June 15, 2004

Last evening, after the storm ended, my friend and I headed towards St. Jacobs to watch the river. On summer days the Conestogo flows stupidly and placidly through the village, but yesterday it became a furious, muddy thing that looked like angry hot chocolate. Overflowing their banks, the muddy waters rushed over bridges and roads in a terrifying tumult.

We stood and watched the currents, and across the flooded bridge the Mennonites watched too. Near the dam, tree trunks danced in the murky currents, continually sucked into some destructive spiral.

We dragged ourselves away from the river’s turmoil and madness, and crossed the railway bridge that spans the Conestogo. Thirty feet beneath us the waters continued to roar, and because I was scared I moved slowly holding my breath. We made it to the other side and back, narrowly missing an encounter with the train that pulled out of darkness just as we stepped off the bridge.

Everything was deadly and wonderful, and I was suddenly in love with the ferociousness of life.

“Next time,” my friend said, “let’s wait until the train comes closer before we run.”