When Spring Comes

Stand here on the bridge with me
And look down below
See how high the river is
From all the melting snow

I think the river is laughing
Like a thousand old ladies
Like a thousand silver chimes in the wind
        ~ Jane Siberry, “When Spring Comes”

It’s physically ugly, this period between when the snow is gone and green grass has yet to take its place. But the rush of the rising river, narrowing at the rapids outside my bedroom windows, is a symphony of sound I anticipate all winter.

Massive sheets of ice detach from the shore up river and float down to the old hydro dam, just before the bridge. If the water’s high enough, they float up and over the stone and concrete barrier. If it isn’t, they shatter into a thousand pieces, sorting to the right or left, bobbing through the rapids, and riding the current downstream. The really thick sheets are pale blue icebergs, which grind and roar as they beach themselves on the concrete and melt like ice cubes in a cocktail.

Here, most of us are above the 100 year flood plain, but others downstream towards Kemptville, especially the cottages and some of the newer houses, take a hit. The turn-of-the century homes seem high and dry.

It’s a social thing, this rising of the river. It brings neighbours out from winter hibernation to linger on the bridge and chat, and most cars slow down, if not stop, to gawk.

Before long, another parade of cars and trucks will follow, this time stopping to spot the fish. Men with lanterns, ladders, poles and nets will begin arriving in the dead of night to find Walleye, Northern Pike and Muskie.

After spawning season, as high water abates and Parks Canada adjusts the flow of the river, the docks will be launched and canoeists, boaters and, finally, swimmers, will mark the start of summer.

In Burritt’s Rapids we don’t need a calendar. The river tells us everything we need to know.