Rivers

I almost drowned once in an ice cold river. Probably not really, but it sure felt that way as I was pulled downstream, my arms and legs and feet and hands instantly numbed by water that was snow yesterday. I tried to follow the rules: "Lay on your back, point your feet that way, let the current carry you to shore, okay, okay, I can do that." I watched the trees above me, the blue skies, the cliffs over there, a hawk soaring through the spring Colorado air. My life flashed before my eyes. It really did. No lie. The last few years especially, and for a moment I could see what might have been.

Before I moved to Colorado in 2006, the only up-close and personal experiences I'd had with rivers involved bikinis and inner-tubes and coolers of beer. I wore the bikinis, floated on the inner-tubes in warm and near-stagnant river water, and yes, heartily partook of the beer.
And then, there was the year that the Trinity River flooded East Texas in the early 90s. I was living on the Rattlesnake Ranch near Crockett, about 2 hours north of Houston. Despite its name, the Rattlesnake Ranch did not raise sidewinders. Cattle and pecans were the primary crops, and my husband supervised the growing of them. We lived in a small white-frame house with our four babies, in the middle of a pecan orchard. When torrential rains fell on North Texas, the Trinity River surged south, gaining momentum and width as it wound its way to the Gulf of Mexico.
The Trinity made up the western border of the ranch, and our house was a mere 1/2 mile from its banks. Day by day, the river rose, eventually swallowing those banks and creeping closer and closer to our little white house. When it became apparent that the water was going to keep a comin', we prepared to move to another house on the ranch, about five miles away and on much higher ground. I couldn't have been happier. I had coveted that other house since our move to the ranch the year earlier. It was much larger, older, and filled with much more character than our boxy white plain Jane. I packed up our stuff with a flourish, excitement spurring me to haste.
And, oh yeah, there was that small matter of rising water. By the time we finished moving, the little white house was surrounded by river, on a small island of its own. The pecan trees in the orchard stood still, refusing to be budged by the force of the flood. But we were gone, never to return.

To be continued.....