After a short march to the dead end of the road, I walked around
the orange snow fencing and entered the woods. A faint track led through the
pines, past a deer carcass that was nothing but hair, likely ditched by a hunter
last fall. Small pieces of white flagging reassured that I was on the right
path. Soon a deep gash opened on the land, leading down to a small creek. A
thin veneer of grasses and roots did their best to hold the sandy soil in
place, though once punctured, usually due to human activity – ATV’s horseback riding,
foot travel all concentrated in a narrow area – the land quickly eroded. This
particular gash was deeper than I was tall.
A slow, steady balancing act across a fallen tree led me to
the other side of the creek. On top of the next hill a power line cut a wide
swath through the forest. I followed the two-track under the wires for a few
hundred yards before the track veered off. The track followed the upper edge of a river
valley – the south fork of the Eau Claire River flowed silently in the distance,
the trees still devoid of leaves in the early spring. Another gash opened off
the plateau plunging towards the flood plain below. I followed. The telltale
marks of an ATV gave clue to the culprit of the scar.
The understory of the flood plain was mostly open, allowing
easy maneuvering between the hardy maples. Pockets of prickly ash were the only
limits to my roaming. A few hundred feet from the river, I noticed the sign of high water – grasses and other non-woody vegetation lay flat all pointing
in the same direction. Pockets of water and mini sand dunes were scattered in
depressions and behind the protective shelter of trees.
Finally the swiftly flowing river revealed itself, safely
within its banks. Flotsam trapped high in branches gave note to a mighty
torrent that had coursed wide, over and beyond the banks. Last year’s
clamshells protruded from the sandy bottom like ducks bobbing for a bite to
eat. I walked out onto a gravel bar, my shoes leaving watery indents. It was
quiet. The river was in a hurry, but didn’t have much to say. Small ripples began forming on the water from a
passing rain shower. I retreated to shore and continued my saunter up river.
The sand deposited from previous floods was smooth and
without imperfections, save for the deer tracks and, now, my foot prints. A few
birds flitted about, a handful of spring beauties were thinking about opening
up, and the florescent green of new shoots gave the only sign of a spring in
the waiting.
The sandy bottom and lack of obstacles kept the river quiet.
A snort and a flash of white broke the silence as a deer fled, dissatisfied
with my presence. A ring of red and white pine marked the top edge of the river
valley, trees better suited to the dry soils of the uplands than the periodic
flooding of the bottomlands.
There it was in the distance, the faint sound of rushing
water. My destination was close. I followed the sound and soon my path burst
into the open and below me the river navigated a series of short cataracts. It
was an abrupt change from the sand. Quartzite bedrock with streaks of red
granite jutted out from steep banks. I sat down on a boulder next to
the river as the drizzle turned into a heavier rain. A buzz grew louder from
above. The power company had decided that the best place for a large
transmission line was directly over Myrtle's Hole. I disagreed. After the river
descended through the boulders, it formed a large, deep pool, a well-known
fishing hole among the locals. With the rain still falling, I rose and headed
home.
