past, we had mixed feelings about going
back to the falls. Many had written to the editor of the newspaper when
he printed pictures frontpage of river accidents. We also had read about
a missing person, a researcher from the institute. His car had been found
near the river, they said. The events unfolded in short blurbs, there
were some questions about his home life, there was concern.
I took it for granted I would always have some long layers of life in
common with the people I knew.
We went down to the river as usual to celebrate, to spend time together, to sit out in the middle of the river with the terrible loud rushing all around us. Cattle peacefully grazed high up on the bluff while their wire fences dangled. The river and weather had moved the land but left the barbed wires and cedar posts high above us. The sun was very hot. We let our feet cool in the side waters as our bodies fit into the worn, curved rocks dug out by the river.
