By Fred Mydske / Herald Forum
The Snohomish River, yes that constant presence of which the Snohomish residents are so acutely apprised, appears or possesses in a comparative sort, a tenacity and guile little removed from the behavior a harmless and determined snake exerts all the while abiding to its established grassy path.
As for myself, I personally observe and participate in the offerings this mighty river continuously doles.
A swimmer not by trade, most assuredly, but lured to the shoreline on account of an injury and the benefits its icy aspect assured. I dove in one day and have never looked back, might say I’ve been addicted to its utilitarian demeanor ever since. It’s an intimate yet complicated relationship I’ve established with this silent entity, and one that I’m quite certain that the river is aware though indifferent towards my weekly attendance.
The day of the week of which I attend to this ritual — 36 weeks so far this year — is as uncertain and is as variable as the river’s mood itself. I’ll drive the mile and a half necessary to reach the boat ramp just east of town bearing its namesake, park nearest the ramp itself, and then begin to reconnoiter the river’s mood or disposition.
In the summer the river’s attitude is quiet easily anticipated, for the tidal fluctuations emanating from the Salish Sea signifgantly alter the river’s behavior according to the ebb and flow. Even as far as the boat ramp the river is without question swayed significantly by that distant coercion.
Winter on the other hand, as you might imagine, frequently doles out an ingredient which motivates the river enough to quash any attempt by the tide to alter its temper. For the Salish Sea tide during those damper seasons lacks a comparable sway to meet the river’s bulging tendency.
Regardless of season, I’ll wander down to the boat ramp with my music in hand, along with a towel, hand flippers and my phone. Stand there and observe the river’s mood, like how onemight study a horse before they cautiously approach, then wade in slowly while continuing to interpret its manner and pace.
“ I never jump right in.” It’s a curious thing about swimming in waters where extreme temperature fluctuations abound. In January the waters maybe 40 degrees? In August 68 degress is not unusual, and yet in spite of this extreme fluctuation, winters numbing chill doesn’t sting like one would suppose it might. For the temperature of the air impacts how the water itself feels upon the skin.
Summer’s air being 80 degrees disables the body’s ability to resist the water’s nip, and winters 36 degrees prepares the body for that frigid drink. Though too it should be noted that the body adapts soon enough to that August water’s chill, but in the winter or spring it becomes fatigued more quickly and never fully adapts. In August swimming away from shore till a sea lion is spotted is a practical interest, yet most of the year the current forbids an attempt at such an adventure.
Generally I’ll swim close to shore, no life jacket and inch my way further out into the hustle in a manner not too far different then how a Flying Wallenda might inch their way out onto the tightrope.
The river in the one sense reminds me of a graceful snow slope in a sunshine: sleepy, silent and yet cold. Though easily enough its fit to lure one into a calm state of passivity which frequently leads to a lack of reverence or respect. Like the river, the slope can whisk you away in the drop of a hat, and your now at the mercy of an entity which is as indifferent toward your regard as a sea lion cares about the water being 39 degrees.
I might be unfit to say whether the icy stream has minimized the relevance of my injury, but I am convinced it’s done wonders for my psyche.
Todd Mydske lives in Snohomish.
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