the morning river

Heading east in the early morning, winding along the Deerfield, everything is golden. The trees are encased in ice, crystalline, drops of diamonds arch elegantly over the water. There is a stretch of the river that is true flood plain, the river diverges and there is an island of marsh grass, it too coated and sparkling. And the river holds on to heat, the freezing morning air condenses the moisture and the whole, wide river is steaming. Each rising molecule catches sun.

And what comes to mind is easy brilliance. Simple ebullience. Something better than anything that took just about nothing. Like all colors, it is the changing conditions of atmosphere and light that make the content, the substance seem unbelievably altered. The temperature rises as the sun’s angle widens, and everything is altered again … greater contrast, less sparkle, more depth. A different picture.

These ticking mechanisms, day length and earth tilt and the trees each with a clock in its heartwood are a chorus. A kaleidoscope that stays still but flashes change moment to moment. If I am moving too it is a clacking cliché, but when I stand still after a climb in winter early in the day or towards the end of twilight I am struck. Especially if I can feel my heartbeat in my feet or stomach or wrists, that other precarious mechanism, I understand that absolutely nothing is ever the same. It is different two inches to the right, or left, and I feel glee and desperation when I think of all the scenes that go unseen, un-gulped, un-awed. There are perfect frames of composition and light that are struck like a gong, boldly, which are left to fade and darken as quickly as they appeared. Like it was no-thing.

And that itself is a pretty enough sound-picture, I think. Imagine hillsides and valleys and plains all ringing out, as the light hits them just exactly so. A chiming, shining world. Especially in winter.

The Deerfield in Winter

I went down to the Deerfield the other day, one of the coldest of the season. The hemlocks were frosted, drooping over the river, fishing the mist. Amidst the relative quiet of winter it is startling, always, to walk beside a river. It never ceases, year round, to rush and roar. I rather felt like knitting my eyebrows and tsking it, asking it if it had any concern at all for the turtles and muskrats deep in its banks and beds. But its thrilling rush won’t be stopped, and its inhabitants are happy for the oxygen.

In the pinkish cold the water takes on a green, a jade, eery and evocative. Its boulders throw up sprays of froth, reminding me of the prints of Mount Fuji. The river seemed to hold fury of a sort, but alongside its banks the rocks were wearing petticoats.

They had ice tiers, three layers each, all exactly level, reflecting a gray-blue sky. Their bodies seemed languid, a herd of half-dressed sea lions sprawled in their preparation. Jewels were scattered about, pebbles frosted with spray. The Deerfield is dammed, and the levels rise systematically, allowing perfectly measured rings of ice to form along its banks. In one area full sheets of layered glass had formed, three or so inches between each layer, enough for a careful hand. I wonder if the operator knew such delicate, exacting work had occurred. It was inadvertent Andy Goldsworthy.

I knelt to get my eyes level, and with my hands squeezed in my pockets I could feel the bones of hips bend. I wanted to crawl in. As I looked up and down the bank, I notice my surroundings have greened, and seem relatively lush. A distinctly different light, here – not the stark pallet of needled ground and gray-brown bark, but something full and round. And here there is not the destruction, or not as much, from the hurricane. No trees upturned, gathering rubbish and debris. And then I realized, mountain laurel!

Somewhere between bonsai and wild grape, or like hophornbeam wrung, thinned, and twisted. It seems hearty, but also sculpted and delicate. Its flowers are a cluster of cup-crowns, and its leaves waxy and evergreen. In my mind it’s our most notable member of ericaceae, the broad-leaf evergreens. They are plentiful out west, salal and Oregon grapes and kinnickinnick carpeting the coniferous floor – there is even the great twisting tree, the madrone, who belongs to ericaceae. But here it’s the mountain laurel, and until I saw its effect along the bank I hadn’t appreciated its resilience.

The flood waters of hurricane Irene ripped through roads and toppled enormous sycamores, tore out street lamps and miles of bank. And surely there were other factors that lessened its effect along this stretch of bank, but one had to be the laurels. Their leaves still clung tenaciously, undisturbed, though they had gathered masses of sticks and leaves and sand, still pointing downstream as if in mid-flow. I crawled up under one and felt I was in some eagle’s aerie. They must have lessened the water’s velocity immensely, and their slim trunks and roots must have held fast. This is quite unlike areas populated by the invasive Japanese knotweed – those banks are ripped and eroded.

So I’m bolstered by laurels, as is a lucky stretch of the Deerfield. In winter they give warmth, cover, contrast, and in the spring they’ll be awash with pink and white. While the river roars.