Racing the Bow River

The virgin air has enrobed herself richly in the scent of pine – proud and majestic.

The weary earthen trail of a thousand footsteps is dappled by sunlight and cool shadow.

The Bow River teases me, daring me to race its running turquoise waters.

Tumble. Frolic. Crafting little mountains as it vaults over rocks.

I feel my youth answering the river’s dare,

and so I run with one eye on the fast waters and the other on those elderly roots wishing to chastise my raucous behaviour.

Pound, pound, pound. My legs relish being airborne.

I sprint at the speed of water, spooking a magpie from its lunch.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. My inner engine overheats and I downshift to a walk.

The river roars its victory as it frothes past on its way to the finish line -

All the way to Hudson’s Bay.

Maybe one day, I shall follow it and watch it join the ocean.

There, the waters shall shake off the dust of its travels: the collective manure of Canada’s breadbasket and its three names: The Bow river, the South Saskatchewan River, and the Nelson River… man-names disposed of the instant it tastes salt and proudly shapeshifts into

Ocean: home of singing giants and glowing things.

But I am here, in the land of Chinook winds and God’s vast architecture.

Two continents at war.

Or are they embracing?

The rock is slabbed and the earthen colours often run diagonally as if installed wrong.

Permanently impermanent.

The sun forsakes the valley.

I love days like today when these stone giants hide their faces behind billowing veils of clouds.

Even mountains like privacy sometimes.

On days like today, the mountains promise to be taller than they actually are.

Or their tips float like islands of legend only to be veiled again by the fast moving greys.

Ethereal. Silent. Soft.

Where will these mysterious flying travelers choose to unburden their gift of rain?

The mountain man says that hiking on a day like today can drive you to insanity.

Cloud above.

Damp stone and aching muscles.

Cloud below.

Lost.

They say that it is the journey and not the destination.

But what of hope?

Today, I do not climb a mountain.

Instead, I race the river.

Tumble. Frolic. Rumble.

A beautiful lively and life-giving thing.

A cold, cruel thing with vast appetites and concealing sharp stones beneath its surface.

Much like the human soul.

Take care that it does not run away with you!