River Walk

Far up on the northern plains lies a sleepy little town that often invades upon my dreams. To call it a town, indeed to call it sleepy, is perhaps a gross overstatement of its true nature. Yet even a walk through my thesaurus leaves me unsatisfied, so the description will have to do. Apart from the occasional car scattering rocks across the loose gravel roads, the only sound you are likely to hear is that of the open wind. A lonely little post office stands open, servicing those very few that still make their residence in this forgotten place. A railroad used to run through here, but like the long abandoned grain elevator standing vigil at the town's east end, all that remains are but shadows to what once might have been.

I've often wondered why such a forlorn place so often forms the setting for my dreams. These visits are not ones I would choose, were I able to effect such a cast. When my feet walk along the tracks, or across the gravel dust, the scene that forms takes the shape of the fantastical or the apocalyptic. These nighttime fancies are neither happy nor sad, but they are almost always overcast and dimly lit. In my waking moments, these dreams presage a sense of melancholy, although not overwhelming, that often lingers with me throughout the day. I find in such days a respite, I suppose, given to a quiet, thoughtful isolation of my inner self.

Like forgotten magic, this place features a strange juxtaposition of dream and memory. For though I have not set foot here in decades, I know every street, every house, every trailer. Here is my house, with its detached garage and basketball hoop. Next door was the old farmer and his wife, who every so often chopped the heads off of whatever domesticated fowl they happened to be raising that year. Across the road from them was yet another home, with the finished basement that served as a sanctuary for this pox-riddled teenager during a vivid midnight run through a tornadic storm. And across from that place, through a man-sized gap in the fence next to the horse barn, was the access to the river.

Turtle River, it was called. During the summer, it was a playground, my own Terebithia after a fashion. Trees walled its banks, and every so often provided spans on which to cross from side to side. These were private, precious days, a place I credit with my first awakening to the reality of self, the reality of life. Fun enough for summer, I suppose, but my memories of the river were fiercely shaped and hardened by the bitter cold of the Dakota winter.

Being fairly shallow, comparatively speaking, the river easily froze over when the temperature fell. Layers upon layers of frozen snow matted the surface, paving the meandering lane a brilliant white. Bare and brown limbs stood starkly on each bank, where coupled with the constant overcast of gray, often left one to wonder if all the color had gone out of the world. The days were short in that season, and the mercury often struggled to reach much beyond the single digits. Every exhaled breath could, in the absence of wind, literally hang in the air in front of your face. I've rarely heard such a silence as could be found standing on that river of ice.

Silence, and solitude. To this day, in my mind's eye, I can remember almost every turn, every fallen tree along the path of the river. The only sound as yards turned into miles was the sound of booted feet crunching through the icy snow. I say miles, although I'm fairly certain it was never more than a couple. Sometimes old equipment buildings would come into sight, but for most of the journey, it was just the gray, the brown, the white, and me. Step after step, bend after bend, I might as well have been the only person on the planet. I usually tried to remain mindful of the time, however, because as the day turned to dusk, the temperature would fall and dinner would be beckoning. After a number of trips, I'd settled on a turn-around point, always the same on each sojourn down the river.

That was a different time. A lot of life has passed by since those days, for me at least. Of that time, I remember a great many things, but what I treasure most were my river walks. The chaos of a newly awakened mind found a measure of serenity there, where all that mattered was really nothing at all.

I'm not certain what prompted me, but I looked up the town using an online map tool. I marked up the image and embedded it below (click to enlarge). Seeing it this way, unfortunately, steals away some of the perspective I have so firmly fixed in my memory. But when I close my eyes, I am able to walk the river in my mind, and can still see every bend from ground level view. All the way to my turn-around point. And back.

I've pondered from time to time, whether I will ever make a trip back to that town, to walk again the gravel roads, reflect upon my old house, or watch the river flow by. I will not say never, but I think that such a journey is unlikely. I've already been there. And in my memory, and in my dreams, I can be there again. I think that is enough for me.



A Portrait of Me: The Key
A Portrait of Me: River Walk
A Portrait of Me: Journey's Dawn
A Portrait of Me: I Am Prodigal