Sunday Morning: Vignettes at the Falls

I marvel, sitting on the rocks overlooking the power of Post Falls crashing through the wide-open floodgates and into the narrow canyon of the Spokane River. The wind hurls the branches of new growth at my elbow, then calms again. A parade of locals have made this pilgrimage to witness the annual phenomenon of Spring Runoff. Weathermen say Lake Coeur d’Alene, upriver, is only six inches from flood stage.

Post Falls - Spring Runoff 2011

A small child, wrapped in his mom’s protection, cries. There’s fear in his voice at the power unleashed before him. He sits on her hip, clinging to the fabric at her shoulder.

A middle aged woman wraps her left arm around her aging mother’s waist, steadying her against the impending vertigo.

Tourists read the plaques, learn a smidgeon of our history, then point at the power station and gears, explaining the mechanics to the kids. They take photos of each other with the green torrent at their backs, and then mosey on to the next landmark.

Families, fresh from church, gawk. The starched dress grows limp, the child-size tie now askew, the woman’s heels, far too high and narrow, slip between the planks on the wooden boardwalk. They huddle together at the railing, awash in God’s wonder, then shield their eyes as clouds uncover the mid-day sun.

The mist billows from the tumbling onslaught. A northern breeze pushes it against the south canyon wall. Moss and lichen cling to the slick rock, six shades of green.

Downriver

All that mars this landscape are the young folk squinting into their cell phone screens, voices billowing to push past the falls’ roar. A tall skinny man with droopy worn jeans drifts by, acrid cigarette smoke wafting into the late Spring breeze.

A small coiffed cockapoo cowers against the fence on the far side of the boardwalk, her leash a barrier to passersby as her owner gapes in awe, leaning on the railing that overlooks the drop-off.

A 50-something grandfather turns and gazes at me, his back to the railing, unconsciously toying with his granddaughter’s Barbie. His eyes ask, “What are you up to?” I smile, eyes and pen returning to my notebook.

A child climbs the rock next to me and exclaims to his mom, “It make me thirsty!” Then he jumps off the rock and skitters down the boardwalk to get a closer look and feel the spray on his face. He opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out, trying to taste the river the way he tried to taste snowflakes just two months ago.

A young mother pushes a stroller up the small incline, concurrently attempting to corral her four-year-old son. She is more terrified of the water’s rush than he, but is putting up a brave front so he can experience this spectacle first-hand.

I marvel. An inordinate number of pants with striped side seams stroll past me. One is accompanied by the soft rhythm of an aluminum cane. Another swathed around the hips with white polka dots splattered on black ribbing. That’s a lot of look!

Feel the Power

Small birds circle and dance overhead, some in pairs. Their wings beat ferociously through the air currents the falls generate, then spread wide to soar over the calm river above the floodgates.

A 20-something girl climbs the ramp with her young husband. Her abdomen is swollen with child beneath the broad horizontal stripes that circle her waist. It won’t be long, I suspect, until her floodgates open, bringing forth her first-born. A whisper of a smile creeps across my face as I watch her waddle down the path to the duck pond.