Riding Around New England Part Five

     "There's a lost river that flows,
       In a valley where no one goes.
       Where the white waters rush,
       From deep in the hush."
    
      We have gone there today, after a wild rainy storm. The air is cool, and feels like fall. The sunshine trades places with the clouds as they rush by. The waters rush, and we shout to be heard above them. Here is magic. So many times I have come here. So many years. It's always the same. The giant trees, the granite strewn hills, the root strewn paths, the sound of the river, the other world forgotten in the primeval hush. We bring a picnic, and coffee. The children run ahead, eager to kick off their shoes and strip down to their bathing suits.
     We can hear the rapid trip-trap of little bare feet racing across the wooden bridge. They waste no time getting in the water with their buckets and nets. Catching tiny fish, and water bugs. Getting wet. Amazed at all of life in the river. Exploding with joy at each new thing. The falls are full and cascading down on the rocks, full force. You can climb down, and take a shower, if you dare. Today its cold, and the water beats against your skin.
     Oh, this place is made for a childs heart. I am so glad that I still have mine. There are toad stools, and pine cones, and acorns, and gray-green moss. There are papery birch trees, and mighty oaks, and pines, sticky with resin. Oh, and boulders bigger than houses, and narrow ridges to run. Caves and huge chunks of mica that glint in the sun light. Hollow trees, water worn branches, sniggley roots.

       We remember then, how we had dwelt in those magical places when we were young. Castles and swords, pioneers and Indians, Coeur des Bois  in our birch bark canoes. Above the sound of the water we hear our younger selves. Gleeful in the worlds of our imaginations. Not realizing that one day we will grow up and find that the world is not so magical after all. 
        "Though I'm far from there now,
          I'll be back some how.
          Where the lost river winds
           Through the valley of the pines."

         We find a birds nest under the bridge. It's empty now, but we admire its sturdy mud base and its soft cup of grasses and moss. We walk past jutting granite slabs. We feed the chipmunk scraps of cookies. We wrap the little ones in cozy towels and think that we really must go. But we don't say it, yet. Like the children we want a few more minutes. Just a few more in this wild and serene place.
       "Oh, lost river, far over the ridge
          Is it too late
          To build me a new bridge?"

      One little troll sits under the bridge, pouting, arms akimbo, because she doesn't want to leave. We understand. We will come back. We will. One other golden day, so we can be fanciful and free again.
        " Oh, lost river, now I'm coming back.
            Where the lost river winds
            In the shadow of the pines."