Knee-deep
Ever gone wading in a creek?
I’m not talking about a flat-land creek where the water is warm and smooth, and there’s soft mud oozing between your toes. I’m talking about wading knee-deep in a mountain stream lined with granite rocks worn round and smooth from tumbling down a slope of rapids. Where the water is not warm. Not refreshingly cool like the neighborhood swimming pool. It’s cold like the banks of snow a mile and a half up-river where it trickled from, a degree and a half ago.
Water rushes over your feet, pushing against your legs, trying to sweep you along with it. The sand under your toes is sharp and melts away in the current. The rocks are slippery, tipping and rolling under your weight.
Knee-deep in crystal clear water, the view is not the same as what you see from the bank. There are glimpses of golden flecks on the creek bed. Light ripples along the surface, and you can feel its reflection on your face. Once you leave the side and step into the current, you can see upriver, where the water rushing over your feet has been, and where it’s heading. All the way down to the next bend.
One summer when I was a kid, my family camped while my father attended summer school classes at a nearby college. Our campsite was beside a stream. My brothers and I spent the hours with our dog, splashing in the water, chasing minnows, and skipping stones. At suppertime, when our dad returned from town and built the campfire, we shoved our feet back into our shoes, wet sand still clinging to our toes.
So when my kids still lived at home, I’d pack a lunch, load it and the kids into the Suburban, and head for a creek. We’d spread the denim blanket on the creek bank under the trees and have a picnic. Then we’d pull our books out of the backpack and lay on the blanket and read, sometimes to ourselves, sometimes to each other. Invariably, at some point in the day, we’d shuck our hiking boots, and wade in the water.
One time, my daughter decided she was going to wade clear across, to see what it was like on the other side. I let her go. I knew she might slip, or a rock might roll under her, dunking her into the freezing water. If that happened, it wouldn’t matter that the water wasn’t too deep. What would matter would be her ability to rise against the current, regain her footing, and make it to the shore, soaking wet and freezing.
She made it part way.
I don’t remember what happened—whether she fell in, or got hurt, or was just too chilled to continue, but there she was, stranded on a rock in the middle of the stream.
I walked out to meet her. Together we waded over the slippery rocks, fighting the current of ice-cold water until we reached the shore and the warmth of the denim quilt.
Sometimes I sit on a rock by the side of the creek and let my toes skim the icy surface, but that isn’t really wading. It’s like tapping my toe to the music but not dancing. It’s not truly wading unless I peel the shoes and socks from my feet, stash them on the dry side of the rock, then stand up and walk into the water.
Sometimes I feel stranded like my daughter was, alone and trembling in the middle of the creek. I’ve come part way. But I know how cold the water is. I know the rocks on the bottom of the creek are unstable and slick, and a misstep could keep me from reaching the destination I’ve chosen.
But I can’t not go. I can’t stay on the solid rock on this edge of the stream, even though from this point I can dabble my toes, and watch the sparkle of the sunlight on the water. It’s beautiful here. But what if the other side is even better? Is that where I’m supposed to go? If I stay here, will I only dream of what I might find there?
Want to join me? Want to brave the current, despite the unsure footing and the possibility that what awaits us on the other side is not as good as we imagine? Let’s go. Together.
