March 14, 2010
Though the past winter had not been so bad in central Illinois, not even one crippling snow storm or day with a high temperature below zero, I still felt a bit weary from too many gray, indoor days. So even on a damp, dismal Sunday, with occasional light drizzle, I left home for a hike along the Spoon River to where it empties into the Illinois River at the Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge. Because of frequent flooding and ice cover, I had not been to this location for months. And so I did not know exactly what to expect – except, following several days of rain, extremely muddy conditions. But mud is what I always expect on the river bottoms. In fact , it’s part of the general experience.
Flooded Spoon River Bottoms, Emiquon NWR.
The small gravel parking area just east of state route 78 was covered in a thin layer of slippery silt deposited from flood waters that had only recently receded. Other vehicles that had strayed from the gravel left behind deep ruts in the mud as a warning. I briefly questioned whether my plan for the morning was a good idea, but quickly dismissed such apprehensions, grabbed my backpack, and headed toward the nearby Spoon River.
Most of the bottomlands were still flooded, but along the Spoon River’s banks there is a natural levee, or higher ground, that was still about 2 feet above the fast-moving river with its light brown, powerfully moving flood waters. Two immature bald eagles took flight as I approached the river, and then circled low overhead as I began my mile-long hike to the Illinois River. In the oxbow lakes and flooded forests I saw ring-necked ducks, mallards, and Canada geese. Paired-up wood ducks flew overhead, the females calling out in alarm. And I heard distant songs of Carolina wrens, tufted titmice, and black-capped chickadees. These were good signs, even as the spitting drizzle alternately came and went.
Most everything I touched seemed to be either slightly damp or wet and slippery; leaves that had fallen last year had the consistency of wet tissue paper. And I could not venture too far from the Spoon River without the ground becoming soft and mushy, so I stayed fairly close to its banks. At a gentle bend in the river, I could see far up- and downstream; I searched in vain for a belted kingfisher or great blue heron. And then I first truly noticed how water-saturated and unstable were the river’s banks, appearing to be nearly on the verge of collapse, perhaps just at the angle of repose. Would another 200 pounds make a difference, I wondered? Most of the riparian trees leaned over the river precariously low, and there was clear evidence of recently collapsing banks. But this is the natural process, after all, by which rivers meander, and how the refuge’s oxbow lakes were gradually formed. I walked onward, stepping lightly.
Finally at the Illinois River, I found a tree leaning at just the right angle to make for a nice backrest. I unpacked my lunch and took in my surroundings. Ring-billed gulls flew up and down the river, and nearby a pileated woodpecker called, though the bird itself remained hidden. I heard gurgling sounds from the Spoon River as its water rushed over tree branches and roots protruding from the riverbanks. The Spoon River injected its woody debris into the slower moving Illinois River, the debris then slowly passing by the town of Havana, visible across the river. I was reminded of the many times over the past winter I had sat in my vehicle at the Riverfront Park, gazing in the direction of the inaccessible Spoon River bottoms. For the moment, no one at the park that I could see looked back in my direction.
As my binocular’s field of view followed a red-tailed hawk flying over the Illinois River, the upper branches of tall silver maple trees came into focus. Their branches displayed a subtle reddish hue from many small wind-pollinated flowers. The season was progressing, despite present conditions. But the cold, damp winds off the river were a stronger cue, one indicating that it was probably time to leave. In the direction of the Spoon River, there was a large splash that sounded like part of the bank collapsing, forcing me to recall foreboding thoughts from earlier in the morning.
Knowing that better days were ahead, I walked more deliberately back to the parking lot than on the way out, intent on not being caught in heavy rains should conditions worsen. Only once, among all of the gray and subdued browns of the bare forests, did I delay my progress: to view the bright yellow caps of two diminutive, highly energetic golden-crowned kinglets which stood out in contrast against the background of color and mood of the day more than anything I had seen so far. Their feathers were so clean, crisp, and bright compared to the sky, forests, and myself with mud on every piece of clothing. Clean: good; dirt: bad. I made a strong mental note regarding my mud-encased shoes: remove them before entering the house – a clear indication of a husband whose domestic education is quite complete.
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