I discovered my river when I was three years old. I was on a berry picking expedition with my mother. It was early fall.

Though I don’t remember directly, we were probably picking highbush cranberries. The aspen leaves were just starting to drift down; still a pale yellow, not the deeper yellow of deeper fall. I watched one leaf float down. I see it still and, behind it, my river. I shouted the discovery to my mother. She turned and put her finger to her lips, and I realized the river was an important secret.

Over the years, I have had many opportunities to report the location of my river to municipal, provincial and federal authorities, but I never have.

 

 

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