Because Lake Oahe inundated much of the Missouri River for 180 miles up to Bismarck, North Dakota, some of Lewis and Clark’s hiking trails and campsites were now underwater. Yet overall was a wonderful feeling of having the long Missouri as my travel companion. I was the driver, glancing at maps and following road signs; the river was my tour guide, speaking to me with changing sounds, colors and curves.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Mighty Missouri: River or Reservoir
Because Lake Oahe inundated much of the Missouri River for 180 miles up to Bismarck, North Dakota, some of Lewis and Clark’s hiking trails and campsites were now underwater. Yet overall was a wonderful feeling of having the long Missouri as my travel companion. I was the driver, glancing at maps and following road signs; the river was my tour guide, speaking to me with changing sounds, colors and curves.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Great Plains
As I headed up the highway, cars and people were as few and far between as the trees. A feeling crept over me, something like loneliness; not a bad feeling, but an awareness of being alone in an immense, quiet space. I’d felt similar sensations before because I’d been by myself in other wide open spaces, but this was different. Different as the Great Plains are from anywhere else. Just being on this limitless land felt like a privilege.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Clearwater River
So much pours in through the senses.
Standing perfectly still, I watch the river flowing left to right, east to west across narrow northern Idaho—toward the Snake and Columbia rivers, toward the sea.
My ears bring in sounds of water rushing, laughing, splashing against rocks piled below.
Bare feet are tickled by prickly pine needles, and from warm, moist soil rises the sweet smell of grass freshened by morning’s hard rains. Tall sturdy pines tower over me like pillars, like columns in a colossal stone church.
Down by the river, trunks and branches of trees form a window. Looking through, I focus on a calm stretch of water, flat, smooth, and reflecting the far bank’s layers and shades of green.
Across the river, on the steep hillside, the city of trees slowly softens into a warm green blanket, inviting me to come over, to lie down, to rest.
Overhead in the deep blue ceiling, soft cotton clouds float west to east, opposite to the flow of the river. That contrary motion creates an optical illusion and I wonder: Are these clouds really moving above the earth, or are they hovering, still, while the earth spins below?
Standing perfectly still, I watch the river flowing left to right, east to west across narrow northern Idaho—toward the Snake and Columbia rivers, toward the sea.
My ears bring in sounds of water rushing, laughing, splashing against rocks piled below.
Bare feet are tickled by prickly pine needles, and from warm, moist soil rises the sweet smell of grass freshened by morning’s hard rains. Tall sturdy pines tower over me like pillars, like columns in a colossal stone church.
Down by the river, trunks and branches of trees form a window. Looking through, I focus on a calm stretch of water, flat, smooth, and reflecting the far bank’s layers and shades of green.
Across the river, on the steep hillside, the city of trees slowly softens into a warm green blanket, inviting me to come over, to lie down, to rest.
Overhead in the deep blue ceiling, soft cotton clouds float west to east, opposite to the flow of the river. That contrary motion creates an optical illusion and I wonder: Are these clouds really moving above the earth, or are they hovering, still, while the earth spins below?
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