River crossing

I did not grow up crossing rivers. There were few rivers to be found in our slice of suburban drought-stricken Marin County, save for the concrete culvert behind our apartment complex, where algae-stained water trickled into another man-made channel that divided the main road. Family vacations were generally spent in Boston, where I learned to jaywalk across busy streets, but, alas, not to cross rivers. When my family did get out into nature, which we did on occasion with our dog and for scouting events, my urbanite mother was not one to encourage rock hopping or bridge building.  Encountering a river crossing with my mom was simply a sign that it was time to turn around. 

Our family life these days is suffused with nature walking and hiking -- both of which I have come to love as an adult --  and my kids are already more proficient river crosses than I will ever be. Living this year in a country brimming with water, on the edge of the province named Los Rios, we certainly do not lack rivers to cross. As a 22 year old in this place, I was just beginning to know my body and the natural world, and I held a lot of hands as I stumbled across these rivers, hardly considering my own ineptitude or the possibility that I could learn. 

Now, in my 45th year of life I find myself with a desire to learn how to cross rivers myself, not to take their presence as a sign to turn around, but rather as a challenge to move forward.

It seems to me that river crossings offer four possibilities:

Possibility #1: One way to successfully cross a river is by walking straight through. This method requires you to be willing to get your feet wet.* Alternatively, you can wear gumboots, as is common here during winter. Or you can remove your socks and shoes, roll up your pants (or hike up your skirt) and walk across. Warning, the river may be cold, the rocks sharp or slippery. Removing shoes does take time and effort, which may serve as a deterrent to crossing.  

This reminds me of a story involving a dear Peace Corps friend of mine, who also served in Ecuador. I remember her returning from her initial site visit to recount to us the most embarrassing of first encounters with her community. The thing was this: my friend never, ever wore underwear. She found underwear uncomfortable and restrictive. However, when she arrived at a particularly high river crossing with several members of her new community, she was unexpectedly encouraged to remove her pants to cross the river. The river was quite high, if I remember correctly, almost up to her waist. The women were kind and assured her that there was nothing to be worried about, that local women did this all the time, that she shouldn't be ashamed to be standing there in her undergarments. Except, of course, she had no undergarments. 

This also leads me to reflect a moment on my own rigid American sensibilities. It would be totally bizarre to approach a lake or river with an American friend and have one of us walk straight into the water, shoes and all. Most Americans would be taken aback by such an action; some might even go so far as to comment, "What are you doing? Your shoes are getting soaked!" In contrast, it is common in Ecuador for our Ecuadorian friends (adults and children) to walk straight into a river with their shoes and socks on. The same is true for the ocean. Sometimes, our friends will walk through water with long pants, even jeans. When we encounter a swimming hole on a hike, Ecuadorians regularly jump in fully clothed and think nothing of it, while my family finds a place to don our bathing suits. It is so contrary to our cultural norms that I still find the behavior odd, yet somehow also freeing; if you don't have to worry about having a swimsuit, the world is your swimming pool. 

I went straight through a small river just today on my afternoon walk. Because the rivers are swollen with rains, the usually well-placed stepping stones I use are currently submerged and inaccessible. As such, it has become my habit to stop at the bank, remove my shoes, roll up my pants, and cross to the other side, where I then put my shoes back on and continue on my merry way. It is a simple enough solution to the problem of a river I could not otherwise cross and a walking route I might have to abandon for the winter season. I quite enjoy the perfectly cool water on my feet. The rocks are not slippery or sharp, and  there is something refreshing about dipping my toes into the crystalline water. 

*Of course, if you happen to weigh 31 pounds and are as cute as Brynna, you can bypass this possibility by having any number of loving adults carry you across. 

                       

Possibility #2: You are lucky enough to be crossing a river that has been crossed before, and, as such, there are stepping stones or logs to assist in your passage. 

The criteria for a good stone path across a river are simple, yet sometimes hard to achieve: balanced, large enough to hold a foot, flat enough to provide stability, not too slippery, and within an average leg's reach of the next stone. 

As I alluded to above, the river I most frequently cross features well-placed stepping stones. I am grateful for their presence and reliability. It doesn't matter whether those who came before you placed the stones only for themselves or they did so with others who would come after in mind, having a skilled person lay down any number of good stepping stones across a river is a gift.                                     

There is no better gift than a solid rock or a trustworthy plank in the middle of a river upon which to perch to ponder your next move. It provides confidence and safety. A quick test with your toes will give you abundant information about how much you can trust the stone, and the position of the next stone is key. My boys are skilled stone hoppers -- they make good judgments, trust their own feet, and are not deterred by a long stretch. I, on the other hand, have struggles in all three categories. But I am working on it, and with practice, I note definite improvement. 

Alternatively, someone may have built a simple bridge --  of wood or bamboo -- to aid people in crossing the river. While said bridge may appear more trustworthy than a stepping stone path, I give you this warning. A few months ago, Brynna and I were happily trudging across a bamboo bridge that took us across a small creek, enjoying the lovely afternoon and the beautiful surroundings, when CRACK(!), the bamboo snapped in half, and we found ourselves in the stream. Luckily, neither of us were hurt, and the river was hardly a dangerous one. But still. It is a reminder that even the most well-meant homemade bridges should be crossed with caution.

                              

Possibility #3: You are the first person to cross the river (or the first person not going through) and you have the opportunity to place the stepping stones -- i.e. to build the bridge.

Remember, the stepping stone path you are about to lay is for your own use but also the use of those who will follow in your footsteps. Whatever part you choose to contribute, do not ignore the essential attributes described above. Remember too, however, that whatever you build is likely impermanent. Rivers are notorious for swelling, subsiding, and remodeling; don't get too attached. 

I must pause here to share the story of Paul's bridge, which he built for our wedding day and which almost ended our marriage before we had the opportunity to exchange vows. When Paul and I chose our wedding site in West Marin, we were both immediately enamored with the idea that we get married outside adjacent to a small lake. Unfortunately, there was a path that led to a creek that had to be crossed in order to get to a pasture that ultimately led to the lake. The creek crossing was an automatic deal breaker for me. As I mentioned above, I was brought up to view a crossing as a reason to turn back. We could get married on this side of the creek. It was as simple as that. Paul did not agree. He insisted that he could simply build a bridge that would allow us to get married on the far side of the creek at the lake.  Despite my vocal protests, he recruited friends (thanks, Chris, Amy and Carina!), spent several months planning and several weekends building, and he made it happen. He built that bridge. And we were married next to the beautiful lake, just where we had originally envisioned.

Dillon has recently taken to the notion of being the layer of river stones and the improver of homemade river bridges. Rather than simply look for a path to cross himself, he now stops and surveys the local resources,  holding us back while he carefully plans out a path and slowly engineers it, moving and adjusting rocks and logs until he comes up with an acceptable route. I feel simultaneously impatient and proud as he works. I see so much of his dad in him, and it makes me wonder at the magic of genes and socialization and the creation of children, stuck on the river bank, awaiting his masterpiece. I also like to think that there's a bit of me in this maturing boy, some part of him that wishes to serve others by laying down the path, gifting those that come after us a safe and steady path as well.

Possibility #4:  You simply cannot cross the river at this time, either because the current is too strong, the water is too deep, or a combination of the two. 

Knowing one's limits is important. Not all rivers are meant to be crossed. 

The people we live among hold deep respect for the power and strength of the surrounding rivers. Rivers can swell quickly and act violently. Angry rivers tear down bridges, pull houses off their foundations, and destroy entire towns.  Last year, intense flooding of local rivers did all these things. 

Under ideal circumstances, one can read a river, understand its course, its depth, its power, and make an informed decision about the safety of traversing its banks. But in times of heavy rains or storms, rivers can be less predictable and more dangerous. Sometimes postponing a crossing is the best idea. 

Just last week, an Ecuadorian woman and her five-year-old child were rescued from the swollen Rio Grande in Texas; the woman's husband was not so lucky. He saved the two of them from being swept by a  current and ultimately drowned himself. The family was trying to cross the river to enter the United States. 

It is also okay to turn around and try again another day. Trust your gut. Know your skill level. And be smart.

***

There is a funny scene in one of our many favorite children's chapter books, The Very Very Far North, about a polar bear named Duane and a musk ox named Handsome. We quote it often when crossing rivers. In the scene, Duane is coaxing Handsome across a river, and Handsome is not feeling confident as he precariously balances, his hooves barely holding onto the slippery rocks. "I am not steady, Duane," yells Handsome, nervously, "I am not steady!"

What is the worst possible outcome? I ask myself, as I shout out nervously, "I am not steady, Dillon, I am not steady!" Worst case scenario? I fall in. My feet get wet. They will dry. So will my socks. And my pants. Even my ego will recover.

photo credit: The Very Very Far North, Dan Bar-el