Reflect

I am gazing into the calm water of the Colorado River. My reflection is a distorted, rippling body in a carnival mirror blurring the details of my face as the water flows peacefully westward. In mid may I couldn’t stand on the same earthen shore without being swept away in the current of rapidly rushing water. Spring run-off and heavy rains in the mountains just above the little desert nest of Grand Junction melted into the river and pushed the water over the edge. Piers eroded exposing the rebar and stones underneath their concrete forms compromising the integrity of their structure. Whole trees rushed past rafters who were brave enough, or dumb enough, to ride the rising white water of the river.

The residents of Tent City, the community of the town’s homeless citizens, were unwillingly evicted from their meager homes of vinyl and burlap as the water swept away many of their possessions and muddied the rest. They had to seek temporary housing under a ceiling in a shelter and give up the view of the stars and the lull of the rhythm of the river while they slept until the water level decreased enough for them to rebuild their community.

Mother Nature executed her control over mankind this spring as a reminder of her power. The Interstate bridges at both corridors of the city were closed as she threatened to wash them away. Local people and visitors frequented the river, walking on the blacktop trail even though stretches of it were sectioned off with yellow caution tape due to the risk of wash out. Everyone was in awe of the force. Mother Nature’s spring cleaning ridded the river banks of deceased trees, decomposed animal carcasses, and human garbage. The rain refreshed the air as it loosened dust particles and returned them to their earthen bed and stimulated plant growth in the valley with a deep drink of water. The desert is stingy with water most years. For two weeks I watched the water rise and recede, bring fear and relief with its ambiguous behavior.

The blue heron has returned to stand statuesque in the mud just below the surface at the water’s edge today. The fisherman wave to me from their row boat as they poke at the drifting rainbow trout with their worm-baited fishing hooks. I stand on the river’s shore again, grateful for the tranquility, but smile as I reflect on the adrenaline rush of flood waters that excited the town in the spring.