From the Other Side

 There is this shrub growing in the middle of the San Gabriel River channel. Right now, that shrub is either dead or in winter hibernation, but in the past I have seen it in full bloom. It is a colorful thing and, I am guessing, that is what prompted someone to circle it with a ring of white stones. That shrub was the inspiration for today's post; I saw it (as usual) while riding down river, fully intending to stop at it on the way back up. Darned if I didn't simply ride right on past without a second thought. Anyway...

I got to thinking that I / we ride along the river trail on our weekends, always up above it, looking down at the river (such as it is), over and across to the other side or, maybe sometimes down or up, along its course. Week after week offers only the same perspective. Well, what if this time, even if just this once, I changed that perspective, went down into it, down into the mud, the sand, the grass, the detritus of human waste? What would it show me (besides how impossible it is to click into Speedplay pedals with mud-clogged cleats)? Would there be beauty or, as it most often appears from up above, would observation simple confirm its appearance as a dumping ground? 

All day long I watch the pretty people play up there, passing one way, then later the other. Mostly, they seem oblivious, their attention focused elsewhere - their path, the person beside them, or maybe the group approaching from the other direction. Some few press down my embankment. I appreciate the connection when they press their feet in to my sand and mud; it is like an electrical charge, reminding me (and I hope them) of an eternal connection. Life and death. It all happens here. Did you know that where sand covers my bottom there are shells -  freshwater clams strewn about like litter after a storm. They lived and died in my waters and will decompose here, beneath the sun. Birds splash with life in the same water, and die on the rocks and concrete. I grow cool in the water that sometimes flows, but mostly I burn beneath the sun. The Canadian Geese are here again, still. You may not have noticed them today, hidden as they were by the trees that line my course; they favor this spot for the solitude those trees provide. 

muddy bottom

sandy bottom

the geese

rocky bottom

the Whittier Narrows version of Tom Sawyer Island

The river, this river, is an incongruous thing, wanting to be wild but constrained from being allowed to be so. Its fate is tied to our own. Some of those who pass along up above will see nothing more than an ugly scar, a blight, while others may delve deeper and find something else.

Chalan Rest Stop