Myrtle's Hole

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.