The Cultural Easton

How much does a river weigh? How much does it weigh if water stops flowing? Is it even still a river then, or is it only a riverbed. These are the questions I ponder to escape the day’s noise and connect with nature.

I plunge my hand into the water – cold as always and leave it there until it starts to hurt. Then, I leave it in some more. I’m going to be here for a bit, as long as it takes for a simple game.

To play, I look upstream, where just a yard away rocks funnel water into narrower channels. There’s nothing coming down the pike. Luckily, I have some time to wait for good traffic.

Using my fingers more than my eyes in the waning light, I explore the bottom. Rocks are examined and then dropped back into the water with a comforting plunking noise. The Mill River flows over them, navigating this new patch of human-altered terrain. I am here to think, and to listen. This evening, I’m joined by American Robin, Grey Catbird, Northern Flicker, and Red-eyed Vireo. The whistle-like Robins and Vireo make the Catbird’s calls seem almost schizophrenic in their complexity.

As my fingertips probe the sand, signs of life in the water show themselves. A small worm-like creature, no more than an inch in length floats downstream, its body contorting as it tries in vain to gain some sense of control. I feel you, worm.

Upstream, a cluster of samaras approaches the rocky stretch. Finally, it’s decision time. Welcome to the simple game of which way around a rock will debris flow. It’s easy to play. It’s also appropriate for all ages and experience levels and doesn’t require a subscription. All that’s required is the patience to observe the flow and wait for the right moment.

I bet on the Easton side. As the helicopter seeds approach and start to speed up in the narrow channel, I wonder how long they’ve been in the river. Where did their journey begin? What blessed tree dispersed these into the wind, which took them into the water, which took them to this rock? To me?

The samaras do a twirl, then float by the rock on the Trumbull side of the river. It’s as if they knew there was an audience, and so they juke-sticked and went against expectations. Lucky for me, I hadn’t staked my wager on the outcome. I’m just here to pass the time, connect with the river, and listen to some birds.

For whatever reason, connecting with the river just felt like the right thing to do with a few spare minutes.  Venturing only as far down the trail as needed (I’m in my work slacks) to reach the water, and stick my hand in. I don’t know why.

What I do know is that as I drove down South Park Avenue, I was reflecting on a rather noisy day and suddenly felt compelled to do it. It seemed silly. I passed the first two parking areas to Warner Anglers Preserve, telling myself it was too chilly to go stick my hand in a river on a whim. But then, as I approached the third pull-off, a deer crossed the road, and so I decided to go with the flow. I parked, and walked into the woods.

In going with the flow, I got to see the samaras do the same. They were presented with an obstacle they could not climb or go through, so they spun around it with a delicate dance. There’s a lesson here. Sometimes in life you need to go with the flow. At other times, the obstacles that present themselves may seem larger or more intimidating than the reality of the situation. Unlike us, the samaras cannot make conscious choices about how to deal with obstacles. When we feel caught in a stream and are unsure the direction is safe, it’s helpful to take some lessons in the samaras spin approach. Yet, there is a critical difference. Who, after all, told us we HAD to swim in the stream?