I go walking: North

(The first of a series of reflections based on striking out from home in each of the four directions)

River view 1The river outside my door runs northward. Sort of. That is, it starts to the south of here and ends up to the north of here, but along the way it does a lot of meandering to the east and west, and even the odd little southward switchback as it follows the path of least resistance along the gently sloping prairie. From where I live, a northward river walk begins with a stroll through a long narrow park that slopes down to my parking lot on one side, and farther down to the river on the other. The park is actually a dike, constructed many years ago to keep the river OUT of my parking lot (and my living room) during the annual spring flooding.  The dike is there for the utilitarian purpose of holding back the river – of protecting the neighbouring residents from harm, but the view from the top of the dike is spectacular, and every time I walk it I feel grateful to have stumbled on this location.

North - path 5Before long, the trail dips down off the top of the dike and winds through a wooded section closer to the river. Just a narrow dirt bicycle track, the trail snakes along the riverbank and reveals the back side of a series of apartment buildings that front onto the main north/south roadway in this part of town.

North - after flood 1Here you do see evidence of flooding. The clay-laden soil is cracked into a grey mosaic where the river has breached its bank and deposited a layer of silt along the shore. It can be hard to get close to the water. This cracked earth is difficult to walk on, and the shore in every direction is thick with ankle-stabbing thistles. But every so often there is a path through the tangled growth down to the shore and it is possible to get up close and personal with the muddy water.

The funny thing is that I feel no compulsion to actually touch the water. And not because it’s muddy, either. You see, having grown up in a house with a backyard that went straight down to the river, it was ingrained in me from a very early age to keep a conservative distance between me and the water’s edge. The result of this highly successful conditioning on the part of my parents was that I made it to the age of majority without drowning, in spite of our lack of a fence. But now as I stand—an adult— next to the sluggish late summer water, I know that muddy shoes are my biggest risk of going right to the edge.

North - mud 2Mind you it’s not a river you want to swim in, and I know that the placid surface masks a deceptive current. The river is to be respected. But I think I have internalized a greater degree of caution than the river warrants.

And it gets me wondering about all the other protective dikes I have built around myself. And how many times I have held myself farther back from the edge than was really necessary.

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About Muddy River Muse

Writer. Reader Educator. Manager. Mother. Dreamer. And dedicated riverbank walker.
This entry was posted in A river runs through it and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to I go walking: North

  1. Now, this got me thinking. Lenore and I walked too close to the edge of the Red once. It was early winter…the ice was still fragile and ill-formed. Bam! Lenore stepped out a couple of feet and went right through, to her waist. It was a cold walk back to her house. I have at least two other distinct memories of Lenore going in (unintentionally) for a dunk in Falcon Lake. Once, she did the classic “one foot on the dock, one still in the boat” move. The other time, she went in trying to step from canoe onto slippery rocks at the edge of an island we’d paddled to. She lost her wristwatch, unbeknown to us. Hours later, we returned to the island and spotted the glimmer of gold under the water, and rescued it. When I ponder this, I think Lenore’s water-dunking experiences may actually have signaled a future life full of ups-and-downs, ins-and-outs, and shocking submersions.

    • I definitely think the “edge” needs to be interpreted differently in the winter. My cousin fell through the ice– all the way– crossing from Assiniboine Park to my grandmother’s house when he was a teenager. If his friend hadn’t been able to pull him out he would have been a goner. In the short walk up the bank to Grannie’s back door his clothes froze so solid he could barely move.

  2. Pingback: Winter is coming | Muddy River Muse

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