A Walk to the River

I walk Wolfgang down to the river every day. I talk to the river, and ask it to teach me, to impart its wisdom. Wolfgang doesn’t care; he’s happy to be walking the trail in any weather, sniffing at all his favorite spots. It’s a time in my life when I’m unemployed, so I need the wisdom the river has to offer, not to mention its lessons of peace and tranquility, to quell the anxiety I face every day. I make a wish for guidance, to give me a sign that something good will happen.

It’s the same walk, but somehow it’s different every day. The weather, the sun, the rain…it never takes away from the lessons and the sapience the river has to impart.

What is the meaning of life? If you ask a river, it probably would say something like, “To keep flowing.” If you ask Wolfgang, he’d probably say napping and treats.

I get up one morning, just like all the others, follow my morning routine, leash up Wolfgang, and visit the river. It’s a warm, sunny day, and the sunlight dances like light from a disco ball on the swift moving water.

It’s a popular trail in the county where I live, lots of people use the trail for walking, jogging, bicycle riding. It’s also frequented by the homeless, a forgotten slice of the population who want to remain out of sight, tuck themselves away under the cover of the trees and brush. That’s one of the lessons of the river: go with the flow.

The river doesn’t play favorites: it treats everyone as equals. There are those who are masterful on it and can navigate it easily, and there are those who will perish for lack of expertise, unable to navigate its ways. River, what will you teach me today?

Wolfgang is happy, he loves our daily walks and is excited every single day, as if it was the first time. The walk itself in reality is probably only forty-five minutes to an hour, but he manages to stretch it out to a minimum of an hour and a half. I so much as reach for his leash and he dances around the living room in his excitement. We leave the house and he leaves no stone un-sniffed.

I have a favorite viewing spot, where we stop and look around, take in the beauty of the river and its surrounding banks. Wolfgang performs his one and only trick, to sit, and gets a treat for it. The spot is twenty yards from a park bench, just a bare spot where the grass is worn down a bit from a few walkers simply patch of grass worn down by who have also discovered the beauty of this seemingly innocuous but special spot. Most walkers, joggers, bicyclists stop at the benches for a bit of rest or to enjoy the view, but the view from this spot, a mere twenty yards away, is actually much better, by the way the curve of the river and its banks frame the picture. It’s the same river, but the perspective is vastly different. The river says, “I can take you on a journey.”

I contemplate the river from this point. Its swift moving water, its wooded banks, elevated ten or fifteen feet and lined with large rocks to keep erosion at bay, its curves, upstream, downstream. I think to myself, “This really is the best viewing spot.” If you listen to the river long enough, peacefully enough, and quietly enough, it will sing its song to you.

I move to the edge where grass meets rock and find a spot, a few feet down, to sit. Not exactly stair steps, but it’s partly down the side of the bank. Wolfgang follows tentatively. It’s warm today, so I take a sip of water from my thermos, and pour some into Wolfgang’s collapsible bowl, which he happily slurps up.

The river flows swiftly, catching and pulling debris along the way. Over time, I have seen tree branches, submerged logs, buoys, even deflated balloons snagged and partially submerged at its banks. The river reminds me it isn’t stopped by obstacles; the river runs over it, around it, beside it, maybe even under it. It never stops. An obstacle never makes the river stop, not even a dam. It says, “keep moving forward.”

Looking to the right of where I’m sitting, I see amidst a tangle of branches and weeds, a clump of debris with a small black plastic bag with a perfectly tied red bow protruding from it. It was close to the water’s edge, so it must have been blown up there and wedged in amongst the rocks by the storm that passed through the area a few days ago.

It was the red bow that got my attention. It was a little weathered by the water of course, a bit faded from exposure to the elements, and covered with silt from travelling in the river. I had to see what was inside.

I carefully climbed over the jagged rocks to try to reach the bag. Precariously balancing myself on the point of a large rock, hoping the soles of my worn hiking boots were still rugged enough to grip, and holding on to a bent tree branch overhead for balance, I reached out as far as my somewhat short stature would allow. Not enough. I needed another foot or so of reach. Backing off, I looked around for something to extend my reach, and breaking off a small part of another branch, I think I had it. Again I stepped carefully over the rocks, grabbed on to the overhead branch for balance, used the extra stick for length and was able to snag the a loop of the red bow with my stick and loosen it from its resting place.

It was heavier than it first appeared to be. I though my little branch was going to break, so I tried to fling it closer to me on the rocks where I sat earlier.

Success!

I eased myself back to the spot and examined the bag. It was dirty from its watery journey and covered with silt, obviously having been caught in the storm. It was surprising that the bag itself was intact, with only minor scuff marks on the outside, and no tears. It felt like there were several items in the bag.

Opening it gave me the shock of my life.

There was a small black book, like the kind one would use as a journal, the size of a half sheet of paper. It had a covered elastic band on the outside and two satin ribbons for use as bookmarks on the inside. The water apparently had not touched it, it’s fabric cover was still smooth and soft to the touch. It was obvious that some of the pages had been written on. But that was not the most surprising item in the bag. There was something else.

A small manila envelope was in the bag. It was quite lumpy with its contents. I bent the wings of the metal clasp and opened the flap. The envelope contained cash, and lots of it!

What is the first thing someone does in this scenario? I looked around to see if anyone was watching. I didn’t look at my FitBit, but it probably recorded a huge jump in my heart rate. I closed the envelope, placed it back in the bag with the notebook, and then closed up the bag. I decided to take it back home with me to examine the contents in private.

I grabbed Wolfgang’s leash and we walked home with decided haste. My heart was racing. What could this be about? Wolfgang of course like to stop and sniff. I tried to curtail that as much as I could. We got to the trailhead, wended our way through the neighborhood and arrived back home, undetected.

I counted the cash first. There was over $200K in hundred-dollar bills. That would explain the heft. Why in the world would someone carry that kind of cash in an envelope? Certainly the most common reasons would not be good. It wasn’t ink-stained, so it probably wasn’t in a bank robbery.

What about the book? It looked to be someone’s journal. About half the pages had writing. It was written in the kind of cursive handwriting that you don’t see much anymore, much like handwriting you’d see from the older generation.

It had about six months’ worth of writing, maybe two to three times a week. In one of the last entries, the retiree was talking about taking the trip of a lifetime around the world in memory of his late wife. He had sold most of his possessions—that would account for the large amount of cash. Was he ill? That still leaves the question of how it ended up in the river…

The river is Yin and Yang. The river takes, and the river gives. Today the river said, “Do the right thing. Give the money back.”

I called my local police department, got transferred to someone, and explained the situation. We made arrangements for me to drop by with cash in hand.

When I got there, I was led to a room, and I laid out the bag and its contents on a table. We counted the cash, and I told him about the journal. They asked me some questions about where I found it, under what circumstances, and so on. They were grateful for me coming forward, and thanked me for doing so. “It’s not something everyone would do,” said the officer. “Well, it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do,” I said. I can only think that if it was mine, I’d want someone to do this.

They explained that the typical procedure is that the department does a search, local first, expanding regionally, then nationally if needed, to find out if there are any thefts or losses reported, and then use clues from the journal to find the owner and his backstory.

I was content that I had done the right thing, knowing that my conscience would let me sleep tonight. I got up to leave and thanked the officer for taking the time to speak to me and started heading for the door.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “we’re not done.” My heart sank. Was there a problem? Oh no, what have I done?! “There’s no problem. You don’t want to leave without collecting your reward. Ten percent of the find is customary in these circumstances. If we find the owner, they can decide if it should be more, but you are due a little over twenty thousand dollars just for finding this and turning it in…”

River, thank you. I will always listen to you.