The River of Respite
Ethan Parks
I sit on the side of the highway leading up to campus, rocks lodged in my shins and a sizable gash in the side of my arm. I should’ve known better than to try and skate down such a large hill, but my senses had left me by that point. Bloody and battered, I had only one thought on my mind as I was attempting to find a spot to settle down in: “I want to go home.” Home was nice and simple and didn’t have monstrous hills. At that moment, as I meandered through the trails, home was also 943 miles away. As a bit of therapy, I began to escape into everything I missed back in Texas, with heavy rose colored glasses of course. I yearned for the weather, the people, the sense of “freedom” I felt out in the country - but the thing I missed most was Walter, the turtle that provided me so much company back in my room. While longing for my terrapin companion in the strange land that was Gambier, I misplaced my foot and slipped down the hill towards the river. I tumbled down the slope a good three feet and lost my shoe, stepping barefoot into a muddy puddle. Tired, angry, and now covered in dirt, I resigned to quitting my observational assignment and gathered my bearings. As I looked up, however, I was met with a familiar sight. Perched atop a log with its neck strained towards the sky, I came face to face with a red-eared slider, the exact same species of turtle as Walter. I surveyed the bank I fell into and was greeted with a nice mossy log that was protected from the sun by the canopy above it. Towards the trail, there was a slope covered in moss, flowers, and four different frogs hopping about. While it may seem unassuming from a different perspective, it was as if I found my new home.
I sat down on the mossy log (1) and began my first field entry, taking careful note to catalog each and every factor of the site. I attempted to describe the exact angle and direction of the large piece of driftwood (2) that poked out of the river and housed the turtle just moments ago. I sat staring at the river (3) and wondered what made it flow the way it did. While I knew that the Kokosing flowed into the Ohio River, which later leads into the Mississippi River and dumps out into the Gulf of Mexico, I didn’t know that gravity was the main cause of this flow. In essence, the water in the Kokosing is following a natural path from a higher source to a lower mouth (“How Do Rivers Flow?” 2020). I finished up with my observations for the day and left that site with a true feeling of happiness and serenity. On my log down by the river, I found peace.
Time passed and I was once again on the log, feeling the breeze on the back of my neck. I noticed the water level had receded, a sign of the times as we moved into winter. I decided to get closer towards the water, and in doing so I trampled over a mountain of leaves. Just weeks before, they were covered in vibrant shades of green & yellow and - barring the occasional hole due to aphids - rather sturdy. Now, they’d darkened and gotten crunchy under my feet, an indicator of being in the thick of fall that I never experienced back home. These leaves had fallen victim to the reduction in daylight and temperature, which led to a reduction in their rate of photosynthesis. This lack of the food-making process resulted in the absence of the chlorophyll that gave them the green and yellow colors, which left the leaves showing the muted reds and browns of autumn (Palm 2020). It felt as if the change that these leaves were undergoing was running parallel to my own personal change. I was nearing 18, finally becoming an adult after living independently for so long. Of course, this age was merely a number that brought a legal status with it; I wouldn’t experience some caterpillar-esque metamorphosis and emerge as some mature butterfly. I didn’t feel older, no more than felt taller or smarter, but what I did feel was a sense of belonging. I’d grown since my time on the hill, covered in blood and rocks, and I felt so much more connected to the world around me. I listened to the birds singing in the trees and nearly at home on the riverbank, ready to tackle whatever challenge the environment would throw at me. During the great upheaval that was my first semester, my time down at the river became a crux for rest and relaxation.
Fast forward a few weeks and I’m staring at the most ominous looking stump I’ve ever seen. I hadn’t noticed it before, so I assume it washed up in the recent storm. At this point, I was visiting the river once every two to three days, as I’d accepted and embraced its role as a place of respite. This stump was an invader, a new and scary presence in my sacred escape. I was shocked by its audacity in a sense, and I felt compelled to study and understand it the best I could. I attempted to sketch the stump, but it only furthered my frustration, for I quickly learned that my sketching abilities were subpar. Pictures didn’t do it justice either, as my phone camera failed to correctly highlight the true contrast of the stump. I grabbed my field notebook and used the only resource I had left: my words. This stump was waging a war against the once beautiful shore that it had washed up on. It was grey and brought with it an aura of death, one that permeated even the most green and lively sectors of the riverbank. It was as if it tainted not just the ground that it sat upon, but the river water that it was carried by too. There was a grey pain across the entire spot and it made me feel uneasy about returning. Stepping away from the stump, I walked backwards towards the trail, unable to avert my eyes. It was then that I tripped and fell, landing on the very same log that I often sat upon. I saw the moss gleaming with its beautiful green glory and knew that I didn’t need to fear for my forest of solitude. There was nothing that could truly defeat the life I had found here - not the wind or the rushing water or some foreboding stump. This place was strong and sacred, and I knew it would continue to be.
As I was preparing to leave Gambier, my observations complete and my affairs fully packed, I took a walk down to the river one last time. Making my way down the road I skidded on months before, I saw the first peekings of the riverbank beyond the bridge. The stump I was struck by weeks ago was nowhere to be found, and there was a turtle basking in the sun where it once stood. I meandered through the forest trail until I reached the water, taking one last seat upon the log, I saw the spot for what it now was. There was little life left, winter had set in and taken the leaves, leaving the harsh white of sunlight through the clouds and the aura of general malaise near the river. For a moment, I felt sad for the place I’d grown so close to, seeing it dead amongst a new life I was returning to. Although I knew I’d be home in less than five hours, I felt as if I was already there. While this place was objectively dying, my home below the hill was one that I knew would live forever. Without the ability to take time and watch the nature before me, gathering my thoughts and processing my days, I would never feel the proper connection to Kenyon. The riverbank became my home, and I can’t wait to revisit it.
References
Dorling Kindersley. (2018). Fun facts for kids on animals, earth, history and more! DK Find Out!. https://www.dkfindout.com/us/earth/rivers/from-source-to-mouth/
ESF Office of Communications. (2020). Why leaves change color. ESF | SUNY ESF | College of Environmental Science and Forestry. https://www.esf.edu/pubprog/brochure/leaves/leaves.htm#:~:text=Chlorophyll%20Breaks%20Down,part%20of%20their%20fall%20splendor
Harvard University. (2019). The process of leaf color change. Harvard Forest. https://harvardforest.fas.harvard.edu/leaves/process
Missouri Botanical Society. (2015). Biology of plants: Making food. MBGnet. https://www.mbgnet.net/bioplants/food.html
U.S. Department of the Interior. (2019, June 12). Rivers, streams, and creeks. USGS.gov | Science for a changing world. https://www.usgs.gov/special-topic/water-science-school/science/rivers-streams-and-creeks?qt-science_center_objects=0#qt-science_center_objects