What if our sins cannot be washed away so easily, What if a flood, after all, is only a flood, cleansing nothing? What if I’ve learned the wrong lesson from every story? Would withstand the logjam the bridge was swept Local paper, predicting an iron railroad bridge “A HUNDRED DOLLARS TO AN OLD HAT SHE HOLDS” The story of a river in America is always a story of destruction. Henry David Thoreau, on the Eastern White PineĪcross Happy Hollow Road, across Gillespie’s pasture, past barbwire and tree line, the river of my childhood still twists and eddies south toward the gulf, cold as memory’s fist, even on the sunniest day, even decades later as I cross a new river each day, the same river, the only river, the river I’ve invented, shaped and poured to quench my thirst to be loved, a filled trench, a scar left 11,000 years ago as the great glaciers crawled north, meltwater left to find its own way to the lake. LIKE GREAT HARPS ON WHICH THE WIND MAKES MUSIC Listen closely: underneath the knock and clatter, the trees still sing. Thirty-seven million tons of white pine clears its throat. Sky of only lightning, mouth of only teeth, all bite and churn, thrust and spear, the kind of mess made by men who have men to clean up their messes. Listen: one hundred fifty million feet of logs: skew and splinter thirty feet high for seven river-miles.
Was one of the biggest in the history of logging. The 1883 logjam on Michigan’s Grand River
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