Last night’s forecast snow did not materialize, but we have intermittent, widely spaced flurries now. The less pleasant aspect of today’s pre-storm weather is the wind, the very sort for which the word blustery was invented. It’s harsh and hard-driving and bitterly cold, as capricious as any trickster and as dangerous, too.
If it drives the snow to us, we’ll be grateful for it.
If you were to walk upon our land now, you’d be hard-pressed to see the evidence of drought that we do; after all, every surface is mud. That, too, is a gift, if a mostly inconvenient one: It means that the last snow has melted slowly and steadily enough to soak the ground thoroughly, rather than running off in a flood. In drought conditions, the soil is too dry, the aridity far too deep below the surface, for the ground to be able to absorb a large volume of water all at once. But sufficiently cold temperatures have allowed the snow to thaw slowly, a little seeping into the earth at a time, and instead of evaporating or flooding low-lying lands, it’s all being put to the best possible use.
But more is needed.
Wings was scrolling through some old photos this morning, and it was remarkable to see just how much snow used to be our norm here at Red Willow. It covered every surface for most of the winter; weeks, even months could pass without exposing the ground beneath. At this season, as winter wanes and the world begins to warm again, it also meant that the watersheds were full and abundant, rivers already running high and hard and fast even before the real thaw began. Instead, our rivers now are running dangerously low, slow and sluggish and silt-riddled without enough volume and force to push their flow downstream. This is a place of rivers and lakes both, of bright shimmering pools between mountain peaks and gleaming ribbons bisecting craggy cliff faces, but they have been wounded badly, body and spirit alike, by the ravages of colonialism-driven climate change. It’s true of the smaller tributaries upstream from us in the backcountry, and just as true of the Great River to the west into which they all eventually flow . . . if they can reach it now.
There is medicine at the river’s heart, but that heart has been badly hurt, a damaged muscle less able to carry the breath and lifeblood of Mother Earth to the rest of her body now.
And so wind or no wind, we will be grateful for every drop, every flake, every blizzard or bit of thundersnow we are granted now.
Today’s images are from a season of thaw some sixteen or so years ago: 2006 or perhaps even a bit earlier, shot by Wings on film. Both are of the Great River, the Río Grandé, racing southward just west of here. It is one of the continent’s great riparian watersheds even now, despite the damage the drought and warming have done, and it is, truly, the major artery of this land, the one that carries its lifeblood in volume and with speed and force.
The image above is a close-up of one of the many cascades that marks its winding flow: water the color of raw emerald, deep green with the faintest hint of underlying blue, whitecaps crashing against boulders turned the color of jet by the constant spray. It’s easy to pin down the season by the remnant bits of snow still gathered on the flatter surfaces of bank and cliff, cold enough to prevent full melt, yet enough of a thaw to turn most of the frozen stuff to water.
It’s an image that appears, at an ordinary distance, in the photo below, although I won’t point it out here; sharp eyes will find it. This pair has always been one of my favorites: an image from the last of winter, sky as white as the snow that still clings to rocks, the intense green of the river drawing one down to peer into its mysterious depths as the water crashes on all sides with all the violent power of the storm.
There are parts of the year when this stretch of the Río is more calm, even [deceptively] serene in appearance. But it is never an easy river, never without danger or risk. That is part of its beauty, a part of its power and its animating spirit.
And, truth be told, it’s part of medicine, too.
Speaking of such medicine, today’s featured work, Wings’s newest, embodies the rivers that carry the lifeblood of this land and the medicine flowing at their collective heart. From its description in the relevant section of the Bracelets Gallery here on the site:
At the River’s Green Heart Cuff Bracelet
At the thaw, the ice breaks apart to reveal the arteries at the river’s green heart. As we enter the melting season of the new year, Wings pays tribute to precipitation, famed watershed, and First Medicine alike with this cuff bracelet, band stamped freehand in chased traditional motifs and set at its center with an extraordinary heart. The band itself is solid sterling silver, substantive yet lightweight enough to be easily adjusted, either edge chased with a border of radiant and wholly traditional thunderhead symbols facing inwards. Between each border is an equally freehand row of alternating stylized and arrowhead points dancing across the surface like the waves of the Great River herself. The subtly-shaped ends of the band are veined with deep score marks, cross-hatched to hold the waters safe. At the top, set infinitesimally above the band itself, rests a bold green turquoise heart aswirl in rich but gentle seafoam shades, bronzed hints of earthy matrix visible at the edges. The cabochon (likely Stone Mountain, or possibly Fox or Royston turquoise, all out of Nevada) is seated in a scalloped bezel edged in twisted silver. Band is 6″ long by 9/16″ wide; setting is 1-1/4″ high at the highest point by 1-1/8″ across at the widest point; cabochon is 7/8″ long by 7/8″ across at the highest and widest points (dimensions approximate). Other views shown below.
Sterling silver; American turquoise [likely Stone Mountain, from Nevada]
$1,200 + shipping, handling, and insurance
I love this cuff, both for what it represents and for its tangible manifestations. The band speaks of the love at the center of the storm; the stone of the medicine at the river’s heart.
And the stone is extraordinary. It’s natural American turquoise, its provenance unclear beyond that, but it’s a perfect ringer for Nevada’s Stone Mountain: a seafoam green that manages to be both rich and gentle at once, subtly marbled with shades light and dark and with the shimmering bronze-gold of the local matrix. It’s a perfect stone for the threshold of the thaw, that moment that straddles winter and spring.
And it’s a green visible in the image below, just as the imagery of the band is found in the banks that embrace the flow:
One of the aspects of this photo that I have always loved is the fact that its top border is utterly invisible on-screen. The sky is as white as the snow that still dots the rocky outcroppings, as white as the foamy crests of the river’s own cascades. Set above the emerald shades of evergreen-studded basaltic rock, it makes for a starkly powerful contrast — and also for a reminder of the power of the medicine it shows.
Now, the wind still rages outside the door; snow is falling lightly across the shrouded peaks even as the rest of the sky turns white with the weight of the clouds. We are unlikely to get much in the way of flurries imminently, but if these patterns hold, we shall have real snow tonight.
And our small world here will be ready to receive it — a thirsty earth and a fragile watershed, both waiting for its healing. It is one of the great gifts of this place that it takes such healing and multiplies it, compounds it and sends it out into the world to do its work: carrying the breath and the lifeblood of this place, the medicine at the river’s heart.
And what do you know? Just as I hit “Save,” the snow has begun early and in earnest.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2022; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
