“All there is to thinking is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren’t noticing which makes you see something that isn’t even visible.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories
There exists a certain kind of peacefulness to hiking alongside a running river. A moment of zen. The soothing sound of water rushing over rocks, hearing the crunch of your own footsteps as you meander along a placid stream. The songs of birds, then their abrupt silence and sound of fluttering wings once they hear your approach and take flight. But still you progress, placing one foot in front of the other, the river ever a constant companion. The rustling of branches as the wind lightly passes through, the pale ray of morning sunshine lightly touching a mossy rock.
But above all the constant rhythm of water on rocks, a race as each drop of water careens towards its final destination.
These are the instruments that constitute the soundtrack of the wilderness. The composition changes daily. At times a lullaby, other times a dark rhythmic chant, still other times a ballad. But mostly a steady, comforting refrain that is the anthem of the forest.
“When I was young, a teacher had forbidden me to say “more perfect” because she said if a thing is perfect it can’t be more so. But by now I had seen enough of life to have regained my confidence in it.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories
The best rivers contain mossy rocks, the hint of trout, an occasional wooden bridge spanning their width, and the crown jewel, the raison d’être, a waterfall. Watching a waterfall leaves me mesmerized, where the feeling of time both stands still and rushes by without a care. The hypnotizing sound of water cascading through air, tumbling down and over rocks, and culminating in the violent crash of the pool below, disappearing as a singular waterfall and joining its collaborators in a collective stream of water once more.
“I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched… Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories
