Water's Satisfying Signature
Water and earth have been engaged with each other for eons in Yosemite National Park. Together, they have crafted sights and sounds that electrify our senses and invite us to wonder at—and wander through—their productive work. From the glacial ice that carved Yosemite's well-known valley to the sediments that sustain its broad, spacious meadows, water and earth have collaborated in ways that highlight their most intriguing qualities.
With all due respect to the earth, however, it is water that drives much of their inventiveness and delivers Yosemite's sparkle and sizzle in unexpected ways. Water contributes to the park's changing moods throughout the seasons, but it also dramatizes the earth's unique features, embellishing its angles and curves by falling from them, rushing over them, and gently nestling near them.
“Water is the origin of beauty” in Yosemite, stated Yosemite Park Ranger Shelton Johnson. Without water, the earth can be a barren place. Add water to the mix, however, and the earth's own magic is unlocked and distributed abundantly in richly adorned forests, colorful meadows, and rocky riverbanks.
Ralph Waldo Emerson observed that the “earth laughs in flowers.” Indeed, it does. But it is the sprinkling of water from the heavens and the dripping of winter snowmelt that tickle the earth and bring forth its laughter and vibrant colors!
Water changes the earth in other ways, too. Given enough time, it can reshape a landscape almost imperceptibly. Given the right circumstances, it can accomplish remarkable changes in a matter of hours. I learned something about the latter years ago.
During my childhood visits to Yosemite, water kept my siblings and me mesmerized during our stays in the small resort community of Wawona, about six miles inside the park's southern boundary. After helping unpack the family's belongings for the week, our first important activity was a walk down River Road to meet the South Fork of the Merced River, where its refreshing water awaited us.
We gauged the river's fullness by using the cracks and creases in the granite slabs protruding from the water as our measuring sticks. Each year, our growing familiarity with these landmarks helped us assess the river's flow and, consequently, the amount of fun we could expect from its playful willingness to carry us wherever it wished.
Our days beside the river often stretched into the early summer evenings. This, of course, required other family members to call us home for supper when our childish sense of timelessness persuaded us that there was always room for “one more” exuberant adventure in the water.
For me, the river and its granite surroundings became a second vacation home. I walked for miles, stepping from rock to rock, becoming familiar with the river and the apparent changes in its course as reflected in the places where rocks and boulders accumulated. Even into adulthood, I spent hours contemplating water's ability to shape and rearrange the earth's granite underpinnings.
I began to recognize the river's handiwork everywhere: in the distribution of monster-sized boulders, in steep riverbanks exposing tree roots that seemed frozen in time, and in the varied arrangements of rock that hinted at the water's persistent efforts to find its way downstream. The river was never quite the same, although its changes often escaped notice unless one took the time to look closely.
Thirty years after my first visit to Yosemite, and just six months after the great flood of January 1997, I returned on one of my many trips to Wawona. A visit to our family swimming hole revealed that the river had been busy while we were away.
Standing on the granite slabs where we once claimed sunbathing spots between swims, I saw a remarkable redistribution of the river's resources. Our swimming hole had disappeared. Where the water had once been deep enough for us to flail about and surrender to the current, an almost endless assortment of rocks and boulders now filled the riverbed. One could even walk across the river without getting one's feet wet.
How could such weighty masses of rock have been carried so effortlessly into a new expression of the river's personality?
The question sent me downstream to investigate further. Where the Merced narrowed between its banks and then spread across broad granite surfaces, I encountered another striking change. The area had once appeared to be little more than a boulder field. The river there rarely exceeded three feet in depth, and the jumble of rocks offered little indication of what lay beneath.
Now, a shimmering, clear pool stretched across the river from one bank to the other. The floodwaters had scooped out a swimming hole unlike any I had encountered in Yosemite. Their tremendous force had swept away debris and obstructions, leaving a broad, placid pool that seemed almost too good to be true. There was room for swimmers, divers, and air-mattress floaters, as well as children who preferred to splash about in shallower water. The gentle current offered none of the usual concerns about being swept downstream.
Water had transformed the earth into a swimming hole of remarkable perfection. The same force that had buried one of our favorite places beneath a jumble of rocks had fashioned this new pool farther downstream. Water had taken away something familiar and left behind something unexpected.
Of course, water doesn't always leave us with improvements we would choose for ourselves. Floods can destroy homes, uproot trees, and rearrange familiar landscapes in ways that bring little satisfaction to those who live there. Nature does not consult us before getting on with its work.
Yet something is compelling about witnessing the results. Water consistently surprises and delights, invents and reshapes, sparkles and sizzles. Whether carving a valley over thousands of years or creating a swimming hole in a single flood, it leaves behind its own distinctive signature.
And sometimes, if we are fortunate enough to be there and take a closer look, that signature is a satisfying one.
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