The Way of the River

There’s a certain bend in the North River. . . If you’ve canoed the upper reaches, you’ve most likely been there, gliding softly along its curve, taking note of its well-trodden upland as you dip your paddle into its copper-colored waters. Perhaps you’ve stopped there -- or at least wished you had time to. You may have been struck by the quiet, taking note of how expertly the river folds in upon itself to mute out the continual thunder of the highway bridges that bracket this one-mile stretch.

This bend would seem no different from any other inland segment of the North River, but for a single outstanding feature. Picture a luxuriantly wild landscape, a field of green and golden marsh grass and a dense hardwood forest divided by a serpentine river that rises and falls with the ocean’s tides. The July sky is mostly clear, flecked with an occasional puff of cloud. Red-wing black birds flit from tree to tree; sometimes a hawk, or even an occasional eagle, passes overhead. Focus now on the tall, broad oak poised on the slope of the upland. Follow the arch of its strongest branch as it stretches over the stream. There, one third of the way out, a slender length of rope hangs over the water; observe how securely it has been bound to the tree, and how its tail is drawn into a large knot. A rope swing.


The summer after my first year of college, some friends and I developed a ritual of visiting the rope swing every day at high tide. We’d structure our days around the tides, manipulating our work schedules to accommodate what became a necessary, almost vital, activity. Each day, we’d crowd into a car and drive northwest into the next town, crossing over the river a few miles downstream of the swing. Upon arrival, we would hike down into the woods, tripping eagerly along the steep downhill path as we made our way to the river’s edge.

Although on earlier canoe and rafting trips I had become aware of the power of the North River, it was this first rope swing summer that I began to feel a deep connection to it. Swimming in the river became a daily baptism; I would emerge renewed from my salty bath, leaving behind the tension I’d carried with me through the day to dissolve in the river’s cool waters. By the end of the summer, I could anticipate the North’s rises and falls without the aid of a tide chart. I was sure that if I could tune out the clatter and drone of stress and ego and sit quietly in meditation, I would feel the river’s movements in my blood.


Reaching the small, well-trodden clearing where the swing tree stood, my friends and I would take off our shoes, set down our towels, and stand in a cluster around the rope swing tree. Silent for a few seconds -- somewhat excited and somewhat apprehensive -- we’d pay our respects to the natural world that had opened its doors and permitted us to join in its dance. Breathing in the sweet scent of the forest, we would thank the swing tree for withstanding the nails we had driven into its trunk to aid our anxious climbing. Then, raising our eyes to each other in wordless consensus, we’d begin.

The boys, more carefree and courageous, always went first. Ted would race up the tree to the fifth and highest rung. He’d quickly settle himself on the knot, grab the rope, spring out into the air, and howl with delight as he fell into the river. Derek was next: he would climb the tree more cautiously, pausing on the fourth rung and taking a deep breath before taking that final step up to the top. As soon as he had steadied himself up there, though, he would leap out into the air with the same wailing abandon as Ted, splashing with glee into the water below. And then it would be my turn.


The rope swing tree is a sturdy, seasoned oak. It stands on the root-thick bank, about three feet from the water, its top branches reaching far out over the river. The tree measures two and a half feet in diameter at its base, tapering to about ten inches at the place where you would hold on if you were to jump from the fourth rung. Most of its lower branches have been removed, some by the wind, but most in order to clear the path of the swinger. Stretching far up into the sky, fifty feet and more, the tree offers anyone who dares to climb into its uppermost limbs a spectacular view of the marsh and the woods and the old stone fences that dot the riverbank at odd intervals up and down stream. Years ago, the first rope swingers nailed twelve-inch lengths of two-by-four at regular intervals up its trunk; since then, the two bottom rungs have fallen off, but the rest remain -- some loose, some secure.

The first time I climbed the rope swing tree, I didn’t jump out. Reaching the first rung was relatively easy -- only a mildly uncomfortable stretch, like skipping two steps on a staircase. The second rung was a little more difficult: many of the nails that had once held it in place had rusted and broken. Two nails remained in the center, but they were bent and corroded. I could only pause there for a second, stepping only in the exact center, knowing that an uneven distribution of weight would tip the rung and drop me back on the ground. With increasing confidence, I moved quickly on up. Arriving safely on the third rung, I paused for a moment to look down and gauge how far up I had climbed. Ten feet, almost twice my height below me, was the North River, streaming over the rocks that pinched its path, leaving nothing behind but a gentle thread of wake.


It was, as I said, the first time I had climbed the rope swing tree. I hadn’t yet forged the connection with the river that I would carry with me when autumn winds chilled the air and ended the swinging season. I hadn’t learned to listen to the river, to mimic its movements, to allow tides of energy and emotion to pass over me like waves. I was still learning, learning that if you fought the waves you usually got a mouthful of water, if you worked against the current, rather than finding a way to allow its strength to help you, you only got tired. I knew the North had a message for me, but I could not make sense of it. Reflecting on the river’s determination to follow its course, to rise and fall in an endless cycle, taking obstacles in stride, I realized that it would make no move to protect me when I let go of the rope and plunged into its waters. Swinging out of the tree and letting go of the rope was scary enough, but I would also have the river’s current to contend with. I’d heard stories of even the strongest swimmers being overcome by its power.

Fear washed over me, exploding in my ankles and knees and forcing me to grasp hold of the tree to retain my balance. My heart began to race, my breathing grew faster: “I could drown. I could land on those rocks down there and break my neck.” I had never felt such debilitating fear; tears were streaming down my face as I stood trembling on the rung, both arms around the tree, unable to move. I knew that my friends were down there, shivering, waiting for their turns, waiting for me to jump, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do it -- I wasn’t ready. I knew that it wasn’t just fear of the jump or the current that was paralyzing me; there was something much more immediate that I had to find the strength to confront. I felt helpless -- I didn’t know what to do. I stared through the irregularly spaced green leaves, out across the river, across the marsh, searching the sky, the clouds, the horizon for an answer. Nothing.

“Hey, what’s going on up there?” My friends were getting impatient.

Their call startled me. I no longer wanted to try the rope swing. The spell broken, I started to descend the rungs. “Not today. I’m not swinging today.”


A few days later, I decided to try the rope swing again. Starting out, it seemed easier: I ascended the rungs more rapidly than before, pausing with each step, but only for a few seconds. I didn’t want to wait too long, afraid that any hesitation would give me time to reconsider. I stopped when I reached the fourth rung, eleven feet up. (Because of the length of the rope, jumping from a lower rung was difficult and unsafe. Although jumping from the fourth rung promised a smoother and less jarring ride than the fifth, it was considerably less thrilling. Still, it was a good place to start.) The river gushed and gurgled below me, whispering its sweet, eternal song. I breathed deeply, trying to stay calm, gathering strength from the bold spirit of the landscape before me.

I steadied myself on my perch, tucking the knotted rope between my thighs and reaching out to the nearest branch for balance. I curled my toes around the rung, grasping for any minute sense of security. “This is easy,” I thought. “I don’t know what got into me last time.” With my free hand, I clutched the rope with all my might -- it was really the weight of my body on the knot that would support me as I swung out over the water, but this grip would make me feel secure. I was ready to go. Or maybe not.

“Have you guys ever stopped to admire the view from up here?”

The tree seemed safe. Strong and settled, it would have supported me all day and night, had I decided to stay up there. I let go of the rope and the branch and embraced the tree, just as I had the time before. I put my ear to its rough textured bark and listened. I wanted to hear it tell me that I would be okay, that I was ready to make the jump, but it didn’t say a word.

This was the summer after my first year of college. I was eighteen, an adult, some would say, and terrified of what the future held for me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to return to school in September. Living away from home for most of the past year had changed my relationships with my friends and family; the changes weren’t necessarily bad -- just different. College had turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined: not just the academics, but the combined effects of having to live in a new place, make new friends, and change from the way of life I had grown accustomed to while living with my parents. I didn’t know what I wanted to study, or whether I wanted to study at all. Should I take a semester off? What would I do? The summer was already half over, and I hadn’t given serious thought to any of it. Up there in the tree, I was confronting a fear that I had been avoiding for months. Was I ready to take the next step?

I looked to the river. Again, I saw it flowing gently but steadily out to sea, gliding around rocks or sometimes over them, sometimes moving them, carrying the reeds and twigs, the flotsam and jetsam and branches it had picked up on the way. By simply watching it, one could tell where the river had been. There was no way to know for sure where it was going, no way to know whether it would stay the same or change completely after it rounded the next bend. There was no way to know except to flow with it, to surrender to the river and allow it to carry you along. Following the way of the river was the only way to go.

Some time passed: it might have been a few seconds or a few hours, but I didn’t feel it go by. When I remembered where I was and why I was perched high in an oak tree, looking out across the river, my confidence was restored. Swinging out from this tree now seemed exciting -- an adventure -- not something I had to do, but something I had chosen. Quickly, I prepared myself for the jump. I put my ear back to the tree one last time, just in case it had any last-minute warnings . . . nothing. Safe or not, I had to try it.

I held my breath. Leaning back, I moved my weight off of the rung and onto the knot in the rope; there was no turning back now. It seemed like the entire world was stopped, hushed in anticipation.

Next thing I knew I was swinging through the air, flying, with an involuntary howl bursting forth from my lungs and throat. I felt so light, so free . . . And then I was letting go of the rope. Falling, falling, falling, and splash! into the river, down through the water, my feet pounding the river floor, my legs pushing me back up through the silty murk, reaching up, back to the light, the sky, the sun, gasping for breath, grinning. Alive.

My friends were cheering on the riverbank as I turned to face them. The salt in the water made it easy to stay afloat; I let the current propel me as I swam in toward shore. Hoisting myself up out of the river, I clambered onto the bank, heading straight for the swing tree, feeling not a sense of victory, but rather contentment, a quiet exhilaration for having taken that first step down a new path. I hadn’t answered any specific questions, but I had proven to myself that I was ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. I didn’t know what to expect from the future, but I looked forward to finding out what was waiting around the next bend. I knew that I should simply take on each obstacle as it presented itself, one step at a time.

And so up I climbed, to the fifth rung.