The word at the river committee table has been that the same flood that went off with our beach had scoured the river islands, left them sandy and clear. Not being a paddler, I had not been on our island, literally, in years. Also, the rumor of dense fields of poison ivy has always made summer exploration unappealing. His first year in Blacksburg, Jerry emerged from the island with a horrifying case of P.I. When Jon Henry and Jay were very wee lads they found a tattered old map that led them, and their dads, to a pirate’s treasure buried on the island. I don’t think anyone from my family has ventured there since.
This summer, while sitting on the diving rock across the river, I watched motor boats disappear into the island (also watched a bald eagle plummet from an island tree into the New) and not come out. When Shannon and Kathy kayaked the lagoon between land and island, they discovered the hidden spring of lore. Back when passenger trains passed through, in the days of passenger trains, they stopped at my spring to harvest drinking water. (Does anyone remember the French film “Manon of The Spring?”) When I bought the land, an old neighbor tried to bully the deed to the spring from me. I never could even find it, let alone feel I owned the spring.
Stream in the Island
Yesterday my ReNew friend Dave came by with his canoe and we set out to explore the island. The river is now too shallow to allow motor boat entrance into the stream that intersects the island; in fact, too low for even a canoe. The lagoon on the far side of the island is now also too shallow. But the water in those two streams flows startlingly clear over stony bottoms. Much of the shale in the lagoon is jade green, the island stream is paved with smooth pebbles, round river rocks; small sandy beaches rim the water edges, massive trees with mossy trunks cast wide shadows over the water. Flowers, sand, a fire pit festooned with beer cans, bright tunnel views of the river, ferns. . . no poison ivy. Except for the beer cans, and a few tires buried in pale sand, it was like being in a cathedral. I thought of “The Blue Lagoon,” “The Secret Garden,” and even “Swiss Family Robinson.” I wanted my childhood back, so I could spend all of those unfettered summers in shade and cool water surrounded by the sound of the rapids.
River jade
At the end of the island, where it opens suddenly to a wide expanse of the river, we waded into the lagoon and followed it back toward the beginning of the island. There was a small current and the water was slightly cooler than the sun-speckled island stream. We waded, sometimes thigh high, until the water became abruptly cold. The spring. When Shannon described it, the spring was bubbling up through the lagoon. With the water low, we could see where it spilled from the hillside. InDEED it was my spring!
The Lagoon
The island needs some care. There are those tires and beer cans, it has obviously been a party place. I can’t help but envy the party goers and feel regret that I’ve owned and neglected such a magical place for almost thirty years. Of course, it didn’t need me, its glory is all its own.
Place of the Heart