Life and death watching the river

This morning, the fog fills the river bottoms from Illinois bluffs to Missouri hills. Above, blue-sky peeks through but from my perch halfway up the rocky bluff I see nothing but the gray fog swallowing all that lies a hundred yards away....

The ever-rushing river, sweeping downstream at seven miles an hour, unseen, although I know it’s there. The muddy water up in the trees again. The recent rains and melting snow adding to the current, pushing the river above its banks.

The ground spongy from the rain, the sidewalks glistening wet, as I let the yellow Labrador out for her morning relief mission before dawn.

Last night as we were on that same mission, the screams from a dying animal echoed through the sodden woods above our river house. We’d never heard screams like that before. Here or anywhere. Both the attacked and the attacker’s cries shaking us. Not dogs, not cats. A raccoon? One animal’s death meant another’s life.

We see more than we hear. We see the eagles and the turkey buzzards soaring on the updrafts from the river past the naked rocks shaping the bluffs. We see the antlers of the deer silhouetted against the tree line as he dances across the narrow band of asphalt leading to our treehouse overlooking the sweep of the fertile river bottom fields. Fallow now, but soon to blossom with the green of spring plantings.

We catch a glimpse of the daddy fox as he lopes up that single lane, stopping every now and then to ensure that we’re following him, the bait, and not seeking his mate and their kits hidden in the den. Once he’s satisfied, we’re well past his home he vanishes with a flick of his tail.

Life here is slower. Measured by the seasons. Measured by the never-ending rise and fall of the river. Measured by the strain of the tugboats mightily straining to push their laden barges upstream. Coasting downstream full of the coal and grain and gravel that feed the rapacious maw of mankind. The mile-long trains likewise roll past. Their tracks perched just high enough to stay above the spring-time reaches of the brown water filled with tree trunks, floating detritus and occasional corpse.

We walked the cemetery yesterday. Stopped now and then to read the markers. Here lies a few-day-old infant. Here a Mexican War veteran. Here the first governor of Illinois. There a row of prisoners from the grimness of the century old prison. Here a simple marker, John Doe, unknown, found…and a date.

The cemetery overlooking the river, and the prison, and the bridge. Overlooking the riotous green growth of the Mississippi River valley.

It’s a constant battle here. A battle against the river, against the vines, and briars, and brambles that would soon overtake the clearing, if not for constant attention.

The roses are full of honeysuckle. The honeysuckle choking the life from them. The weed trees, so painstakingly cut by the Mexican laborers two years ago to preserve our river view once again towering twenty feet above the steep slopes. I’ll get them cut again. Cut again by someone who will risk a broken ankle twisted in the rocks, risk disturbing the rattlesnakes who curl in those same ankle-breaking rocks. They’ll sweat in the summer sun and the valley humidity, glad for the work they couldn’t find in their own land.

They happy for their wages, me happy with the restored view. Happy with the escape from encroaching, uncontrolled green life.

The white paint peeling from the white posts supporting the decks overlooking the river. Tomorrow I’ll call the painter. Call the painter to cover the ravages of the west sun, the ravages of the Midwest rain, the ravages of the north wind. Maybe he’ll come with the hummingbirds. We’ll need new feeders. We’ll need to replace the faded to pink ones with bright, new red ones splashed against the fresh white pillar paint.

The hummingbirds will come again. They’ll come for their sugar water. They’ll come for the nectar of the flowers of summer. They’ll leave again in the dying days of fall, before we hear the echoing scream of an unseen animal’s dinner.

Reflections from the River

Life and death watching the river

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