Take A Walk

Already it’s November. The nights grow longer, the weather grows cooler. I am reluctant to pull out my winter coat, but I know that these crisp days will soon yield to chilly ones. When I step outside, the cold air’s bite makes me want to spend as much time as I can outdoors, before my winter hibernation instinct kicks in.

I am a creature of habit, and just about every season I fall into a groove where I walk at the same conservation area or wildlife sanctuary day after day, for months at a time. This year it’s different. I’ve been varying my walking places nearly every week, sometimes visiting an old favorite, sometimes trying something new. As a result, I get to see some of my favorite open space areas in seasons that I might not normally experience them -- the Webster Sanctuary in autumn, for example, when I usually go there in spring.

It’s beautiful outdoors this time of year. With clear skies and what remains of the fall foliage, almost everywhere you go, you can be treated to a display of nature’s vibrant color. You probably have your own favorite walking places, but perhaps you would like to try something new. Here are a few recommendations:

• Nelson Memorial Forest: One of my favorite autumn walking places, this 130-acre property, managed by the New England Forestry Foundation, offers views of both the North River and Cove Creek, access to the salt marsh and plenty of wide walking trails. It is located on Highland Street in North Marshfield.

• Corn Hill Woodland: Just around the corner on Union Street is this 123-acre Marshfield Conservation property, featuring beech groves, expansive river views, the "Swamp Trail" boardwalk, and one very large, very old pine tree. Trails tend to be winding and narrow, but not steep. Old stones walls reveal evidence of Corn Hill’s agricultural past.

• The Norris Reservation: A popular favorite, this 117-acre parcel features an old mill pond, a recently restored boat house overlooking the North River, trails both narrow and wide, and close-up views of Second Herring Brook. Managed by the Trustees of Reservation, the Norris offers a large parking area on Dover Street in Norwell, across from the new post office.

• Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary: My current favorite, this Massachusetts Audubon property includes a total of 476 acres, made up of both meadow and woods. Also known as Dwyer Farm, this sanctuary, located at the end of Winslow Cemetery Road in Marshfield, includes wildlife observation blinds, wooden boardwalks, trails through both woods and grasslands, and views of the Green Harbor River.

• Stetson Meadows: Narrow paths through the woods offer a guided tour (look for small signs, close to the ground) of the many wildflowers, ferns, shrubs and trees on this 144-acre Norwell Conservation property, located at the end of Stetson Shrine Lane. A wooden bench provides a perfect spot to observe the North River and its salt marshes.

• Bay Farm: Located on Bay Road in Duxbury, this 80-acre former dairy farm is managed jointly by the towns of Duxbury and Kingston. Trails through grassy meadows and cedar woods lead to views of the Jones River and Kingston Bay.

• Pudding Hill Reservation: A small (37 acres) but significant open space area on Pudding Hill Lane, near Marshfield Center. This property, managed by the Wildlands Trust of Southeastern Massachusetts, includes a steep hillside path and a wide trail through groves of white pine. Chandler Pond and the South River are also highlights.

• The Rexhame Dunes: A perennial favorite, these sand dunes mark the former site of the North River mouth. Several walking trails have been carved out among the beach grasses and cedar trees, providing a circuitous path from Rexhame Beach to Humarock, with views of both the ocean and the South River. This 40-acre parcel, located at the town beach at the end of Standish Street, is managed by the Town of Marshfield.

• Whiton Woods: Not easy to find, but worth investigating, this 49-acre conservation area includes quiet woodland trails and views of ponds and cranberry bogs. It is located on Temple Street in Duxbury. A large cedar tree marks the trail head.

• World’s End: If you’ve never been to this jewel in the crown of South Shore open spaces, do yourself a favor and visit this 251-acre property on Martin’s Lane in Hingham, managed by the Trustees of Reservations. Featuring rolling hills, rocky shores, and spectacular views of Boston Harbor, the Weir River, Hingham, and Hull, the narrow trails and tree-lined carriage paths of World’s End are a treat at any time of year.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
November 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

The Winter Solstice: Bringing Light To The Darkness

Bare winter trees.

It’s 4 p.m., and as I look into the trees outside my office window, I see nothing but darkness. The sun has not yet set, but heavy thunderclouds conceal what weak light remains in the dull December sky. Another fleeting late autumn day has passed.

In these weeks approaching the Winter Solstice, I am acutely aware of nature’s cyclical rhythms -- the days growing shorter, the nights growing longer. Despite my thirst for vibrant sunshine, I find the encroaching darkness somewhat comforting.

The Winter Solstice -- known in some traditions as The Shortest Day -- serves as a balancing point for the year. The days grow increasingly short as it approaches, then once the Solstice has passed, they begin to grow longer again. "Just make it through till Solstice . . . " I tell myself. The fact that each succeeding day will bring an additional minute or so of sunlight takes the some of the bite out of the long, cold winter.

One of my family’s annual holiday traditions is to attend The Christmas Revels, at Harvard University’s Sanders Theater, on the Sunday before Christmas. While the theme of Revels -- a celebration of the Winter Solstice featuring music, dance and drama -- changes from year to year, certain segments of the show are always repeated.

One of my favorites among these is the story of Saint George and the Dragon, a medieval Mummers’ play that celebrates the cycle of fertility, death and rebirth. In the play, Saint George battles and slays a dragon. However his triumph is short lived, as soon after he too is killed, falling victim to the sword dancers, whose interlocking weapons represent the sun and the slaying of the old so that the new may spring to life.

While Saint George lies dead at center stage, the dancers continue to move around him, their swords clicking, the bells attached to their boots ringing with each intricate step. A doctor is summoned, and after some effort, George is brought back to life. A new year has begun. The players leave the stage cheering.

"Lord of the Dance," a traditional number which celebrates the life, death and resurrection of Christ, follows shortly thereafter. As the audience sings the song’s simple "Dance, then, whoever you may be" chorus, the cast forms a procession leading off the stage and into the great hall. The audience members, still singing, are encouraged to rise from their seats, to take each others’ hands, and to join in the dance. The chorus is repeated until the hall is packed so tight with people that no one can move, and still singing, all are obliged to smile or catch the eye of the stranger standing next to them. At that point, only the chilliest of souls could manage not to feel at least a twinge of Christmas spirit.

The custom of setting lights ablaze to mark the beginning of winter is one that can be attributed to any number of religious faiths. Perhaps no single tradition may lay claim to being the first to do it; no doubt there are countless different stories behind the derivation of the ritual. In many cases it’s about bringing light to the darkness as winter begins -- an affirmation of hope on the longest, darkest night of the year.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in church, but I’d stop short of calling myself religious. One thing I especially enjoy about The Christmas Revels is the way it unites a number of different religious and spiritual traditions in its celebration of the Solstice, a natural event that --whether we choose to acknowledge it or not -- we all share.

Attending a church service more often than not makes me squirm, but the songs, dances, and stories of The Christmas Revels -- whether their origins are Christian or Pagan or otherwise -- renew my faith in mankind and our ability, despite differences of faith and philosophy, to coexist on this planet in relative peace. The ritual singing, in the second act of Revels, of "Dona Nobis Pacem" is generally the high point of my spiritual year: it’s the time when I feel most connected to the rest of the world, as -- doing my best to hit the high notes -- I join my voice with those of a thousand others, singing out our prayer for peace.

The sun has fully set now, and beyond the trees outside my window my neighbors have turned on their Christmas lights -- mostly white, with accents of red and green. In a minute I’ll go downstairs and illuminate my family’s own holiday tree. Then, sitting for awhile, I’ll admire its brightness, and the light and warmth it brings to these cold, dark days.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
December 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

A New View From The Mountaintop

Mount Norwottuck

Five and a half years ago, my friend Ted led me on a hike up Norwottuck, a small mountain in Massachusetts’s Holyoke Range. I had climbed Norwottuck many times before -- the trailhead was across the street from my college dorm -- but with Ted I experienced the mountain in a different way. I was accustomed to climbing during the daytime, but Ted and I began our hike at 10 pm.

It was a warm night in May, a moonlit, starry night. We were both about to graduate from college, and while Ted had elaborate plans for the months to come -- hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, going to work for the National Outdoor Leadership School -- I had no idea of what I would do next.

After four years of college, I was exhausted. I’ve always been a directed and motivated person, always working toward a goal, but I had been so intent on finishing my schoolwork that I’d neglected to make any plans beyond graduation. Having poured all of my energy into my work, I could not conceive of what lay beyond it.

Growing up, the decisions always seemed to be made for me: I went to grade school, then high school, then college. I did what was expected of me -- by my family, by society -- and didn’t consider doing anything else. But once I earned my bachelor’s degree, for the first time in my life I had a choice of what my future would be. I could choose where I wanted to live, I could choose what I wanted to do for work. Countless roads and countless opportunities spread out before me: too many roads, too many opportunities. I didn’t know in which direction I wanted to go.

Ted was my closest friend at college. Both from Marshfield, we’d known each other since high school, where we’d dated for the better part of a year. Our romance didn’t last, but the friendship that grew out of it was strong, and had endured more than a few ups and downs. Even when I’m floundering, I tend to appear confident, so Ted was surprised when, in discussing our future plans, I admitted how lost and afraid I felt. Knowing me well, Ted insisted that we not sit and dwell on the details, but rather get some fresh air and see where the conversation might lead us.

I didn’t realize it until many years later, but a mountain climb in the dark of night was the perfect metaphor for what I was going through at the time. The sky was bright, but as we headed into the woods, the trees obscured most of its light. At first I could barely see the trail, but after a while my eyes adjusted.

I usually walk at a good clip, but with all the roots and rocks in my path, I had to move slowly, feeling out every step, placing each foot down carefully. At first the process was maddeningly slow, but as I got used to it, I was able to walk faster, and before long we were making our way up the trail at a fairly swift pace. We spent most of the 90 minute climb talking about the things that were on my mind: all the fears and anxieties associated finishing school, finding a job and beginning my life as an adult.

By the time we reached the summit, I’d said all that I wanted to say. We fell silent. Climbing alone to the top of the fire tower, I paused to look out over the valley and listen to the wind blowing through the trees.

On past hikes, upon reaching the summit, I would sit down, have a snack, and take some time to admire the view before starting down the other side of the mountain. But night made the top of Norwottuck a different place. There wasn’t much to see -- only darkness spreading out for miles around. Anticipating the tricky, rock-strewn trail I’d have to negotiate on the way down, I could hardly stand still. We started back almost immediately.

On the way down, Ted told me about an experience he had while hiking in the Andes. He was traveling with a small group of people, and somewhere out in the Chilean wilderness, three weeks into a month-long trek, someone began to tell a story about the guerrilla warfare that went on in those mountains -- the skirmishes between government troops and rebel forces, the political prisoners, the torture camps . . . and the American hikers who made a wrong turn, wandered innocently onto the scene, and paid the price of their lives.

For days, the momentum of the story grew . . . to the point where Ted and his fellow hikers wondered whether the noises they heard in the woods were in fact the natural sounds of the forest, and not distant guns or plotting terrorists. Even though they had grown accustomed to life on the trail, even though they were prepared for just about any emergency, they began to question their safety. They began to question themselves.

In the end, the story turned out to be fictional. The hikers were relieved, but they knew that they had learned some valuable lessons. And the point of the story, the reason why Ted went through the trouble to repeat it to me as we made our way down the dark, twisting midnight trails of Mt. Norwottuck, was the understanding that he and his companions reached that night in the Andean wilderness: there are plenty of things out there that we will certainly be afraid of -- things unsettled, things unknown. But in our anxiety, our constant What-If?-ing, we make the thing feared into something much larger than it is.

We returned from our hike without incident. Within the next two weeks, college ended and Ted and I went our separate ways -- he to explore the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest, and me back to Marshfield to begin piecing together a life of my own. Although I went back to Amherst frequently to visit friends, I never returned to Norwottuck.

Now, more than five years later, I am half way up the same steep trail on Norwottuck, wondering if the lay of the land is different or if my memories have just grown hazy. I’m in much better shape now, and although my legs are no longer used to mountain climbing, I find the hike easier than ever before. It’s daylight, mid-November, my 27th birthday. So much has changed.

The fire tower is gone now, so when I reach the summit, I walk out on a ledge to admire the view. The valley below seems both foreign and familiar to me.

Birthdays are always a time of reflection for me -- looking back on the year that’s passed, looking forward to what lies ahead. Moutaintops offer perspective and I feel like I’ve gained quite a bit of it in the last half decade. Like the roads and trails below, the patterns of which are so much more evident from the top of Norwottuck, it’s as if I can see much more clearly now how it all came together -- the process by which I arrived at the place I am today.

I feel good about how much I have learned and grown. I feel grateful for the people who have helped me along the way. I know now the path I am on, and although there is still plenty to figure out, I am no longer climbing a mountain in the dark. The sun has risen; it climbs slowly into the sky. I have not yet reached my destination, but I have certainly found my way.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
November 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Good Friends Save The Day

The North River at Couch Beach.

Our canoe trip on the North River began smoothly enough: it was a sunny, unseasonably warm October day, with fall foliage at its peak. We had the rising tide in our favor, and the wind seemed mild. Launching from the Union Street Bridge, we headed upstream. There were twenty seven of us in all, ages six to sixty two, filling ten boats.

In just over an hour, we reached Couch Beach, our lunch break destination. Occasional gusts of wind had made the canoeing difficult at times, but it seemed that every strong wind was followed by a period of stillness. The paddling may not have been ideal, but neither was it objectionable. We recharged our batteries with a picnic overlooking the autumn-gold marshes.

I had left my kayak at home for the day, choosing instead to join my parents in their old, heavy aluminum canoe. Setting off after lunch, my sister and a friend took the lead while my parents and I, the organizers of the trip, waited behind to make sure that all of our fellow canoeists departed safely. By the time we’d launched our own boat, our companions had disappeared around the bend. However with all three of us paddling, we expected that we’d catch up to them shortly.

The scenery was picture-perfect. The early afternoon sun made the brightly colored leaves shine like stained glass. The fluffy tips and supple stalks of the marsh grass swayed in the breeze. We followed the river’s twists and beds, passing only an occasional house or dock. We didn’t notice at first that the wind was growing stronger.

Of my Mom, Dad, and I, none of us were feeling all that well. Fighting varying stages of a cold, we knew we were weakened a bit, but still we were surprised when approaching the Route 3 Bridge, we hadn’t caught up with a single one of our companions. We could hear motor boats behind us, and not wanting to fight for space between the narrow bridge abutments, we pulled over to the side to rest.

After the boats passed, we set off again. But the wind had grown even stronger, and the paddling was difficult. What before were intermittent gusts was now one strong, steady stream. All three of us grunting and digging our paddles in deep, we struggled to clear the bridge. It was one o’clock, and I began to wonder if we’d make it to the end by sundown.

My Mom, in the bow, turned around and asked, "What does this remind you of?"

I just laughed in reply.

Four years ago, the NSRWA sponsored a paddling trip on Memorial Day weekend. Eighty canoes and kayaks arrived at Scituate’s Driftway Conservation Area with the intent of traveling from the Herring River into the North River, through Marshfield and Norwell, and as far upstream as the Conservation Area at the end of Pembroke’s Brick Kiln Lane. That day too was windy -- blowing thirty knots strong, in the wrong direction -- and fifty of the boats ended up turning back. Of the thirty remaining, many of us were obliged to delve deep into then-untapped reserves of energy and endurance in order to fight the wind and complete the route. I don’t remember who dubbed the it "The Canoe Trip From Hell," but the name stuck.

It was my mother’s birthday, so she remembers the day especially well. I remember it too -- and the sore muscles and torn blisters I endured for a week afterward. If it had taken that much strength to finish the route back then, when my shipmates and I were in perfectly good health, I wondered how we -- the ailing family -- could possibly do it now. But it would do no good to complain, so I kept my spirits up and paddled harder, secretly hoping for a miracle.

Because it was such a beautiful day -- perhaps the last good boating day of the season -- the river was relatively crowded. Every few minutes another boat would pass us: sometimes it was a canoe coming from the other direction; sometimes it was a motor boat.

The other boats were starting to get on my nerves. It was hard enough to paddle against the wind, but each time a motorist came up behind us, we’d have to pull aside to avoid the turbulence of his wake. Clearing the Route 3 Bridge, I could hear yet another motor boat approaching. As it passed, I smiled and gave the obligatory wave. Much to my surprise, I recognized the boat -- a Crawford dory -- captained by some friends of mine, Bruce and Debbie Lenahan, along with their Golden Labradors, Sadie and Coco.

Bruce and Debbie know the North River well. They live in Norwell, right at the edge of the marsh. Bruce grew up along the river, and Debbie spent a couple years as NSRWA’s Executive Director. They also know boats: Bruce builds and refinishes them, and their household collection of canoes, kayaks, sailboats, and other vessels is ever-expanding. A lifetime spent on the water, including a year-long sail to the Caribbean and back, has taught them a lot about the ups and downs of boat travel.

They asked how we were enjoying the wind.

"Well you know what it reminds me of . . . " I said to Debbie.

"I think we can help," she answered.

The Lenahans also attended the Canoe Trip From Hell -- in fact, they were the heroes of the day. They launched with the rest of us, but determined after a short time that the wind was not likely to let up, and the paddling would not be any easier upstream. In a much-heralded moment of wisdom, they abandoned their canoe at a friend’s mooring and borrowed the small motor boat tied up there. Continuing upstream, they watched one boat after another head back toward the launch site. Others had gone too far to turn back, and as the Lenahans passed them, one canoeist -- perhaps in self-deprecation, perhaps out of desperation -- asked for a tow. They obliged. By the time they reached the Conservation Area in Pembroke, Bruce and Debbie were towing a train of eight boats -- and sixteen grateful paddlers -- behind them.

Debbie passed my mother the bow line, and we pulled our canoe in close, shipping our paddles and taking hold of their dory’s gunwales.

It was a while before we caught up with the rest of our party, but once we did, each of their reactions was the same. First they looked back in annoyance to see yet another motor boat coming up behind them. Then they seemed surprised, realizing that we whom they had left behind a long time ago were now matching pace with a motor boat. Surprise turned to envy when they saw that the Lenahans were towing us, and finally envy became relief when they saw that they could grab ahold and join us.

Boat by boat, our party was reunited, with each bend in the river producing another canoe in distress. Eventually all but the leaders had joined on, creating an impressive string of boats and setting a new canoe-towing record for the Lenahans . . . and perhaps for the river itself. My sister and her friend, determined to complete the route without aid, raced on ahead, reaching the landing a few minutes before us.

At the Conservation Area, we handed the bow line back to the Lenahans and bid them adieu with much gratitude. They continued upriver, while we proceeded to the muddy task of taking our boats out of the water.

The Lenahans saved the day, and looking back now, I realize that they also saved a Bacon Family tradition, preserving the integrity of our annual canoe trip. Without their help, our trip would have ended on a sour note, with twenty seven sore, tired, cranky paddlers wishing they’d stayed home and read the paper instead of going out on the river.

Next year I think I’ll check the wind before we launch.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
October 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Musings of a Creek Paddler

It’s early October, a Sunday morning, and I am paddling my kayak in a narrow creek near the mouth of the North River. The tide is high, buoying me up so that I can see far across the estuary. The woods of Marshfield Hills, with foliage just beginning to turn, provide a colorful backdrop. Meadows of golden marsh grass surround me.

It’s a crisp, clear day, and the sun shines through the water, illuminating the creek’s gray-brown muddy bottom and sides. Green crabs scuttle below. Seagulls soar and dive in the distance. There is a light breeze, but in this extensive network of creeks, its effect is faint. The world around me is still. It’s a perfect autumn day on the river. . . except for one thing: I’m in a rotten mood.

When my life gets more busy than I can stand, often the only thing that will help me feel better is an escape to the river with my kayak. On the river, out of reach of my desk, my phone, and nearly all of my responsibilities, I find that my mind grows clear. As I paddle along, the trivial details fall by the wayside, and what’s important rises to the foreground. Getting some distance from my routines and rituals helps me to gain perspective. It takes some time to find my bearings -- both in the boat and within myself -- but after a while, I begin to feel calmer, more at ease. After an hour or two alone on the water, I inevitably feel better.

It is at these times especially that I enjoy the tidal creeks. In the creeks -- whether its Cove Creek, or Dwelley’s, or Macombers on the North River, or Branch Creek, or Broad, or Little’s on the South -- my world seems a lot more peaceful. The wind is generally mild, there is rarely another boater, and in the two hours on either side of high tide when the creeks are navigable, I don’t have to think about the current. In a narrow creek channel bordered by tall grass, my only concern is whether I paddle upstream or down.

This morning I am by myself, but I am not alone. I have chosen to be the sweep boat in a group of thirty kayakers and canoeists. My job is to make sure that no one is left behind. A disadvantage of the job is that I must watch carefully to make sure no one takes an inadvertent detour as we wind our way through this maze of creeks. The advantage is that with no one behind me, I can slow down and separate myself from the rest of the group. If I wish, I can have a small section of the river to myself. That’s just what I need this morning. I don’t want to deal with other people.

Today we launched our boats from the inside of Damon’s Point and fought the incoming tide through the abutments of the old railroad bridge, heading downstream, hugging the southern bank. Rather than paddling toward the mouth of the river, we turned almost immediately into the salt marshes, and traversed some small, unnamed channels en route to the wider, more navigable Macombers Creek. The corners were tight at times, requiring skill with the paddle and deep reserves of patience. Even the most experienced kayakers found themselves in the occasional snag.

But now we have emerged into a clearing of sorts, where those of us with binoculars are observing a whimbrel frolicking in the grass. I have neither the binoculars nor the interest in waterfowl to justify such prolonged study of this bird this morning. I’m hanging at the back of the group, growing impatient because the more time the group spends with this rare (for our region) sighting, the longer it will be before I find a bathroom. Instead, I spend my time sulking.

When I awoke this morning, the last thing I wanted to do was kayak. With a dull headache and an upset stomach, I had trouble mustering the enthusiasm even to get out from under the covers. There was frost on the lawn, and I knew that in order to keep warm on the water, I’d have to wear my wetsuit, which -- although effective in maintaining my body temperature -- is uncomfortable and inconvenient. What I wanted more than anything else was to stay in bed and get a few more hours of sleep. But I had promised to be there for the kayak trip, and I wouldn’t go back on my promise.

I had anticipated such foot-dragging, and had thus done as much preparation as possible the night before. My snacks and water bottles were waiting for me, my gear was packed, my kayak was already on the roof of the car. Grumbling all the while, I made breakfast, put on extra layers of polarfleece and polypropylene, and headed off toward Damon’s Point.

Once I arrived at the launch site, there were things to attend to -- unloading boats, answering questions, shuttling cars to Humarock. I was so busy helping others that I forgot about my reluctance to be on the river. But once all the work was done and it was time to launch the boats, I remembered that I didn’t want to be there. Stepping into my kayak, the wind seemed too chilly, the water too cold. For the first time in years, I felt wobbly in the boat -- like I might lose my balance and tumble into the river. Still, I had agreed to be the sweep. I gritted my teeth and dipped my paddle into the water.

About a month ago, in Boston, I saw a baseball cap with "Life is Good" emblazoned upon it. I smiled as I read the words, and thought, "Yes it is." But the woman who was wearing the cap seemed stressed out. Her brow was furrowed; she was frowning, lost in thought. At first it struck me as a contradiction. But later on it made more sense.

As far as I’m concerned, Life IS good. The work I do, the people I know, and the way I feel are constant reminders of that. But even a good life can be stressful. Even when everything seems to be going beautifully, there can be times when escape -- or simply some time to rest and regroup -- is necessary. We aren’t always able to discern when such time is needed.

One of the many hats I wear is Yoga Teacher -- I lead six or seven classes each week. I’m supposed to be a poster girl for reducing stress and finding balance in one’s life, so it seems ironic to me that while I stand in front of my students, extolling the virtues honoring and caring for one’s body, mind and spirit, I still find myself melting down from stress every now and then. I try to see the humor in it, and rather than misrepresent myself as the Equilibrium Goddess, every so often I point out such contradictions to my students. It keeps me humble -- reminds me that I’m human.

Now, sitting in my kayak, surrounded by the golden marsh grasses of Macombers Creek, I am musing on these contradictions. Here I am, in one of my favorite places, and rather than appreciate the beautiful scene before me, I am fussing with my foot braces. Here I am, doing the thing most likely to set my mind at ease, and instead of relaxing I am wondering how long it will be before the cramp in my left leg turns into nerve damage. Sometimes we are our own worst enemies.

Our group will spend the next two hours on the river. The deeper into the marsh we travel, the more my mood will improve. Before long we will cross the Trouant Island Cartway, and pass into Branch and then Broad Creek. We will skirt the inland edge of Hen Island, and then make a quick stop on Pine Island to eat our snacks and stretch our legs. Eventually we will find our way into the South River, a little bit upstream of Fourth Cliff. By then I will have forgotten that I was even in a bad mood to begin with.

Having avoided the dangerous cross currents and shifting sandbars of the river mouth, we will continue upstream for another half mile or so, weaving around channel markers and moored boats. Just south of the Humarock Bridge, we’ll take our boats from the water, load them back onto our cars, and head home. A little sunburnt, a little tired, I’ll pause at the river’s edge before I go, nodding in appreciation. Once again, after a morning spent paddling in the creeks, I will feel refreshed and renewed.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
October 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Thoughts from Fourth Cliff

The view from Fourth Cliff.

It’s 7:30 AM, and I am standing on a second floor balcony at the top of Humarock’s Fourth Cliff. The beach is a hundred foot drop below me: I can see for miles in either direction along the coastline. Scituate’s jagged line of cliffs fans out to the north, while to the south, beyond Humarock’s 3-mile stretch of cottages, beyond the Rexhame Dunes and most of Marshfield’s other beaches, stands the Brant Rock tower.

In the past, I’ve marveled over the sheer expansiveness of the view from Fourth Cliff, but today I am more intrigued by the patterns before me: the irregular assortments of stones below the high tide line, strewn in an ever-changing spray; the undulating, windswept sand, interrupted at times by moss-covered boulders; the shape of the shoreline, curving gently to the south.

It’s a cloudy morning, but the light is extraordinary. The overcast skies are the palest blue, the ocean just a shade or two darker. A pink line defines the horizon. The sun, still subdued in this morning hour, shines through occasional breaks in the clouds, a wide, steady stream of light -- gold in some places, rosy in others -- like a cinematic representation of the divine.

The longer I look, the more I see. Odd shapes on the ocean’s surface catch my eye. While mostly the water forms uniform, continuous ripples, this morning there are random flat sections, as if the sea were a palette of wet paint, and someone had reached down and wiped some sections smooth. The shapes, reflecting the sun, appear lighter in color, matching the sky almost exactly.

A wash of subtle hues, the ocean and the sky resemble an impressionist painting. In fact, they remind me very much of some of Monet’s work -- the cathedral scenes at Rouen, and the Houses of Parliament. At times like these it is difficult to imagine the ocean’s power to destroy.

Weather-wise, Fourth Cliff can be noticeably different from the flatter sections of Humarock. At times it seems like another climate. It may be warm and sunny and breezy down on the beach, but on the cliff it is often ten degrees cooler, and windier, and more damp. It is not always a welcoming place.

When Nor’easters come, as they do several times each year, Fourth Cliff can seem threatening. The temperature drops, the wind makes the houses shake, and the ocean, constantly pounding the beach below, roars as it tears away, layer by layer, the sand and sediment holding the cliff in place. When you’re not worrying about whether the roof -- or the foundation -- will hold, you’re thinking about the likelihood of being cut off from the mainland, for when the winds are right and the tide is high, the South River will wash over Central Avenue at the foot of the hill, bringing rocks, boulders and sand with it, effectively making Fourth Cliff an island until the town can bulldoze the stuff away.

I grew up in Marshfield, but I didn’t discover Fourth Cliff until my third year of college, when I was researching the Portland Gale, the 1898 storm that relocated the mouth of the North River. One blustery afternoon on Thanksgiving weekend, I walked the six miles up and down the beach from Rexhame to Fourth Cliff and back. This was 1991, not long after the "No-Name" Storm, and along the way I encountered house after beachfront house torn to pieces by the winds and waves of that powerful Nor’easter. The closer I got to the cliff, the more detritus I encountered: waterlogged furniture, tempest-tossed boating gear, odd scraps of clothing, household appliances, automobiles, even food.

My intention for the walk was to observe, first hand, the mouth of the North River, to imagine, while standing there, how -- back in 1898 -- the river had broken through the beach between Third and Fourth Cliffs, separating the seaside village of Humarock from the rest of the town. I wanted to comprehend the sheer power of a storm that could bring on such a large-scale change in the landscape. Huddled against the chilling wind, I pressed my back into the cliff face, taking care not to slip on the spray-slicked rocks, and looked out over the ever-widening channel toward Scituate. You would never know that, under all that water, there had once been a beach.

Driving along Central Avenue these days, you can’t help but notice all of the houses on stilts. After the last storm, the residents had to rebuild them that way, and though it may seem peculiar at first, it makes perfect sense when you see the tide rise and flow right under them. The ocean is strong. Put a storm behind it, and you’ve got trouble. Decade after decade, whether it’s The "No-Name" Storm, The Blizzard of ‘78, the Portland Gale, or the next Nor’easter to make a mess of our coastline, we see houses torn to splinters in a matter of hours . . . even minutes. Many of them have been rebuilt several times.

This is the cost of living in such a magnificent place. You take the chance that all of your belongings will be flushed away by a storm. You take the chance that you may lose your home, your property, even your life if you don’t heed the weather man’s warnings. But on the other hand, most of the time it’s fine. Most of the time, in fact, the weather is lovely and you’ve got this wonderful beach in the backyard, and this amazing view. You take your chances, I suppose.

The erosion on the ocean side of Fourth Cliff is disarming. Back in 1991 it startled me to see how much of the cliff the wind and water had scraped away. It’s only gotten worse. It makes me wonder how much longer these houses, and the Air Force recreation area that caps the cliff, will be able to stay there.

Back in August, I attended the Boston Harbor Sea Kayak Symposium on Thompson Island. Local storyteller Jay O’Callahan was there to perform what I consider to be his greatest and most moving story yet, "The Spirit of the Great Auk," an account of Richard Wheeler’s 1500-mile ocean kayak journey. The story is as much about Wheeler’s solo trek from Newfoundland to Buzzard’s Bay as it is about the ocean itself.

In the story, Wheeler -- nearing age sixty -- explains that he loves the ocean, but that he is wary of it as well. As a kayaker, he knows how to work with the waves, to use the strength of the ocean to his advantage. He explains that it is futile to fight the sea: that we may try to resist its power, but in the long run such resistance will only exhaust us -- both our energy and our resources.

At the beginning of the story, Wheeler understands this concept as it relates to kayaking, but as he travels down the coasts of Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and Maine, meeting the fishermen and families who earn their living on the sea, he sees that the matter is much more far-reaching. On his journey, Wheeler discovers that our culture has in many ways lost touch with the ocean. We are now -- in the case of the grand-scale commercial fishing companies, for example, -- trying to overpower it, using massive trawlers equipped with giant nets and vacuum-powered suction devices to harvest every available fish from the ocean floor. Juvenile fish are taken in with the mature ones, rendered insufficient for processing, and subsequently disposed of, leaving nothing behind to guarantee the future of the species. As a result, fish populations are growing scarce.

We may gain small victories in our attempts to overpower the sea, but in the long run, we will lose. In the case of the fishing industry, its health depends almost exclusively on the health of the oceans, and as fish populations dwindle and species begin to die out, the industry puts itself at risk. The gains made by the latest super-powerful harvesting techniques are only temporary.

Here on the coast of Massachusetts, we build stilt houses in an attempt to work with the ocean. We build sea walls too, and bolster them with riprap, but in the end, the effect is questionable. The presence of sea walls preserves our property, but through the process of erosion and coastal drift, it strips the beach of the precious sand necessary to provide a buffer from the crashing waves. What we end up with is a greatly diminished beach, and a greater potential for storm damage.

It’s a double-edged sword. If we take down the walls, we risk losing our homes to the sea. If we leave the walls in place, we risk losing our beach, the very reason we built homes there in the first place.

Admiring the view from my balcony on Fourth Cliff, I understand completely why people pay thousands of dollars to rent a beach house for one single summer week. Listening to the constant advance and retreat of the waves on the shoreline, I understand why the threat of losing one’s home, one’s yard, one’s possessions, and even endangering one’s life is not enough of a deterrent to prevent people from living at the ocean’s edge. However, looking down from the wind and wave-eroded cliff, where the house in which I’ve stayed this week inches closer and closer to the water each year, I understand too that somewhere along the line, we’re going to have to find a compromise.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
September 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Looking Down at the Stars

Imagine this. You are outdoors on a late summer night, well past twelve. For the first time all season, the breeze is crisp, offering the first indication of autumn’s steady approach. Bundled in extra layers, you lie on your back and gaze up at the stars.

The darkness of the new moon makes the constellations all the more evident. You see the Big Dipper, the stars of Orion’s belt, the bright glow of Jupiter to the east. Perhaps you wish you knew more -- the names of the stars, the stories behind those names, the significance of their presence in the sky tonight.

As your vision adjusts to the darkness, additional constellations seem to appear out of nowhere, pinpricks of light emerging on a blue-black backdrop, growing larger and brighter before your eyes. A shooting star streaks by, so sudden you forget to make a wish. You wonder who else is noticing the stars tonight: how many people, in how many different places on the planet, are gazing up at the sky?

The night draws you in. Transfixed, you feel the earth shift beneath you, raising you in an arcing motion until you are looking down at the stars. If not for the solid boards beneath your back, you would think you were floating in space.

It’s late August, and the Marshfield Fair is happening once again. After the sun sets, the carnival glare bleeds upward from the horizon, creating a haze that obscures the skyward view. I wonder how much darker it would be if the lights from not just the Fair but the entire downtown area were switched off -- how much more would we be able to see? I think of camping trips -- in New Hampshire, in the Southwest -- where the sky seemed so much bigger, the stars seemed so much brighter . . .

This year the Fair offers the usual array of attractions -- the rides, the games, the exhibits and vendors. Walking along the midway the other night, among the flashing lights, the bustling crowds, the half dreamy, half rushed rhythms of another summer drawing to a close, I found myself enchanted by the spectacle of it all.

It used to be the games that attracted me to the Fair. I wanted nothing more than to return home with a stuffed animal so large that I’d have trouble fitting it in the car. Later it was the food that appealed to me: who could resist the aromas of sizzling onions and peppers, of fried dough, of cotton candy? And finally, it was the rides. Nothing could beat the exhilaration I felt while being lifted from the ground, turned upside down, jostled, jolted, and whirled in circles; half screaming, half laughing, my stomach lurching, my breath catching in my throat.

It’s different these days. I’ve outgrown the games . . . or at least the prizes they offer. The food still seems like a great idea, but wisdom gained from years of experience generally leads me away from the frying oil and sugar spinners. As for the rides, I’d be hard pressed to go on all but a few.

It’s not a safety issue for me. Unlike a lot of people I know, I’m not all that concerned about the working condition of the rides. I figure that the carnival company and the Fair itself have been in business long enough to provide a reasonably safe experience, a reasonable amount of the time. At this time of year, riding The Skymaster is probably less dangerous than navigating Route 3A at dusk, when every other driver is looking for the best parking space at the best price in the least amount of time possible, without any regard for pedestrians or other vehicles. No, the reason I won’t go on the rides anymore is that I am just-plain-afraid.

I used to love roller coasters. I want to believe that I still do. But last year, while at an amusement park near Cincinnati, Ohio, I realized that they now scare the heck out of me. Just walking through the park gates I felt uneasy. It had been a while since I’d been on a roller coaster, so I thought that if I started slowly, I could ease myself into more daring experiences. Instead, after exiting the first ride, I found myself shell-shocked. The plan was to fill the day with as much exhilaration as possible, but I couldn’t bring myself to board another ride.

I hadn’t expected to be so afraid. I had no rational explanation for my change of heart, and thus I felt like a coward. But when I started telling my story to friends who I knew had also once loved roller coasters, it became evident that I was not the only one who had developed this fear.

One friend explained it as such. As teenagers, we had our share of nightmares, what-ifs, and other common fears. But these existed, for many of us -- myself included -- within the relatively safe framework of family, school, and friendships, where our lives were plotted out, at least through twelfth grade, in a relatively predictable pattern. Big fears seemed less immediate, less tangible. With family, teachers, and friends playing fairly consistent roles, it was easy to assume that we were safe, that even if all was not right in the world, we were protected somehow. With that illusion of protection -- the imagined guardian angel on the shoulder -- we could indulge ourselves in frightening, sometimes terrifying situations, and feel nothing but exhilarated by them.

But as adults, after secondary school or college or grad school is over, when we’re supporting ourselves, maybe even supporting a family, and fully responsible for our own well being, the situation is different. We’ve got enough to worry about: the economy, keeping our jobs, paying our bills, succeeding at whatever it is we wish to do. We don’t want to bring more fear into our lives. We’re trying so hard to keep ourselves together that we don’t dare even entertain the possibility of feeling our world lurch to the left, slide to the right, flip upside down, or have the bottom drop out if it. Life itself provides enough excitement.

Say someone new comes into your life. Say that you did not expect to meet anyone . . . not so soon . . . nor did you expect to have such strong feelings for the person. Not much changes -- your work, your family life, your sense of self are only enhanced by this new relationship and the way it makes you feel. But your perspective shifts. Suddenly you’re thinking about the future in very real terms -- thinking about things you never really had to think about before. So, in a way, everything changes.

The control freak in you doesn’t know how to handle this. You have always been the one operating the roller coaster, the one who makes sure the safety bars are locked down before the switch is pulled and the ride begins. But now life has snuck up on you, tapped you on the shoulder and said "You’re coming with me." You like where you’re going, but a part of you wants to run back home for a minute -- to make a few phone calls, and collect a few things so that you’re better prepared for what lies ahead. We can’t always be so prepared.

Especially today, with warring factions, terrorist attacks, and natural disasters plaguing the planet, we can never be sure what tomorrow will bring. We are each responsible for the paths we choose in life, but by the same token, we can’t fully control what happens to us. We can check, double-check, maybe triple-check the safety bars. We can close our eyes, hold our breath, and pray that we won’t fall. Or we can simply trust that we have prepared ourselves well for what lies before us. The earth is moving beneath us. What might we see as we rise up into the sky and look down into the stars?

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
August 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Her Life’s Work

A young woman kneels by the riverbank, brush in hand, putting the finishing touches on a small wooden boat. She has been working on this project for years, spending time each day in her shop at the river’s edge, slowly assembling a vessel that will be exclusively her own.

The boat is nearly complete.

It has always been a part of her life. When she was a child, before the idea of building a boat had taken shape in her mind, she was making observations and gathering information that she would use for this endeavor. Nearly everything that has happened to her, nearly every experience, has played a role, however small, in the making of this boat.

It was ten, maybe fifteen, years ago that the idea of building a boat first crossed the young woman’s mind. Initially, she didn’t take it seriously, but the thought kept coming back to her -- recurring with increasing urgency until she could no longer ignore it.

In the beginning, knowing very little about boats, she devoted her time to studying them -- their history, their design, the art and science of boatbuilding. She traveled the world observing different types of vessels -- the gondolas of Venice, the fishing boats of Mexico, the great battleships of the American military. As she traveled, she encountered other boatbuilders, often stopping a while to apprentice with them and learn their craft. Some of these teachings she found valuable; others did not serve her well. She had to learn to differentiate between good and bad advice, to experiment with her own ideas, and to develop her own set of standards.

Having gained enough knowledge and experience to get started, she returned home and put her skills to work. First she drew up a design. It took years for her even to decide what kind of boat she wanted. She had to determine where the boat might take her, and in how much time, and what she might bring with her, and how the boat might serve not just her but the other people in her life . . . and the world itself.

Once the design was complete, it was time to collect materials. Again, the young woman set off, revisiting some of the people and places she had encountered before, as well as exploring lands unfamiliar to her. Again, she studied the work of those who had come before her, examining the materials they used for their own boats, and deciding what would work well for her own. Once she had chosen the wood, sails, ropes and fittings that would serve her best, she returned home.

Now she needed a place to build her boat. Being near the water was of primary importance, so when she discovered the tidal river -- not far from the ocean, not far from her home -- she knew she had found the right spot, and established a workshop for herself at the river’s edge.

Since then she has been working -- still traveling from time to time, still studying the techniques of others, but building her own boat now, crafting a vessel that each day becomes more and more unique, more and more her own.

The process of building the boat has been long and often difficult. Indeed sometimes she has grown distracted from the work, or frustrated with it. She has even set the project aside a time or two, giving herself a chance to pursue other interests. But she always returns to it.

She has been working on the boat for so long now that she can no longer see her work objectively. She thinks the boat is good enough, but knows that it is far from perfect. She is certain that she could make it better -- there will always be adjustments and refinements to make -- but she questions the value of such obsessive fine tuning.

Time spent working at the river’s edge has taught the young woman a great deal about the ways of water. She has studied the river, walked along its shore nearly every day, observing its ebb and flow. She has learned to see the effects of wind and weather on the river, the effects of climate and pollution, the effects of human beings and other animals.

The young woman has developed a relationship with the river. It speaks to her . . . asks her questions. Lately she has been wondering whether it is time to take her boat out on the water.

"How will you know that you are ready?" the river asks.

"Will I ever really know?" she answers. "I can spend my whole life wondering."

"Aren’t you afraid of what you might encounter out there?" the river asks.

"I can worry about it," she replies. "I can plot and plan and make all sorts of predictions, but I won’t know for sure until I try it," she says.

"What if the boat sinks and you find out that your work has failed?" the river asks.

"All the work I have done, all that I have learned along the way, has served me not just in the making of my boat, but in the shaping of my life and experience," the young woman replies. "In building this boat I have learned volumes about myself and my world."

"Do you trust yourself?" the river asks.

The young woman falls silent. It’s a question she’s not sure she is ready to answer.

"I don’t know," she sighs. "Sometimes I trust myself, sometimes I don’t. I wonder if all the work I have done will suffice."

"Am I ready to set sail?" she asks. "I think I am, and yet I wonder if I have just tricked myself into believing that I am ready because I want to be ready."

"Can I trust myself?" she asks.

The river does not answer.

But the young woman knows . . . despite shadows of doubt and insecurity, she knows in her heart that she has prepared herself well. She feels challenged, but she is not overcome by fear.
Her supplies are in order. She has all the right maps and all the right gear. She has considered the storms she might encounter along the way, and feels strongly that she now has the skills to deal with them. Her boat is ready. She has spent years making it so.

It is time to put the boat on the water. She knows not how long her journey will be or even where it will take her. She can only see as far as the next bend, and even that view is not totally clear. But she is ready.

She brings the boat to the river’s edge; climbs aboard. The river yields a bit to the weight of her body, but then buoys her up, supporting her. She checks the wind, and sets off. The journey has begun.

We can spend our lives testing the waters, wondering whether or not we are ready to set sail. We can use the finest tools, develop the most advanced skills, carry the most reliable equipment . . . But not until we are able to trust ourselves, not until we are willing to bring our boats to the water, release the tethers, and set off toward the horizon does our journey truly begin.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
August 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

The River Girl

Looking downstream from the rope swing tree at Fox Hill Shipyard in Norwell.

I spent ten days this July house-sitting in Norwell, not far from the North River. The house itself was an ideal retreat: tucked into the woods and surrounded by wildflower gardens, it featured a large screened porch, which stayed cool, even on the hottest, most humid days.

A lot has been changing in my life lately -- with work, with the people I know, with the way I feel about myself. All of these changes have been positive, but the sheer volume of new experience has proven heady at times, and sometimes overwhelming. That quiet place by the river provided just what I needed -- time to be by myself, to think over all that was happening in my life, to reflect on it, and let it all sink in.

Every morning during my stay in Norwell, I would rise early and, before anything else, walk through the quiet, early morning streets of the neighborhood, down to the river. At Shipyard Park, the site of the Fox Hill yards, I would sit down in the grass at the water’s edge, lean back on my elbows, and gaze upstream toward Hanover. I rarely did anything more than that -- just took in the scenery and let my mind roam wherever it pleased -- but after a few days, that time spent by the river each morning was something I was unwilling to miss. It helped me remain grounded and tuned in to the things that were most important to me.

From my seat beneath the Fox Hill historical marker, my eyes would follow the path that ran up the hill and along the steep ridge of the forested riverbank. In the distance was a small clearing, well-trodden and worn. It was a place that had obviously experienced heavy use in the past, but had since begun to reclaim itself. Brush was creeping in, filling the places so many human feet had worn smooth. Tree trunks and branches, broken by the wind or removed with a chain saw, revealed tender green shoots of new growth.

The clearing was the site of the rope swing, a place that I visited nearly every day during the summer of 1990. The rope swing attracted crowds -- often young and boisterous ones like my friends and I, just home from our first year of college. The park was private, owned by the neighborhood association, and although no one I knew was ever confronted on the matter, I suppose technically we were all trespassers.

The liabilities must have been staggering -- more than a few people got hurt at the rope swing, between ropes giving way, ladder rungs slipping, and poorly executed jumps into the river, which was rocky at low tide. It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, when one day we arrived to find nothing left on which to swing. Not only was the rope missing, but the entire branch that once supported the swing had been sawn down and carried off.

Each morning, when I walked down to the river and observed from afar the clearing and the tree that used to support the rope swing, I would be flooded with memories of the time I once spent there. In many ways 1990 was a difficult summer, filled with the usual sort of anxieties an eighteen year old might expect, but it was a magical summer as well. What I remember most is the way, by the last few weeks of the season, I knew the tide chart inside out. Even from across town, I could somehow sense when it was time to visit the swing. It was as if I felt the river rising and falling inside of me. That summer, more than anything else, is what I comes to mind when someone asks me how the North River became so important to me.

A couple years ago I began spending time with a young man I’d met through work. In the beginning, we knew very little about each other, so I was surprised when, almost immediately, he referred to me as The River Girl. I balked at the characterization, but his argument was strong. "Every story of yours that I read, every time I see you or talk to you, you’re on the river," he said, "Or you’re headed there, . . . or you’ve just returned from canoeing or kayaking or swimming." That much, I had to admit, was true.

Still, I insisted he was wrong. After all, I knew plenty of people who got out on the river more than I ever did -- people who lived on the river, or worked there, or made a point to go kayaking at least once a week, regardless of the season. I was lucky to get out in my kayak more than a few times a year. And the reason why I wrote and spoke of the river so often was that, though few and far between, the experiences I had there always seemed worthy of a story. "No, I was hardly The River Girl," I said. "A River Girl wanna-be, maybe."

Back then, I was working for the NSRWA, a job that might appear, to the outside observer, to be one which involves regular contact with the rivers. But the work was a lot more of sitting at a computer and talking on the phone than anything else. While the rivers and the people who care about them were the focus of my job, the only views I took in on a daily basis were the photos taped to my office wall.

Whenever I meet someone new, particularly someone I’m hoping to impress, I inevitably find a way to bring the North River into the conversation. If I really like the person, I will find a way to bring him to the North River. The river itself is impressive, but my intention in mentioning it is, more than anything else, about my desire to place myself within the same frame of reference. It’s not that I wish to show off my knowledge of the rivers (indeed, I have become an authority on the subject), but rather that I feel that there is a side of me, one I really love, which only comes out when I am on the river.

Those ten days in Norwell, each one beginning with a walk down to the North River, were some of the most serene days I’ve had in a long time. Sitting at the water’s edge became my morning meditation: I watched the tide come in . . . or go out. I watched the marsh, green and tall and just beginning to turn gold. I watched the breeze -- when there was one -- stir up patterns on the river’s surface, distorting the reflected image of the hazy summer sky.

The river was a mirror. I would marvel at how serene it seemed, and then marvel at my own serenity in the face of all that was changing in my life. I would go back and forth between studying it, questioning it, and simply being present and appreciating it. I would remind myself that, just like a storm can rise unexpectedly on the river, so could the peace I felt very easily be shaken.

Am I The River Girl? It’s a question that crosses my mind fairly often. Maybe the identity doesn’t quite fit, but neither is it entirely inappropriate. The time I spend on the North River ultimately brings me to a place of peace -- with myself, with the world. No one has ever defined it, but if being The River Girl is all about tuning in to the spirit of the river, honoring it, and accepting guidance from it, then maybe my friend was right. Maybe The River Girl and I are one and the same.

by Kezia Bacon, Correspondent
August 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

A Shift in Perspective

The North River mouth, as viewed from above.

In Walden, Thoreau asked "Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?"

While we may never be able to understand, on any deep level, what the world looks like to another person, we can however shift our own view of it by looking through our own eyes in a different way. This might be as simple making a new friend, or just getting to know an older one better. It might involve visiting a new place, or immersing oneself in a different culture. Sometimes a shift in perspective need only occur in the mind. Sometimes we need only change the way we see things.

Last year I attended the Marshfield Fair for the first time in close to a decade. It was a rainy day, and rather than go on many of the rides, I spent my time walking around, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells -- row after row of game booths piled high with toys and trinkets, the whir and flash of the Flying Bobs and the Sky Diver, the combined scents of cotton candy, popcorn, manure and dust. There was so much to take in: I could have stayed all day.

But what stuck with me more than anything else were the ten minutes I spent on the Ferris Wheel. A rain storm had sent most of the other fair-goers home for the day, so I had the ride to myself. Perhaps sensing my wishes, the attendant wheeled me around a few times and then parked me at the top to stay.

From that far up, the fair took on a different character. Beyond the bright colors, beyond the lovingly tended 4-H livestock and prize-winning bunches of beets, there were layers and layers of stories. Carny workers who travel the country, lingering a week, maybe two, in one small town after another. Junior high couples -- swaggering boys and giggling girls -- sneaking off into quiet corners. Families from near and far upholding a tradition that is as much a part of their summer as the beach and the Fourth of July. From the top of the Ferris Wheel, I watched, fascinated, as this temporary yet timeless world circulated beneath my feet.

Just before the attendant pulled the switch to bring me back down, I turned my eyes away from the fair and looked out over the town. From treetop level, in line with the church steeples and far above the roofs of all the buildings around, the town appeared remarkably different -- prettier than I remembered, and more orderly. From above, what after years of familiarity I had perceived as the most mundane of landscapes -- asphalt and concrete and power lines -- now seemed beautiful . . . almost unreal: rolling hills, corridors of green trees, a river threading its way through the middle of it. Only by stepping outside could I see the town for what it really was.

Recently a friend invited me to accompany him on an hour-long scenic flight over the North and South Rivers. I was thrilled to be able to see the South Shore -- the place I grew up, the place I have chosen to live -- from the air.

Flying at 800 feet in a four-seat Cessna can be noisy, especially if one of the windows is open the entire time. My friend’s job was to take photographs, and to do that well, he was obliged to open the window and lean outside. The headset that the pilot gave me made a difference, but still the combined sounds of engine and wind were enough to prevent me from hearing anything but a constant rush of white noise. With one of my senses closed off, the others grew stronger. I was mesmerized by the view.

It is impossible to offer a description that does any justice to what I saw that day. In this case, the pictures speak volumes more than any words I might put down. The terms "breathtaking" and "spectacular" seem trite; inappropriate.

From the air, the salt marsh looks like thick moss or finely loomed fabric. The web of estuary creeks is more intricate than I ever would have imagined: sprawling, seemingly patternless, yet delicately -- sublimely -- interconnected. The sand flats near the mouth of the North River, flooded by high tide, make the waters of the inlet appear Caribbean blue. Shapes in the sand glint like seaglass. The ripples on the ocean seem far more uniform than they do from ground level.

All the time and energy that goes into planning a town or a region -- zoning guidelines, road design, conservation restrictions -- becomes evident from the air. It all fits together. You can see how it works.

For years I have devoted a big chunk of my time to working on behalf of the North and South Rivers. The rivers and their watershed are now so familiar to me that at times I fail to see their beauty. They’ve grown small in my outlook, predictable. I don’t always approach them with the reverence I felt when I was younger.

Even the most interesting landscapes can seem unremarkable when you view them on a daily basis. You just get used to them. The beauty might be lost to you until you change the way you see.

I’ve been feeling some angst with just about every aspect of my life these days -- companionship, living space, livelihood, health... . I’ve been searching for fulfillment, expecting that "more" is what I want, that "more" will lead me where I want to go. Viewing the rivers, the salt marsh, the forests, and the town from above has renewed my commitment to the place I live. But what resonates more, and what will stay with me long after my memories of the flight have faded, are these words, offered simply as commentary from my friend that day. "You have to appreciate what you have," he said, "before you can move forward, before you can get more."

Sometimes it takes a change of perspective to fully comprehend what we have already. Sometimes we have to see through different eyes in order to appreciate the big picture. Thoreau’s miracle is perhaps impossible to attain, but a shift in our own outlook might be equally significant.

by Kezia Bacon, Special To The Mariner
July 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Some Thoughts on Summer Safety

The South River canoe/kayak launch at the Francis Keville Bridge in Marshfield.

As a kayaker, I’m feeling heavy-hearted these days. First I got word that an acquaintance from college had drowned in a kayaking accident on the Colorado River. Not long after, there was a similar incident on the Indian Head River, right here on the South Shore. Both of the young men who lost their lives were experienced paddlers; both were wearing the appropriate safety gear. But they each encountered circumstances they hadn’t expected.

Many of my friends are kayakers, so you can imagine how my heart sank when, one morning last month, my father stepped into my room to ask if I had heard about the drowning on the Indian Head. A news report brought momentary relief -- it was no one I knew -- but then a fog of sadness moved in. In both of these incidents, I knew the river better than I knew the victim. But that doesn’t diminish the tragedy. Perhaps, whether we knew the person or not, we all share the sense of loss when his life, so full of promise, meets a tragic end.

Before I understood how dangerous it was, I used to swim by myself in the South River. If you walk through the dunes at Marshfield’s Rexhame Beach, you’ll come to a sandy area along the river’s edge where the water is shallow and often warm -- perfect for swimming on a summer day. There is a stony beach, with plenty of room to lay out a towel or two, and unless a fisherman has already staked claim to the area for the day, you are practically guaranteed privacy. Not many people even realize how close to the town beach the South River flows.

When swimming in the South River -- or any river, for that matter -- you must watch out for the current. At times, the tide will be slack and the current won’t feel strong, but at other times, the outgoing tide will whisk you downstream and out into the middle of the channel before you even realize what has happened.

One day a couple of years ago, I decided to spend the afternoon alone at the South River beach. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone swimming there by myself. In fact, I had already visited that particular stretch of river several times that summer, always alone. Those prior visits must have been during slack tides, for I’d never had a problem with the current. But this time, just stepping into the water, I could sense how strong the current was. The tide was coming in, and just wading in up to my knees I had trouble keeping my footing.

Still, I reasoned, the water was shallow, and the banks of the river were not so high as to prevent me from climbing up onto them from the water, if the need were to present itself. The sun was hot, and having just hauled all of my beach gear through the dunes, I couldn’t bear the thought of trudging back to the car unrefreshed. Instead, I devised a little game: I would wade, against the current, as far downstream as I could, then bend down into the water, stretch out as if to swim, and let the current carry me upstream. When I got as far upstream as I wanted to go, I’d just put my feet down and wade back.

The game worked well. I made several trips up and down a small stretch of river, relaxing in the warm water, yet staying close to shore, ever aware of the current’s strong pull. Walking against the tide wasn’t easy, but the payoff -- two or three minutes of effortless swimming -- more than justified the work. Each time I repeated this routine, my confidence grew. With each repetition, I would allow myself to swim a little further out into the middle of the channel, and a little further upstream. At times, I had to exit the river to make way for passing boats, but the sound of their motors gave me ample warning of their arrival.

I began to tire of the long, difficult walk required for each short swim, but resolved to repeat it once more before heading home. I waded as far downstream as I could before turning back to yield to the water’s flow. The route had become predictable, so for variety, I flipped onto my back and let the river carry me upstream, head-first and blind to all but the sky. The water felt so good, so refreshing . . . my mind began to wander. Concerns for safety melted into transcendental reverie. For a moment, I lost track of time.

Then, with a start, my thoughts snapped back to the present. With a shiver of dread, I flipped back onto my stomach. As I’d suspected, the current had carried me much further upstream than I would have liked. Plus I had floated out into the middle of the channel.

My first reaction was to panic and start swimming directly toward shore -- a nearly impossible task in so strong a current. After a few strokes, I began to tire, and luckily, before a second wave of panic had a chance to rise up, reason stepped in. I began swimming at an angle, half floating, hoping that as the incoming tide carried me upstream, I could slowly but surely make my way to the shore.

I was scolding myself for being so irresponsible -- for swimming alone, with no way to get help if I needed it -- when I remembered why I had deemed it safe enough to swim by myself in the first place. The river was shallow. I could always put my feet down. By then I was much closer to shore, so I tried it. The water was only four feet deep! I planted one foot firmly and then the other, and -- relieved and considerably shaken -- walked safely back to shore.

We can’t always put our feet down. Most of our local rivers have strong currents and unpredictable changes in depth. Motor boats often whip around corners with no concern for the swimmer, fisherman or canoeist. We can take our chances, but it is better to be prepared and play it safe.

Thus, a few guidelines for summer safety on the rivers:

•Never go boating or swimming alone. Bring a friend, or at least choose a spot where there are some other people around. A whistle can be a helpful way to call for help.

•Know the terrain. Consult a tide chart, study a map, take some time to observe traffic patterns, and ask a local expert for details you might otherwise miss.

•Consider the unexpected possibilities. Extreme weather -- such as the prodigious rains we’ve experienced all season -- can render a waterway unpredictable and dangerous. Even if you’re familiar with the route you plan to take, consider how the shifting weather patterns may affect it.

•Carry personal flotation devices (PFDs). When boating, the law requires that you always have them with you, even if you choose not to wear them. Children must wear them at all times. Having flotation devices on hand for fatigued swimmers is also wise.

•Have an escape plan. What if your boat tips over? What if the current begins to carry you off downstream? Know what to do, and practice your "escape."

Boating and swimming in our local rivers are delightful summer activities. Be careful out there.

by Kezia Bacon, Special To The Mariner
July 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

River Time, River Magic, River Illusion

Summer on the North River at Couch Beach.

It’s my favorite time of year on the river. The salt marsh is fully green. The grass has grown long enough that, in even the slightest breeze, it appears to be dancing. On an afternoon in late June, when the sky is bright blue, and fluffy wisps of cloud neither threaten rain nor temper the warmth of the sun, when the wind blows just right, and the light plays on the water, it is possible to lose all sense of time. The river, in all its splendor, is captivating, even magical.

If I had to explain to someone, without words, the essence of what the North River means to me, I would bring him out on the river in my canoe, on one such afternoon. Bringing him there would say something about the river, but it would say something about me as well. The river centers me and reminds me of all that I am, and all that is possible. Showing someone the river would reveal the real me. That’s exactly what I set out to do.

It was a perfect river day. The tides were strong and precisely in favor for the trip I had planned -- to canoe up the North River with a certain young man. If you were to ask me then I would have said that we were friends, but the truth of the matter was that I was in love with him -- in love with the idea of him anyway.

It had been months since I’d been on the water. Going to the river felt like going home. I was nearing the end of a long, troubled relationship, and although I never would have admitted it, I was searching for a way out. Part of me knew that the months to come would be difficult, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to endure it. But being on the river would let me leave all that behind for a few hours, -- to escape, in a sense, and gather my strength.

I had been looking forward to this day for weeks. I may have thought otherwise at the time, but my companion was not someone I knew well. He was an acquaintance -- a regular customer at the small store where I worked -- but one with whom I had grown close, with years of increasingly meaningful conversation. I’d only just begun to consider him a friend. This would be the first time we’d spend together outside the store.

It was he who suggested the river trip. We set out from the Union Street Landing on a Sunday afternoon, riding the rising tide upstream. It was awkward at first, but after we got our bearings in the boat and cleared the rapids at the first bend in the river, we settled into an easy rapport.

It wasn’t long before I began talking about the relationship I was in and the problems my boyfriend and I were having. I was extremely unhappy and yet I viewed the romance as something that was ending but not over. My companion asked me to tell the story from the beginning, and as I did, certain patterns began to stand out to me. The story took on a different meaning when told aloud. The love had died, I realized, but I had yet to admit it both to my boyfriend and to myself.

Regarding my canoeing companion, when I say I was in love with the idea of him, I mean that he represented to me all that was lacking in my love life at that time. He appealed to me primarily because he seemed to provide what my boyfriend could not. The fact that I really didn’t know him well didn’t stand in my way: I just filled in the blanks for myself. He traveled a lot for work -- there were months at a time when I did not see him -- and that made it easy for me to imagine him as the perfect partner.

"The river can be a magical place but it can also play tricks on you" -- words I have spoken more than once since the day of the canoe trip. But it’s not true. The river is nothing but straightforward. But you can play tricks on yourself, especially -- perhaps -- on the river, because when the day is as perfect as it was that afternoon in June, it’s easy to think that there’s magic involved.

On the river, time reinvents itself, stretching some hours into weeks and shortening others to mere minutes. The end of a day sneaks up from behind and you realize that despite what you’ve begun to think, the sun will not shine forever. The day must end. Night must follow. Those lazy hours before the sunset can be enchanting, brimming with illusions of eternity. No wonder it is so easy to fall in love out there.

I finished telling the story of my failing relationship just as my companion and I reached a straightway -- one of the most beautiful stretches of the North River. Looking out over the vivid green expanse of marsh, I felt an unprecedented sense of freedom and wholeness. I had never felt so at peace with myself.

"What’s that creek over there?" my companion asked.

"Dwelley’s."

"Let’s check it out."

Marsh creeks are like mazes. The channels are narrow and shallow, and top-heavy reeds bend down over your head. The banks have a habit of collapsing upon themselves, bending and twisting so that you could be paddling in circles for hours and not notice it. It takes a practiced eye to differentiate one meander from another. Thick green grasses obscure the view. If you think you know where you are, you feel safely enclosed, but if you get lost you feel hopelessly trapped. The only way out it to exit the boat, climb onto the marsh and look for landmarks.

But we found our way out without incident. The rest of the day passed quickly: a picnic lunch, another hour or two of steady paddling in a slow race against the setting sun. We arrived at the landing at dusk. It had been a full day on the river and a good one, and it was time to go home.

Driving back to my house in Marshfield, we talked about how much we’d enjoyed each other’s company. In parting, we pledged to take another canoe trip sometime, perhaps exploring a different section of the river. It felt good to have a new friend.

But I awoke the next morning tangled tight in a web of illusion. I felt better than I had in a long time, and I concluded that such positive energy could only be attributed to my companion from the day before. I thought I had found the man with whom I would spend the rest of my life.

The rest of the story is long, sad, and messy. In the days that followed, everything fell apart. Two years have passed and yet fragments, sharp and jagged, remain unresolved. My failing relationship ended almost immediately, but the new one I thought was beginning never even got off the ground. Instead, there was confusion, anger, bitterness. Not only did I lose a potential partner, I lost a friend.

But I found my escape. Not a true escape, for life’s not like that, but even a momentary respite can give us the strength we need. I owe it all to the river.

One afternoon in June, the river slowed down time so that I could talk about my problems. It spun its magic, giving me a sense of peace, and -- does one exist without the other? -- a strong dose of illusion. But I found the strength for what I needed to do. After the smoke cleared, that peace I felt while on the river remained, protecting and guiding me.

That day on the river was a wake-up call. My canoeing companion provided an unexpected solution to my problems. I thought he was my savior, but instead he showed me that I had to save myself. He opened my eyes, helped me remember who I was, and then walked away, leaving me to prove to myself that the answers would never be found in other people -- only in myself. It was painful, yes, but suffering and pain exist for a reason. We endure, we grow, we learn. And slowly, . . . slowly we move on.

by Kezia Bacon, Special to the Mariner
July 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.

Spring: A Time of Renewal and Hope

A stream near Kripalu, in the Berkshires.

E. B. White, the essayist, wrote about "the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy," suggesting that spending time alone is important, regardless of whether one has chosen or has been obliged to accept such solitude. According to White, loneliness and privacy are two distinctly different experiences, each to be savored.

In April I wrote about being lonely, and how I was able to find solace in the outdoors. I also posed a question -- left it hanging there for the universe to answer: Where did my feelings of loneliness come from? This question, simple yet profound, was one I imagined I would grapple with for months --maybe years, so I was startled when the answer came so suddenly.

After the aforementioned article was published, I heard from a lot of people who had been through, or were currently experiencing, the same things I wrote about. We all agreed that loneliness is a mental or emotional state, something personal -- not easily attributed to outside circumstances and situations. Loneliness can be a choice, and in my case I didn’t know I had chosen it.

Recently I traveled to the Berkshires, to a spiritual center, for a yoga and meditation retreat. The program schedule demanded most of my time, but I had an hour or two each afternoon to walk the grounds and explore. I found myself gravitating to the nature trails, and to a certain hilltop where, hidden from the rest of the property by a crescent of flowering shrubs, I could look out over the valley and the lake below. Each day I would go there, by myself -- sometimes to read, or to write, or just to stretch out and nap in the sun. Occasionally the loneliness question would cross my mind, but most of the time it just hovered at the periphery of my thoughts, never really asserting itself.

Whenever I attend a workshop or retreat, a good deal of my time -- initially -- is spent explaining to people, sometimes repeatedly, the correct pronunciation of my name. It is especially problematic when I am asked to wear a name tag, as it is the spelling of my name that generally causes the confusion. One evening during my last retreat, I found myself clenching my fists under the dinner table, smiling politely as my desire to escape grew stronger. Rattling off, yet again, the story behind my name, all I could think about was that solitary spot by the rose garden where I could be alone and at peace.

Excusing myself not long afterwards, I headed straight for my hilltop. Just knowing that I would soon be in one of my favorite situations -- alone, in nature -- calmed me down. And then suddenly it occurred to me. It was as if a ray of the setting sun had suddenly broken through the trees and beamed right into my forehead: that loneliness I had been carrying around with me for years . . . I had chosen it! Memories, images, fragments of conversation that had been bouncing around together inside my head suddenly fell together in a clear picture. Finally, it all made sense.

I have always struggled with the tension between contentedly being the person I am, and coping with a world which tells us that we should strive to be someone other than ourselves. Since I was a kid I’ve been aware that I am "different" -- not just because of my unusual name, but because I’ve never fit comfortably into the mainstream. I admit that the mainstream never really appealed to me in the first place, but somewhere along the line I started believing that I would never measure up to other people’s expectations, and rather than go on happily being who I was in the face of possible rejection, I found it easier to keep to myself, where those judging voices, imagined as they might have been, were quieter, if not silent.

But keeping to oneself can be lonely, and during the past year -- despite a close and loving family, a modest social life, and a teaching and writing career -- that loneliness just kept growing stronger. Nature was my only solace, and even that was beginning to wear thin. I think we get what we need when we need it, but first -- in most cases -- something’s got to give. In my case, what had to give was fear -- fear of judgment, fear of rejection, fear of pain.

Reaching my spot on the hilltop, I sat down on a bench among hundreds of blooming flowers, and looked down across the valley to the lake. My mind was reeling. "So it was my own misconception of the world, the voices that existed only in my head . . ." I said to myself, "That was what made me feel so miserable?" At first it was hard to accept that my loneliness had been self-imposed. But then understood that if I had created my own problems, then I too would be responsible for making them go away. I only had to find the courage to move forward, to change the way I viewed the world and the people around me. Was that possible? Sitting on that bench, watching the reflection of the setting sun on the surface of the lake, I realized that the change had already begun.

I wish I could say that everything is different now. It’s not that easy. But something has changed, that’s for sure. That chorus of negative judgment is quieting. I’m walking with lighter steps these days.

And just in time, because it’s my favorite time of year. Everything is green, green, green -- the trees, the fields, the marshes along the rivers. The sun is warm, the rains are strong, even the winds feel as if they have a purpose. As spring eases into summer there is a pervading sense of promise, of renewal. Flowers bloom in bursts of vibrant color and baby birds peck out of their protective shells. Mother Nature begins to bear her gifts.

These days I am attracted to the lush places -- Webster Sanctuary with its verdant pastures, the vividly colored salt marshes, the rolling hills and valleys of the Berkshires. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a new cycle of life. I feel hopeful, renewed, full of promise. The loneliness is abating.

by Kezia Bacon, Special to the Mariner
June 1998

Kezia Bacon’s articles are provided by the North and South Rivers Watershed Association.