Blessed Rain

Hemlock Hole, April 2010

All summer, the water level in Sideling Hill Creek has been creeping down.  This is in accordance with the creek's annual cycle, which starts with the spring floods and ends with the winter freeze.  This year started out like the others I have seen at Four Quarters Farm:  in April, frigid water rushed past us as we rebuilt the steps to Hemlock Hole, deep enough that canoeists could navigate the rapids.

By July, the water level had dropped significantly:  you have seen my photographs of the dry creek bed as I took advantage of the lack of water to explore the geology of the Land.  The flow of the creek was reduced to a trickle, rendering Hemlock Hole a foul, stagnant pool; by the middle of September even a swim in Stoneledge Hole left me smelling like a pond.  

Emily's Photo of the Dry Creek Bed
24 September 2010

You know you're really connected to a place when you welcome the news of a huge rain storm by rushing out to your campsite a day early so that you can be there to witness it.  I had enjoyed exploring the areas of the creek that had previously been unaccessible, but the Land ached for the renewal that could only be brought by rain.  

The rain started a little later than predicted, which provided me with the time I needed to install the wood stove into our new tent, bring in wood, batten down the hatches, and enjoy dinner at the Farmhouse.  While the first droplets struck the tent, I fired up the wood stove, lit my lanterns, and settled in for the duration.  

I spent Thursday in my tent, dry, warm and happily painting.  Periodically my curiosity would get the better of me and I would venture out to see how the creek was faring--and get really, really wet.

The transformation was gradual.  At first the creek looked mostly unchanged; then a trickle of water began to flow in the area we had tried to clear back in July.  But Friday morning I walked out to Hemlock Hole and heard a sound I had not heard since the Spring:  running water.

Running water!  I sat on the bench above the water and closed my eyes.  I had not realized how I had missed that sound, how its absence had left a void in my summertime experience.  

The Same Portion of the Creek
as Above,  1 October 2010

It gave me hope.

The Same Portion of Hemlock Hole
from the April Photo
 30 September 2010
No Canoes Here

Hope is important to me in the autumn, a time of year that I anticipate with both dread and eagerness.  While I love its clear, crisp days and cooler nights, the beautiful leaves, the smell of apples and the sight of fields dotted with pumpkins, I have not looked forward to winter since I was in grade school.  Snow is pretty, but I do not like shoveling or driving in it.  I'm not a fan of walking the dogs in 90 degree heat, but I'll take that over walking them in 34 degree slush.  (Incidentally, the dogs don't care!)  Long about February, my husband starts desperately looking for someplace warm and sunny to take me before I implode.  By late March I am watching the long range forecasts, and the moment I see a promising stretch of weather, I am on the road to Four Quarters to set up my campsite, and when I arrive out there I will hear the rushing water of the creek speaking to me of the spring floods.

Same View as Above
1 October 2010

And here I was, in early October, hearing those waters speaking to me of renewal from the drought and reminding me that the cycle is endless.  The creek will be there waiting for me when I return in the spring.  

Though the steps you saw us building at the top of the page probably won't be...as Orren gruffly says, "The creek is the creek."

I wouldn't have it any other way.