Rock Talk, or What I Learned in a Stream Bed

I was down at Tired Dog Ranch this weekend, and on Sunday morning, I followed the creek to the Willamette river. I stood in the creek, under the bridge, debating whether my cowgirl boots were the best attire for creek walking. Benny and Hunni joined me, biting at the water, and Bob, Tired Dog’s resident aussie led the way.

Bob

I love water. The 66% of me that is water likes to go home to the curling eddies of Grey Creek. The water is cold, colder in some places than others, like little surprises as I walk along.

So, there I am, in the water, as it gets shallower and shallower, as the rocks peep over the edge, half in and half out, and then the water’s gone, and I’m nowhere near the river yet. The creek has jumped to the right, and left a wide trail of rocks, high and dry.

I don’t know the etymology of the phrase “high and dry”. It must be a boat thing. These rocks lay in wait, stuck on their journey to the sea. They must crave the water to wash over them. It’s what they know, and from the smoothness and roundness of the rocks here, what they’ve known for thousands of years.

Change is like that. We crave what we’ve known. We crave our old lives to wash over us. Our old habits, the little ebbs and flows that we recognize.

I don’t know what the rocks are thinking. But I know that they’ve got all the time in this world to get to the sea.

This sounds silly. Why do I even think they want to get to the sea? Isn’t it water that rushes that way? Don’t rocks just heave and change in place?

I don’t know. What I hear is that these rocks want to be covered with water and in the sea. They want to feel the rush of the ocean overhead, and the deep hush of the floor. They have urges as deep and strong as ours.

And if this is all just nutty-koo-koo talk, then so be it, I’m not hurting anyone.

So, in this dry stream bed, I can’t help but pick up a couple to carry to the river to get them a little farther. Bob and Benny and Hunni and I scramble over blackberry bushes and across rickety footbridges, made of old pallets. We get to the river’s edge and I toss the rocks over the side, and Bob and I sit and watch the river go by. Bob belongs on Huck Finn’s raft. He looks the part.

I turn around,and go back up the creek and get the feeling that we have just as much time as the rocks. We have all the time in the world to get where we need to go. We don’t have to hurry or panic.

I got lost on the way back, so I asked Bob, and he showed me the way to the ranch. That’s the beauty of animal communication. You can ask directions from an aussie.