When it's Different

I put out onto a long reservoir,that looks enough like a lake to satisfy me, under a blue and gray marbled sky of overcast clouds.  I follow the north shore at a distant that allows me to peer into the forested waterside.

It isn't a day for reflections on nature.  Instead it is a day to wash the dingy crud of daily life from my soul.  But, my problems are minor compared to most people's and not worth writing about.  They just need to be put to peace.  Enough said.

Soon, the forested hillside yields to flat land.  The deep reservoir water goes to shallow, consistently shallow.  I am not over the natural channel of the Farmington.  Somewhere in here that older deeper river course lies.  Occasionally, I pass houses, the owners of which have often turned their shoreline into some sort of white trash encampment...junk lawn chairs, junk boats, junk remains of docks, etc.  Anyway, that doesn't happen too often.

I pass a couple old abutments...later I discover that they are the remains of the late 19th century Oil City Dam.

On the original channel

The reservoir necks down and I finally pick up some head current, the outflow from the Tariffville Gorge.  I turn back and find that one of the inlets that I passed on the south shore is the original channel of the Farmington.  It's uncanny, but I can feel the spirit of a running river when I am over the drowned original channel.  It is different here.

swimming copperhead