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River and Environmental Quotations. I choose to listen to the river for a while, thinking river thoughts, before joining the night and the stars. If time is the mind of space, the River is the soul of the desert. Brave boatmen come, they go, they die, the voyage flows on forever. Knife Kit includes RH13 (Patch blade), Dymondwood handle material (no color choice) 2 - 5/16' brass cutlery rivets - No guard. Instructions included. Mother Nature Network is the world's leading source for environmental news, advice on sustainable living, conservation and social responsibility. We are all canyoneers. We are all passengers on this little mossy ship, this delicate dory sailing round the sun that humans call the earth. There is no shortage of water in the desert but exactly the right amount, a perfect ratio of water to rock. Of water to sand, insuring that wide, free, open, generous spacing among plants and animals, homes and towns and cities, which makes the arid West so different from any other part of the nation. There is no lack of water here, unless you try to establish a city where no city should be. Know that the water has wisdom, in its motion through the world, as much wisdom as any of us have. Picture yourself as the water. We are liquid; we innately share water's wisdom. I would think it a sad commentary on the quality of American life if, with our pecuniary and natural abundance, we could not secure for our generation and those to come the existence of . It talks to you with splashy gurgles. It cools your toes and lets you sit quietly beside it when you don't feel like speaking. Find peace and meaning in the rhythm of the lifeblood of the Earth. We understand it, but we do not respect it. There are some places where a barrel of water costs more than a barrel of oil. Our true work is this voyage, this adventure. It will keep its nature and bide its time, like a caged animal alert for the slightest opening. In time, it will have its way; the dam, like the ancient cliffs, will be carried away piecemeal in the currents. A polluted stream can be as lethal as a bullet. You make the choice because the river has touched your life in an intimate and irreversible way, because you are unwilling to accept its loss. To think of it as nothing but water is to ignore the greater part. Those who climb mountains or raft rivers understand this. Enjoy their unimprovable purpose as you sense it, and let those rivers that you never visit comfort you with the assurance that they are there, doing wonderfully what they have always done. Once more, and forever. By the village side; But windest away from haunts of men,To quiet valley and shaded glen; And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still,Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides,From thicket to thicket the angler glides,Or the Simpler comes, with basket and book,For herbs of power on thy banks to look; Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee,Still—save the chirp of birds that feed. On the river cherry and seedy reed,And thy own wild music gushing out. With mellow murmur of fairy shout,From dawn to the blush of another day,Like traveler singing along his way. That fairy music I never hear,Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,And mark them winding away from sight,Darkened with shade or flashing with light,While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,But I wish that fate had left me free. To wander these quiet haunts with thee,Till the eating cares of earth should depart,And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; And I envy thy stream, as it glides along. Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,And mingle among the jostling crowd,Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud—I often come to this quiet place,To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,And gaze upon thee in silent dream,For in thy lonely and lovely stream. An Image of that clam life appears. That won my heart in my greener years.(William Cullen Bryant, . There is no toil, no heart breaking labour about it, but as much coolness, dexterity, and skill as man can throw into the work of hand, eye, and head; knowledge of when to strike and how to do it; knowledge of water and rock, and of the one hundred combinations which rock and water can assume—for these two things, rock and water, taken in the abstract, fail as completely to convey any idea of their fierce embracings in the throes of a rapid as the fire burning quietly in a drawing- room fireplace fails to convey the idea of a house wrapped and sheeted in flames. Although often measureless in commercial terms, these values must be preserved by a program that will guarantee America some semblance of her great heritage of beautiful rivers. Clark, April 1. 98. Speech in Racine, Wisconsin)A man of wisdom delights in water. The call is the thundering rumble of distant rapids, the intimate roar of white water . You must love it and live with it before you can know it. Curtis, Lotus Eating: Hudson and Rhine)In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes; so with present time. It slips away into its future, where it already is, and flows steadily forth from up the canyon, a fountain of rumors from regions known to it and not to me. It lies before us, contained and complete, tantalizing in its depth but not its origin. A river is a different kind of mystery, a mystery of distance and becoming, a mystery of source. Touch its fluent body and you touch far places. You touch a story that must end somewhere but cannot stop telling itself, a story that is always just beginning. We need their familiar mystery. Yet the river flows on. Not necessary to life, but rather life itself, thou fillest us with a gratification that exceeds the delight of the senses. It's a river of energy that moves across regions in great geographic cycles. Here, life and death are only different points on a continuum. The stream flows in a circle through time and space, turning death into life across coastal ecosystems, as it has for more than a million years. But such streams no longer flow in the places where most of us live. Even as they are dying, as their flesh is falling away from their spines, I have seen salmon fighting to protect their nests. I have seen them push up creeks so small that they rammed themselves across the gravel. I have seen them swim upstream with huge chunks bitten out of their bodies by bears. Salmon are incredibly driven to spawn. They will not give up. In the winter the snow comes, covers the land. When it breaks in the spring, the mountains and hills will gather all the deteriorated stuff and bring it down to the Columbia, the main channel, and take it away. What goes out in the ocean will never return. And we have a brand new world in spring. The high water takes everything out, washes everything down. That's why we pray to the water, every morning and night.' This is not an attitude found in the Army Corps of Engineers literature. The beauty of rising mists at dusk, the ebb and flow of the tides, the merging of fresh and salt waters. In both, we constantly seek and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over again. This is a kind of earthly immortality, a kinship with rivers and hills and rocks, with all things and all creatures that have ever lived or ever will live or have their being on the earth. It is my assurance of an orderly continuity in the great design of the universe. It was then that I felt the cold needles of Alpine springs at my fingertips and the warmth of the Gulf pulling me southward. Moving with me, leaving its taste upon my mouth and spouting under me in dancing springs of sand, was the immense body of the continent itself, flowing like the river was flowing, grain by grain, mountain by mountain, down to the sea. I was streaming over ancient sea beds thrust aloft where giant reptiles had once sported; I was wearing down the face of time. In its beginning, it is not yet the river; in the end it is no longer the river. What we call the headwaters is only a selection from among the innumerable sources which flow together to compose it. At what point in its course does the Mississippi become what the Mississippi means? Eliot, Introduction to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn)Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament. Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence. They mold landscapes, create fertile deltas, provide trade routes, a source for food and water; a place to wash and play; civilizations emerged next to rivers in China, India, Europe, Africa and the Middle East. They sustain life and bring death and destruction. They are ferocious at times; gentle at times. They are placid and mean. Rivers are the stuff of metaphor and fable, painting and poetry. Rivers unite and divide—a thread that runs from source to exhausted release. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself. Never in his life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full- bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All as a- shake and a- shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea. It's my world, and I don't want any other. What it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. It's my world, and I don't want any other. What it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. It has power and grace and associations.
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