When that bracing cold sensation hit on the first step in the water, it made me hesitate for a split second. It warmed up this afternoon but the shorter days and low autumn sun are making it harder to float after my normal workday. Foolishly stubborn or dedicated and loyal, once I commit to be engaged in anything I’m lousy about letting go. I’ve never not floated once I’m down at the river with my tube. I’ve been aware there may soon be an end to my wetsuit-less excursions, and very much want to enjoy the opportunity to take in the subtle changes of the seasons. There’s inevitably something new to see.  Sure enough, I was rewarded. 

I sat in, backstrokes for a bit to get my heart pumping, and slowly my body adapted. Although I mostly kept my feet above the water, my hands began to feel stiff about halfway through my usual trip. I noticed the uppermost water wasn’t too chilly, and wondered if that was due to less leaves on the trees allowing a bit more low angled sunshine to reach the river’s surface. But just a few inches down the water temperature dropped. The water was clear yet dark, and the banks seemed more stark—the boulders and tree trunks more prominent. Things felt still, as if nothing wanted to waste precious energy as the cooling evening approached.

I heard then saw a kingfisher chattering as it zoomed from an outstretched branch ahead of my arrival. But as I watched, it surprised me by making a U-turn and headed back past me like an arrow. As I silently cruised downriver near where it reversed flight, I could hear several birds chattering an alarm on the left bank. It was the bird version of a public 911, but it wasn’t about me. I scanned for the usual suspects: a hawk or cat. Then I saw something entirely unexpected. 

It was a small, lithe, four-footed, svelte all blackish form, with a long tail, darting in and out of a fallen stump. As quickly it slipped inside, then out again, and onto a few boulders, then around them, sniffing furiously the whole time, seemingly oblivious to me. Its movements were nimble and quick. I barely managed to grab my iPhone and snap some shots in time. It paused for just a few seconds, head up like a prairie dog, and looked me in the eye in a quizzical but self-assured way. Apparently fully aware it could disappear in a heartbeat if a clumsy, slow creature like me ventured toward it. And then it was gone. ​

My first thought was a ferret, and I posted this on a friend’s timeline — she’d revealed yesterday was “Black Cat Day” (and requested images of any all black animal pals). I was accurate in thinking weasels are not entirely black or brunette, and it seemed too little to fit my memories of otters in the zoo. I’m still not certain, and even joked there were none in these urban parts, but some quick web research suggests it may in fact have been a mink. For certain it was a new animal sighting on the river for me. It doesn’t verify anything, but it did keep me plenty warm for the remainder of the float.

Shadows are tough to love. It’s hard to feel completely at ease when we can’t tell what’s before us, what we’re headed into. The world has always been a place that alters ives in instants. We’ve all experienced this directly to a greater our lesser degree.  Maybe we’ve been slightly changed by the dynamic of an unexpected moment; an occurrence may have affected us directly or touched someone we know. It can be subtle or radicle; momentary or longterm. Perhaps we’ve even lost a loved one. ​

So if we can narrow the odds, see what’s coming around the corner, or simply more clearly feel like we know what’s right in front if us, we can at least begin to prepare. Even when there’s limited time, we crave room to anticipate, “be ready”, or just breathe. If it’s disturbing, frightening, or threatening we might make use of the time to evade it. Or sometimes it’s all we can do to brace ourselves and respond as our hearts and instincts guide us. 

It’s the ones that give us no warning that seem to linger after. The awful sense of getting “blind-sided” — where something comes at us “out of nowhere.” They can make our ceaseless intellects spin, over and over wondering how and why and what if?

I was enjoying myself at a small family gathering at a state park last weekend where we rented several cabins. It was a “make lemonade” get together after an unseeable, twice-COVID-postponed niece’s wedding. We were in a rustic setting, fun times, hiking, fireside visiting, happy with lousy phone service and spotty internet access. 

Suddenly a call arrived from my former spouse, but without voice nor message; and immediately I sensed something was up. Luckily a second call soon after happened to get through, a few sentences revealing basics: our son had been in a bad car wreck, he’d called her, and was banged up, but thankfully seemed ok. “He was alone, another car had caused it, all involved not seriously hurt; his car may be totaled.” Within seconds one is swept onto a ride on one of those dreaded roller coasters, careening from great concern to relief within a couple sentences, tinged with slight uncertainty about many unfilled-in details.  

We were several hours away, fortunately his stalwart partner was willing and able to be at his side, and get him home, and then she assumed the responsibility of concussion watch duty through the night and following day, clearly she’s another gift. We’re all extremely grateful he’s since passed the time of critical concern and is sore but well. 
​
We spoke the morning after the wreck. I learned he was driving at night on a two lane 50 mph WV mountain road approaching someone in the opposite lane. They were sensibly waiting for him to pass so they could turn left. Another car beyond the one waiting chose to pass the stopped vehicle, apparently completely not seeing my son’s car, essentially creating a head-on collision scenario. Fortunately my son was paying attention, his quick reflexes responded ideally, and mostly the vehicles’ driver’s side front corners absorbed the brunt of the momentum. Several folks on the scene were very helpful and offered aid and phones. My usually unflappable son was understandably pretty rattled. I heard these details the following morning from him. As is our ritual. I told him I loved him and he told me the same. After we got off the phone, I realized I was rattled and found myself wiping tears as the enormity of the barely skirted danger became clear. 

This great gift (of no severe injuries to anyone involved) that we all received, dominated my thoughts on the journey home. Mingled in were reflections about other unexpected jolts and losses and gifts of the last few years as I drove back to Roanoke. When I returned home in late afternoon, I felt a need to get onto the river. The water would be chilly as the days are no longer terribly warm and there was a slight breeze, but it didn’t matter.  The sun was out and the sky was a brilliant. Early in the float, the great blue and I crossed paths. My fingers numbed a bit as I backstroked in the cold water much of the way to avoid the shadows and keep in the sun. I consciously soaked up every ray with deep breaths.

And I took in the always comforting scenes: the vividly blue sky; amber and rust leaves adrift in the rippling, cold, extraordinarily clear water; the mirrored reflections of foliage beginning to change color.  The low angle of the late day sun in October lit the river in a theatrical spotlight fashion. I saw a flock of robins, another of waxwings, and watched a solitary spider float beside me for a bit, magically suspended atop the water. I noticed waterbugs were still out, scooting along on the river’s surface. But they were not spread across its expanse as usual. Rather, their shining forms were conspicuously congregating — only dancing their water strides within the patches where the sunshine was striking the water. Seems even they seek a comfort in light. 

~~~

A post note: For decades I’ve hugged those I love, and am in the habit of expressing so verbally and in writing to all I care about it. While I prefer not to tell others how to act, I do hope all who read this find some way to let those they care about know their feelings whenever they can. We simply never know when that opportunity will no longer be available.  

It’s been very challenging trying to accept decisions of our elected leaders and how their very consequential actions of the next few weeks will affect lives in America for the next couple of generations. Especially so when I feel it will do so in ways that will restrict and remove hard-won freedoms, and crucial safeguards for both our democratic republic and the environment.​

I feel conflicted: powerless to change the trajectory of the immediate future; impassioned to work to improve the near future and secure the more distant one; and aware that all of these concerns are pretty inconsequential within the vastness of the universe. 

I know so much of these feelings are “in my head” and the only remedy I know is to get out. Literally, get out of the house and BE in some more than human-made space. I’m so fortunate to live where I do where contemplative green spaces abound. So as a morning, pre-online, rejuvenating tonic, with minimal effort I head out to take some in. In no time I’m on the Greenway path, bordered by hundreds of tress, adjacent an ancient waterway. My breathing adjusts to the rhythm of my stride in the crisp air. My unsettled mind settles inward. 

A couple of errant scraps of litter end up in my hands. I encounter a tall robust woman with a small dog who I’ve seen before, both on the greenway and in the neighborhood where I worked all summer. I recall overhearing her speaking another language—Russian or Polish? She asks. We exchange names and smiles, a few words, then part. An older gent approaches and carrying a handful of discarded plastic bags. I smile and say we’re on the same mission. He chuckles, thanks me, then graciously offers to take my small debris collection off my hands. I cross paths with a few other early sojourners and we nod in silent appreciation of the glorious dawn.

Almost unconsciously I wander through freshly cut tall weeds, well off the path, down toward the river‘s edge. Within seconds a mesh sand bag caught ten feet high in a tree branch by the floodwaters last spring, catches my eye. I assess if it’s accessible, but within a few slippery steep steps can sense the foliage-covered land drops downward so quickly, even if there is solid land, I won’t be able to reach it. But then underfoot I see some broken limbs. I find the right one and with just a couple well-placed pokes the bag drops and I’m able to lift it into my grasp. I toss the stick and just then, through the small clearing in the trees along the bank, a majestic great blue heron glides slowly past following the river only a few feet above the water. I shake my head and smile. 

A few minutes’ stroll and I’m on the low water bridge. I cross, climb down the bank, and crouch on a dry rock just above river level. I’m gazing at the immense beauty of the fog lifting off the water as rays from a star 93 million miles away heat up the air and encourage it to rise. I watch my own breath as the water ripples softly. My body and being warmed by the scene and yet another synchronistic heron encounter. The tips of green foliage gently wave. Suddenly I’m filled with a sense the only thing to do is to sincerely use my energy toward what feels right in each moment, because we’re never really in control beyond that. The earth will survive, life will go on, and we’re all both utterly insignificant and immeasurably integral to it all.

We all respond to the death of someone who inspires us, even if the death is expected and we admire them only from a distance, in our own ways.  By all accounts RBG was a remarkable intellect, and a kind, compassionate and generous person. It’s an especially sad thing to lose someone who so embodied grit and vitality yet retained such a loving touch. I heard about several personal experiences where she went out of her way to assist someone with non-public, sincere gestures of tenderness and support, simple acts likely never visible to others but felt deeply by the recipients. 

I have several wonderful friends who were yet again voluntarily facilitating and manning a plastic recycling event. It evolved out of an informative and helpful FB group called “Sustainable Roanoke.” It has become an actionable effort because our city and its recycling receiver cut back on accepting all plastics—even as we continue to accumulate them from food stuffs and elsewhere. It’s perhaps a small drop in our seas of plastic issues, but I fervently believe the little things matter. (To be fair, our county govt. is acting even less responsibly than the city, to no one’s future benefit). I considered assisting but felt it best right now to stick with my own project and marshalled forward with my Saturday morning plan. 

For months I’ve floated past a looming black synthetic morass wrapped tightly around a large sycamore trunk on the banks of the river, close to the popular section of Greenway and bridge where I climb out, and it clung as a reminder — “next time” I need to get that damn thing down. Eventually it will degrade into smaller yet still persistent particles that make their way to the oceans and the food chains of all life forms. On a couple occasions I tried to tear it loose, but in a way symbolic of the problems it causes to fish and all organisms, the material was too tough and would not even tear into sections. So on this cool, non-floating weekend morn, I had a mission and I walked to the river prepared with my retractible Wiss limb cutter. Not intending to cut limbs, so much as the tough polyester/nylon material. Happily, it worked perfectly. 

In addition, once on the bank, of course I found many other discarded things embedded in the sandy soil long ago, or by the recent spring floods, or left since by bone-headed humans. I must admit it perplexes me that folks can make the effort to screw the lid back onto their plastic water bottles yet leave them on the banks, and NOT bother to deliver them to recycle or trash containers! Nonetheless, it was a very satisfying couple hours for me traversing a hundred yards of river bank. Since I had not floated for a few days, it was good to smell the familiar river scents and dip my hands in a few times, climb some tree trunks, and (admittedly inadvertently) get my feet wet. To be clear—for me this feels less a chore than a fun activity. It’s always a sort of perverse treasure hunt: I collected a 1/2 gallon capacity water-gun, a child’s leather shoe, several mesh sand bags, a few socks, plastic bags and bottles, two golf balls, a couple dozen beer cans (many unopened), half of a heavy wire shopping cart, a roughly 25 feet x 10 feet stout tarp (the black morass), interwoven with more transparent plastic sheeting, and one Firestone tire that I was excited to be able to haul out of shallow waters. 

The additional bonus, beyond finally seeing the old sycamore roots unencumbered by the man-made tumor, was within the tire. As I scooped the muddy debris out of it to make it light enough to drag out, I discovered a wee inhabitant, a crayfish. Being a bit camera shy, (or cautious not to become breakfast) it scuttled back into the rim of muck faster than I could pull off my encrusted glove to get hold of my iPhone for a shot. We played this game a few times before it finally relented, trusted that even as I yanked its makeshift trash-home OUT of the river, I really would set it (the crayfish) back INTO the river. Perhaps unconsciously, in my own very small way, emulating the gentle fortitude of someone I deeply admired by recognizing as she did throughout her long life, even the little ones matter. 

Just like in life, some days floating on the river are placid and others are brimming with emotion and interesting moments. I’d gone floating with a friend the day before. We shared hearty conversation and also several long passages of equally hearty silence as we both took in the serene energy of the water on a cloudy and cool evening. An adolescent great blue heron, seemingly as curious about us as we were about it, added a bright note. We were happy we began early as fall weather made the float slightly chilly once the sun had set. Fortunately the company was warm.

That night was not as cool as the previous ones, and the following day the sun shone brightly, so the air, water, and the next evening’s float were very comfortable. But I was distracted. Perhaps it was related to the conversation on the previous float—I don’t know what makes one reflect on someone who is no longer in your life. Is there a trigger? Is there some metaphysical energetic nudge that happens between people across space that we mostly don’t recognize? For whatever reason, I found myself considering a lost friendship, musing with regret how delightful it would be to share a  float with them on such a beautiful evening. I put in and as always, the river currents carried me forward. I tried to not think about what was not, and focused on what was present before me. Each turn seemed to reveal another treat. 

Here was a rock of who knows how many ages, a landmark I’d come to love, with young sycamore saplings still clinging through the floods and all, valiantly trying to grow, green life against a pale yellow sky glow . In another moment, on the other bank was a dazzling kaleidoscope of rippling reflections. Around a curve, trees shined brilliantly off in the distance as river surface mirrored the show. A bit further along the ripples softened and the water spread wide, like the sound of harp strings. 

Then, approaching a usually-peopled-bank, instead it was only occupied by a lone green heron that headed off as I passed. As I floated beneath the next bridge, my fleeting yet stubborn heartache resurfaced, sensing that close yet far friend would so enjoy these wonders too. I let the low cascades and prominent rocks freely spin me to shake off my melancholy. 

Shortly, like a signpost, there was my old river colleague, a great blue, wading in the sun on the left bank awaiting my arrival before heading down river. I smiled, grateful to see my stalwart friend. As I reflected on my heart’s journey flowing forward, I caught a glimpse of an unexpected form among the trees: a doe! Its ears on alert, it seemed ready to leap but instead, cautiously watched me pass. 

I pondered the richness of my ever-evolving life as the textures of tall young grasses and old roots sprinkled with purple blossoms whispered for my attention. A few spins later the water offered interlaced tree shadows offset by a pearly rose sky. Adrift, the current lulled me into a dark nook where lovely fallen kudzu blossoms were suspended in time (I’d posted the image earlier). And then, as if a final gesture of reassurance, the young great blue from the day before came into view, fishing, then standing at attention on a rock, craning and looking over me as I passed. A new friend, I thought, as I was carried down river. I wondered for an instant if I’d ever share these joys with the former friend, allowed my heart to purge, and headed home from a simple and extraordinary float, knowing there will be more wonders tomorrow.

www.johnwiercioch.com/essays

.

There are humble, easily overlooked jewels in every moment, for us to savor and share before they float away.