ALL SOULS DAY ON THE METOLIUS RIVER

 

 ALL SOULS DAY ON THE HEADWATERS OF THE METOLIUS RIVER

Streams and tributaries.

These are the streams and tributaries.

Streams and tributaries of the Metolius.

This is a surfacing of the underground river.

Walking again. Walking after driving.

Walking lost. Driving lost with maps.

Sixteen miles out of Sisters on 20 West.

Turning onto Metolius River Camp

Camp Sherman store

but that’s not where I want to start.

Water that comes from below,

from the monk’s vows,

obedience and bifurcation.

Far from the fish hatchery.

Surrounded by spring and bounce, so many

unreadable maps, the brown needles

from pines falling with each breeze

with so many options for grief,

bringing this bronze light

this river walk asks our ancestors

to follow story tellers

along this riverbank

canceling all fireworks,

surefootedness in mud.

Miss the turn and end up at Camp Sisters,

headwaters, but not the trail.

Among all that I don’t know, this:

a full-sized river, the Metolius,

flowing ice-cold, springs appearing

originating from beneath Black Butte

what park signs say.

Geologists call this misleading,

believing springs have their origin

in the Cascade Mountains to the west.

An underground river.

 Free flowing, spring-fed.

These are singers who have traveled to get here.

Samhain. Dias de los Muertos.

And today, All Souls Day.

Singers have been asked to open the trail.

What music in cold water.

Water nutrient rich. Plants, insects, fish.

A restoration project before hikers walking in rain.

Resident and migratory fish thriving. Look.

Rain so steady I return to the car, change coat and hat.

Native Redband trout prey on insects.

Down river endangered bull trout

feed on small fish.

Fall colors splashing against the rain.

Red sockeye migrate from Pacific.

A man walks over to me, points

to still water, Kokanee right beside me

on the bank, not a foot away.

Cross the bridge to fish hatchery.

Signs on trail: Target invasive plants--

Reed Canary, Ribbon Grass, Perennial Pea,

Yellow Flag Iris. Herbicides used:

Polaris, Roundup Custom.

Tributaries and restoration sites.

Colors showing up for the camera in changing light.

The trail, all the way to Bridge 99

is no more than two feet from the river.

The man just picking up his mail.

Steady drizzle percussion drops on hat brim.

Big gulping water songs from deep river.

Standing bass jazz solos. Pressure rising.

Beside my feet, eight inch wood markers

with blue restoration ribbons.

Baby trees to the left of trail.

Grasses growing from fallen trees in the river.

Once, where the trail leaves the river

ascending to the left, a grandfather pine

has fallen between two elders growing together,

spitting their trunks, breaking in two

against the two, a perfectly

balanced confrontation. In return

for the river’s protection. The contribution.

A breaking before your very eyes.

Every step as tributary. Look at flow.

Kneel-down knee-soaked knees.

Look at the water moving to the side

in among fallen leaves, the slow swirling.

Walk as far as your feet will take you.

With you, contigo, contributing

to your bowing practice. You spring.

Take in what you can. You tributary.

Trust this restoration and when you doubt

the euphoria of this, hiking here,

smaller into larger, following,

look at the 100 photographs on your camera.

These pictures of November light a responsibility.

Not a response, all that is awe and before you.

The light is raw data, empirical.

Light as breath, your breath in the water.

Jim Bodeen

2 November 2023