Water Song

November 16th, 2012 No Comments

Being a Remembrance of the Lake Linganore Dam at Eaglehead

by C. Roberson

It was a shifty, rather chilly, grey day. Papa suggested that we go for a hike, me and him. I asked where we might go. “Oh, down by the dam,” he casually replied. “That might be fun.” So we set out.

We walked down from our house until we came to a small path that led off towards the dam. We crossed a road, and then walked back onto the path, which continued on the other side. The trail ran along the top of a sloping mass of land, bordered by an inlet from the lake. Trees dotted the landscape, and peeking out from the flora was the lake itself, spread out at the base of the hill. Still, humped mountains stood sentinel over the tableau, the grey clouds like puffs of cold breath around their peaks. We took a right turn, entering a more enclosed path, with the lake on one side and trees, mountainous rocky slopes, houses and gardens on the other. In this way we walked, the air chill and fresh around us, each lungful sending icy vigor into our veins. The path went all the way to the dam, and as we drew closer I could hear the thunder of the water, and could see the large formation up ahead. A slight shiver went through me as I saw the place where the water vanished, dividing the trees and lake with a wavering line. Finally we reached the last hill. We bent forward and hiked up it. A breeze met us at the top, swirling and cool, and the roar increased in our ears as we gained the hill and gazed around us.

We stood on a wide strip of land. On either side the ground fell away, leaving us pushed up seemingly near the clouds, with the smell of water in the air. We took a few timid steps towards the end of the trail, and then we ran. Excitement quickening our feet, we rushed, laughing, to the place where the water was set free. We came to a stop, the breath driven from our lungs, and with the long grasses waving and whispering by our faces, we looked over the rail and down. At the bottom was the water. Silently, a sheet of unbroken liquid, it slid from the lake, gathering speed, spilling over the edge, and then striking the bottom. The peaceful water transformed as it was broken upon the rocks. It crashed down, thundering and roaring, smashing into the rocks with the dull thud of tons of water collectively hitting solid mass. Tossed and hammered by the sheer force of the water pouring down behind it, the water seethed around the pinnacles of rock, until, in a great cascade of roiling white water, it swirled out into the wide pool of water at the base, sending spirals of foam out across the surface.

Spray and droplets shot high as the water flowed, ceaseless floods in an unbroken sequence of splashing and rushing, waves and fingers of transparent white. It sent tremors through the very ground, the pounding arresting your heartbeat and making it thrum in time with the entrancing, almighty song.

At the bottom the water surged out into the still pool, gently slowing its rush. Then the current tugged it, smoothly, quietly, and the water streamed out of the pool and joined courses with a wide, steady river flowing north.

We were silent, our faces rosy with cold, smiles in our eyes. The water and the power and the wild air sweeping through us set a glow alight inside. We leaned against the rail, the metal pressing against our foreheads, and let our eyes be caught by the thundering water. We rested, alone under the grey sky, with the water song reverberating in our ears.

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