The Sources of the River

It turned out okay, in the end. He was standing on the edge of the river, his feet solidly anchored in the rock plate advancing perhaps a good hundred feet toward the middle of the river. The current grew weaker, near the close of September. Nothing like the rolling brown waves of May. Now the level of the water had come so low it created a brand new island out of the grey flat rocks. A channel, its shallow water trickling between the new island and the shore, separated this new island. 

He stood alone. What was he thinking about, no one knew, not even him. He might have considered falling into the dark water, let its current bring him all the way to the gates of the dam, downstream. Or he might have searched his soul for what he would write next. That's the curse of the writer. The gift. 

A stranger came to him, an old man. His bald head glistened despite the dim light on this grey afternoon. 

"It's peaceful," he said. "The sound of the river." 

The man nodded, not wanting to continue the conversation, and yet, craving for it. 

"It's usually much more busy around here," the old man said. "I guess people got scared it might rain." 

"That must be it."

The man looked sideways at the stranger, and took in many details. He was wearing a long navy green coat, just like the one you see on Viet Nam vets in the movies. It made him think that the old man might be a homeless guy, but his black jeans, looking crisp and brand new, said otherwise. The leather on his boots shone as well and didn't show a scratch or a tear. 

Intrigued, he decided to open up a real conversation, since anyway, his real purpose for coming here had been destroyed by the man's presence. 

"What do you think lies, at the very beginning of this river?" he asked. 

The old man raised both his bushy eyebrows. And laughed. 

"Not a question you hear everyday," he exclaimed, and then became thoughtful. 

The man liked him instantly for really thinking about his answer, instead of saying some generality like "Guess we'll never know, huh?" or "I haven't the slightest idea." 

What he said, at last, was: "You wanna find out?" 

That surprised him most. The river must be hundreds of kilometres long. Was this stranger suggesting they get in a car and drive until they reached the river's sources? 

"Yeah," was all he said. 

They drove along the river road well into the night, criss-crossing the river, hopping on its western bank and eastern bank at every bridge. They often lost its sight, but the man could feel its presence, its continuous flow, nearby, and every time the road curved and hugged the banks, he could feel a great peace installing itself within him. 

"Now I'm really curious," he said toward 3am, speeding down the empty road. "We could have just looked at a map, but I want to see it. Experience it."

"You're a weird one," said the old man who had suggested they drove for hours in the first place. 

He didn't answer but kept driving. 

The river took them north for a great while, but then it fled east and they almost lost it when they reached the mountains. The road led them to a dead end.

"You wanna call it off?" the old man said. 

"No."

So they continued on foot, entering an evergreen forest. At places, the cliffs forced them to abandon the river for a while, and to take grand detours only to find the river again an hour later. Where no path showed, its rushing sound guided them. 

They came to a great boulder from which the current squirted. 

"We've found it!" the old man said, barely believing it. 

"No. It merely goes underground." And he continued, climbing the sheer cliff and striding on the plateau for a couple more hours. 

At last, they saw it. A great lake, so broad you couldn't peek the far side. 

"There," the man said. 

They stood in silence, beholden by the serene surface. No waves rippled on the perfect water mirror. 

"Shall we go back?" the old man said. 

He took his car keys, placed them in the wrinkled hand and shook it with both his hands. 

"You can take the car. Here's where I stop."

The old man stared at this man he had met only a few hours ago. "I can't let you do that. There's nothing around here. Surely you would die. Winter is expected early this year." 

"Here is where I stop," he repeated. 

The intensity in his eyes stopped the old man from asking more questions. He left him there. He could always come back to check on him later. 

Once he was alone, he walked into the water, ignoring the pleas of the loon, his fingers creating smaller ripples inside the larger ones originating from his ankles. He didn't stop when he lost his footing. He emptied his lungs, sunk to the bottom and continued walking toward the source of the river.