On the Road
Message In A Bottle
by Tracey Bruce on 11/19/11
The day was a study in gray. The winds, however, were warm for November, and we took the opportunity to walk along the river. Rain is wanting here in the midwest. The summer was long, hot and dry. The autumn brought very little water with it. The river has receded and the Meramec makes its way meandering spindly and slow to the Mississippi.
After a few false starts we decided to take the easy road and walk the riverbed. Bed is the correct term, bedrock actually, and it was interesting to tred on stone that has been immersed in water for maybe as long as a decade.
I have seen the river high. I have seen it fill the bed and climb the banks, spill over the road and almost touch the bridge. From the bed below, the enormity of it, the depth of it, the vast amount of water that has poured over these stones was evident and almost overwhelming.
As we walked, we found things--trash of course, bottles and cans, plastic bags, a pair of shorts and a pillow (of all things). But also we picked up a few pieces of crinoids, the fossils of ancient marine animals. There were shells of mussels, and the remains of a few dead fish...those, of course, we left behind.
About a quarter mile in we began to see among the large rocks that line the river banks, pieces of glass, lots of it. It was old and mostly broken. There were creamy white glass lids once used for canning, thick embossed soda bottles, pieces of pottery, cup handles and broken bowls, even part of a sink. We wondered how old but couldn't quite tell. I know that it has surely been some time since Clorox was sold in brown glass jugs. At least as long as 50 years, and maybe longer. It is uncertain how it all got there, but most likely as the result of a flood, either during or in the aftermath.
I salvaged a salt shaker. It was clear and definately cut glass. There were a couple chips and no top, but I thought it might hold a violet or two come spring. Then about the time we were leaving, I found a whole glass bottle tied with a cord and tangled in a shrub. Inside was a piece of paper. There was printing on it but the paper was curled and I couldn't read it. Could it be a message in a bottle someone tossed in the river long ago?
I do have an imagination, and the idea was romantic, but my friend informed me that the likely purpose for the bottle was to mark a fishing line. Half the bottle was covered with orange paint, and the cord was tied to a big nasty hook. He said fisherman were supposed to have their names on those kinds of line markers, so perhaps the slip of paper held a name.
Oh well, the older I get, the more of a realist I become anyway. We turned back, and I plunked the bottle in the back of the pick-up and forgot about it, until this morning, two days later, November 17 when my friend brought the bottle by. We had to use a pliers to get the lid off. Under the lid was a cork sealed with some kind of wax and the stench of alcohol. We poked the cork down in the hole and carefully pulled the paper out with a screwdriver. It was quite fragile, and quite strange, for on the paper was an invitation to the Ladue Holiday Walk...The date was Sunday, Nov. 29.
Ladue is known as one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the St. Louis Metro--old money. Why an invitation to their elite shops was sealed in a bottle and thrown in the Meramec river is bizarre, completely irrelevent, and kind of stupid. And so, there was no message for me from any person living or otherwise. But there is one bizarre coincidence... Because I was curious, I googled the Ladue Holiday Walk. (I was hoping to win a prize). And it's tonight. This very night, the night of the day I opened the bottle.
I did call a couple businesses listed on the paper. It seems the invite may be from as long ago as 1998. They haven't had it on Sundays for several years. But no one knew anything about a message in a bottle.
I don't know what that means in the great scheme of the universe. If I was free tonight, I'd go and drag my river refuse with me, telling them it was fate that sent me.
Life is funny isn't it? We look for insight and get an invite to a party that's already passed. Still, it was an adventure. Well, I guess we'll let the mystery be.
A few other things I drug home.
In Pursuit of the Great Blue Bird
by Tracey Bruce on 10/05/11
Wednesday, the middle of the week, and we were heading to the water, the Big River, not far from home but a journey into the wild nonetheless. We put in at the Morse Mill River Access, and the goal was an afternoon paddle upstream, a turn, and the float back. It had been maybe as many as three years since I had been on the river, although hiking along the river is a regular excursion for me, and I was looking forward to getting in the canoe and on the journey.
The day was glorious, early autumn, September when the sun was still warm and the leaves had not yet been set on fire. They possessed only a golden aura, the acknowledgement that they had seen the last of summer.
We embarked mid-morning. The river was low and slow. The summer had been dry. The earth was still blooming though, and bright sunflowers lined the banks on both sides. The paddle was easy, not a fight against the stream. Rather we glided over the top, navigating the current with very little effort.
There was no one in the park, no one on the river. It was autumn, the middle of the week and oh so quiet. Early on though, we realized we were not alone on the river.
The first time we rounded a bend, I caught a glimpse of large blue wings, a huge bird, the Great Blue Heron, startled at the splash of an oar, in flight moving away from the murmurings of the mammals in the boat, but not too far, just far enough
The Great Blue Heron has a range that encompasses almost all of North America and is not an uncommon sight around here. On any given day almost if you watch the skies in this river valley you will see one traveling somewhere, but up close, close enough to see the details, to get a clear sharp picture, well, let’s say, they are rather elusive. And so it was, on that Wednesday.
There were ripples ahead and decisions to make.
There was lunch to eat too, and once we walked the canoe up the stiffer current, we floated awhile rounded another bend, watched the heron fly off and parked on a sandy island to eat peanut butter sandwiches.
Wildflowers grew along the bank, ones I’ve seen before but never noticed. I’m beginning to notice things now, now in my later years--the details. It’s like seeing things new again. Not that I didn’t from my youth revel in the marvels of nature. It was just a bigger scope, the whole of it filling me and bubbling up with enthusiasm like a spring at the headwaters of a great river. And though I noticed things, it seems I never took note, and so now the minute is more important, goes deeper is more precious to me. Just as my universe has grown larger, so has the micro in my world.
Take these little beach flowers. I’ve seen them a hundred times and never looked at them and yet they are perfect as the Star of Bethlehem and don’t span a quarter of my thumbnail.
And then there is this flower growing on a brilliant orange vine.
The afternoon was spent discovering, even though I’ve walked this planet for half a century. And across the river was something else to investigate. But we weren’t sure what.
And we still aren’t sure. It seems that it is a rock ledge which lies between a creek and the larger river. The creek is deep and wide, yet seems to have made no headway on the ledge and is content to trickle over it sparingly sprinkling water into the river. Of course, the river is low. Surely it is covered completely after a good rain.
But it was time to turn around and make the float back. Funny about my friend and I we never travel too far because there is always so much to see from here to there.
Sometimes though, they are kingfishers, like that pair that played and called and circled so fast on one stretch of river. And then there were leaping carp and turtles, also elusive slipping into the water so quickly, but I caught one.
The float back was relaxing, beautiful and green.
There was sunlight, soft breezes and blue skies.
There were dark stretches and mysteries.
And there was that Great Blue Heron leading us back--mine at last. How strange that I should capture it just as it flew beyond the boat ramp.
Along LaBarque Creek
by Tracey Bruce on 08/27/11
It was August, on the day the heat wave broke, when suddenly the air cleared and world was brilliant again. A friend and I decided to take advantage of the day and hike a conservation area near home, along LaBarque Creek. LaBarque Creek is our little jewel as close to St. Louis as a natural jewel can be. If you’ve never been there, and enjoy hiking, it’s a great place to go. The watershed is home to 42 species of fish, and other organisms that are seldom seen such as certain salamanders and particular dragonflies. Altogether the conservation area covers about 800 acres and is quite pristine.
We decided to hike along a section of the creek where there are no marked trails. It was a short span really about half a mile, and we intended to continue on towards the larger park and the marked trail, but we were meandering, photographing wild flowers, wading and in general taking our good sweet time. By the time we reached the end of it, it was time to hike back.
The only problem for the day was the incredibly brilliant sunshine. We started late, about noon, and the intense light made taking photos almost impossible. I had to throw out more than half of all the shots I took. But in some cases, the light made some significant contributions to the photos. I hope you agree.
The sun, even though the air was cooler than it has been, also made the shadows so nice to linger in.
We were photographing wildflowers and there was certainly an abundance of them! We had a pocket guide and were trying to identify them as we went. I had a notion that I would compile the photos into my own guide. (Somebody needs to sit on me when I have these notions). But we did find some beautiful and interesting blooms.
Take a look at these. I have not found them in the catalog yet. This was looking from above.
This was when I turned them over. They were on a vine.
And if there were the blooms of genesis, there also were the digesters of death, and just as beautiful.
The creek of course was low. We are not in a drought, but have abnormally dry conditions this summer. Some parts of the creek were just big puddles and trickles but in other places there were thigh deep pools with bass and lots of frogs. There were however, the leavings of wetter season, flash floods--- wide gullies and massive trees in jams across the stream. Sometimes we had to wade and climb over them. I was looking for snakes, let me tell you!
One of the nicest spots along the journey was when the creek hit “the mountain” a rock wall that turned the stream on its ear and shielded us from the sun. We lingered there for some time, watching the reflection of ripples from the stream play on the rock wall.
The sun however, was finally in the home stretch, we climbed out of woods and found the road, hiked the highway back. It was a good day.
If you haven't been to the LaBarque Creek Conservation area, the fall season might be the perfect time to venture there, however, after speaking with a fellow visitors, it's important to remember, hikers and hunters don't mix. Avoid hunting seasons for both deer and turkey in the fall and spring.
We Can Do Better
by Tracey Bruce on 07/22/11
Sometimes in the morning, if I wake up early, my schedule is loose and the light is right, I go to the river, hike its banks and take pictures. I love the Big River. I love rivers in general. They are a part of who I am, and home to me.
Here in the Northwest part of the county, we are blessed (and sometimes cursed but mostly blessed) to have the Big River in our backyard. It's not only part of our geography, but a legacy, part of the heritage of this place, not only from when the river mills were profitable businesses, the center of an agricultural community, but from the times when people from the city played along its banks all summer escaping the St. Louis heat.
I am reminded of course, that people did not always treat the river kindly. There was a time when people thought little about the river's health and our own. A time when washing lead down the river was someone else's problem and of course, there was ignorance about its effects at the time. There was also a time, that I can remember when the river was a place to dump things. People again came from the city out to places they thought were wild to get rid of their old appliances, tires, etc. I'm not sure what they were thinking, but I'm glad those days are over. And I'm proud of the fact that Operation Clean Stream has made our beautiful Big River better.
But, I'm not so proud of the condition I find our river accesses in when I take those morning hikes. The Cedar Hill Access is especially bad. The parking lot is strewn with litter, cans, cups, broken glass. The beach is covered with plastic bottles, charcoal, articles of clothing and other trash left behind. Sometimes even though the beauty of the river surrounds me, the mess is all I see.
I realize that the Cedar Hill access is a busy place. On a hot summer day like today, there are people there sunning and swimming from sun up to sun down. They aren't city people anymore though, they're our friends and neighbors. These are their parks and our parks, and you'd think we all could take a little more pride in them.
Operation Clean Stream is coming up, and teams are forming for the annual river clean up. It is held the fourth Saturday in August each year and is a worthy effort that has made a difference. But with a lot less effort and a little more thought, we can make a difference everyday in our parks and along the banks of the Big River.
Now, I'm not naive, those who leave a mess at the beach are probably not reading this editorial, but for those of us who do care, I think we should show it. To refer to my old Girl Scout maxim, let's leave our beaches a little better than we find them and be an example to those around us. It could catch on. All I know is that we can do better.
For those who want to take on the big day on the Big River, call 636-452-3588 for more information on Operation Clean Stream. Participants need to have their own canoe or boat and be familiar with the water.
All Together Now
by Tracey Bruce on 02/09/11
It was snowing when I left, just lightly, unless you looked up into the streetlights where thousands of flakes whirled in soft descent. I was on my way to Grand Slam and the music jam that has graced our area in various places for at least six years now. Maybe you remember when they met at Hardees in House Springs. The crowd came to see the Ozark Bluegrass Boys rehearse and filled the fast food restaurant to standing room only every week. Well the venue was too small, and the band quit coming, but the crowd wouldn't budge. They still met each Monday for dinner, and the players among them started bringing their own guitars.
The group moved a time or two, but they are still more or less together. That is the best part about it. They fuss and fight a bit, but they are in it together--until they depart. They are an older crowd, and when they reach their yearly milestones they celebrate, and when one falls sick they pray for each other, and when they pass, they play. And so it is, and we have lost another.
Bill Gorsuch was a familiar face in Cedar Hill. I knew him. He lived nearby, and sometimes I would drive him home after a bluegrass jam. If you live in Cedar Hill you probably have seen him hitchhiking along Highway 30. He never owned a car, and before he retired, he worked at St. Joseph's Hospital and hitchhiked every day to work. He was never late they say, though it meant getting up in the wee hours of the morning. I remember one day seeing him along the highway. A police officer had stopped, and was talking to him. I pulled over and another car pulled right behind me. The two of us explained to the cop that Bill was okay, and offered him a ride.
Bill was something of a character. Maybe he wasn't quite right. He had rheumatic fever when he was a child, and it set him back a bit, but he was still okay.
He played the guitar, banjo, mandolin, but mostly the harmonica when I knew him, and I can hear him playing and singing in my mind even now, "Working on a building, a Holy Ghost building, working on a building for my Lord, for my Lord." Whenever I saw him he would tell me "We appreciate you. Love you." He loved God too, and he went to all the churches when they had a singing. No, Bill wasn't a community leader. He didn't have any influence or money, but he had a place in our community, he cared about people and presented an opportunity for us to do good, to be helpful, to show kindness, to love. He will be missed.
While I was at the jam, I visited with all my friends. I don't see them as often as I would like any more. It sure is good to get together, even when there are fewer of us than there were before. The Bluegrass Boys come on occasion, but the players in the audience have taken the stage. We all have a song to sing.
At the end of the evening, when I walked out of the restaurant, there was a dusting of snow on the parking lot. It's sometimes hard in winter. The landscape is barren, the air is cold, and it's harder to get around. But there are beautiful things about winter too--the way the snow sparkles on the grass and the clear air that brightens the stars and allows us to see further into the heavens. And on those cold nights it's good to have the warmth of friends and sing while there is still time.
