THE RIVULET IN THE GLEN

In the glen below our barn a brook runs downhill to feed into the headwaters of Neil’s Creek. Farther downstream, before Neil’s Creek empties into the Cohocton River, it supports a healthy population of Brown trout. Salamanders and crayfish inhabit our shallow brook but not trout. Being an avid fly fisherman, I wish it did. It courses a narrow run through a gully and over sedimentary rock, falling in steps on its way to the creek and the river. It forms small pools at the base of its many miniature water falls where one could imagine a trout holding if it were bigger water. Falling water inspires contemplation. The sound of water over stone reminds me of other streams and creeks--trout water--and times there with a fly rod.

There are numerous rivulets throughout the hills and more than a few creeks and rivers in the region with waterfalls and running water more impressive than this one: Stoney Brook Falls, Reynold‘s Gully Falls, Wiscoy Falls at Mills Mills where it joins the Genesee River near Portageville. The Upper, Middle and Lower Falls of the Genesee itself in Letchworth Park. There, the thunder of the falls and the power of the river inspires awe. You tend to contemplate the ferocity of nature. Whereas in this gully, where the folds of the hills meet to form a narrow cleft with rocks and purling water, you sense a different power, one that inspires introspection of a more intimate nature.

There are grouse and deer, fox and raccoons inhabiting this section of biosphere; other forms of wildlife too numerous to mention. Once during a particularly challenging time, I sat above the brook and watched a winter wren flit about the exposed roots of an oak tree at the waters edge. It would disappear among the roots into the darkness of the undercut stream bank and reappear again. My troubles soon became small in comparison to the greater importance of this reclusive little bird plying for sustenance, hunting the tangled roots beneath the immensity of the trees and the all encompassing forest.

I like to hike along the brook in the spring and fall when there aren’t the distractions of mosquitoes and deer flies, turning stones now and then, examining fossils, looking for encased caddis fly pupae. I’ll often pause by a pool and listen to the water. Recently at one of those pools, as I kneeled close to examine some detritus beneath the surface, there appeared the face of my father. Even though I’ve been told I resemble him, and I can see it somewhat as I shave in front of the mirror, it came as a bit of a shock to see him there in the undulations of the water. We had explored this brook together many times beginning when I was as young as my eldest grandson. And it occurred to me then that I’ve done it with my kids and my grandkids too. With them, I’ve re-discovered some of those things I’d lost along the way. Dad stared me in the face, the reflection of me-as-him animated by the current, making it appear as if  I--or he--was nodding in agreement or approval.

Last June I camped and fished with friends in British Columbia amid spectacular scenery. There were raging rivers, not to mention numerous creeks and drainages. All beautiful in their own right. I was happy to be there but not as content as I am when re-exploring my little brook. I suppose it’s reassurance of a kind found in a place where water flows through familiar territory. Where in its reflections you can see where you’ve been, where you are and where you’re going.