Written for the upcoming book from the Deschutes River Conservancy

By Jeremy Storton

To my children:

A few winters ago we were blessed with a perfect weekend. The weather was spectacular, in fact, way too sunny and warm for Central Oregon in February. Your mother and I prefer the water and the sun and therefore tend to hibernate during winter. But, with the weather so good we happily emerged to cure our cabin fever. We decided to celebrate our liberation by taking you both to the Old Mill in Bend. Years ago the Old Mill was nothing more than dilapidated brick buildings full of squatting barn swallows. The once puffing smokestacks sat dormant for decades. Now they sit as a monument of modern progress surrounded by a theater, restaurants, and retail chains. I took you there neither to shop nor to eat. We went there simply to walk along the river.

I’ve always viewed the Old Mill as an unusual trichotomy of converging worlds. The mill buildings are remnants of generations past and our dubious relationship with nature. The renovated Old Mill of the present culture is now a center for shopping, eating, and entertainment with a view. Meanwhile, nature asserts her presence as the Deschutes slices its way right through the middle of it all. It’s an interesting balance of seemingly opposing worlds, not unlike the concept of deep ecology.

I learned about this concept long ago. Deep ecology is an idea that suggests we humans are an equal part of nature and that we ought to act accordingly. Riparian habitats do so much for the human and natural ecosystems, but sadly, they can easily be thrown out of balance. Come Summertime, that stretch of water on the river will be filled with floaters and paddlers, and all the flotsam of their presence left behind. On our sunny winter day, however, the river was clean and quiet except for the calling of the birds. So, we walked along the river because I thought it would do us some good.

We strolled along the path, Cruz on my shoulders and Vaughn darting back and forth playing with sticks. Years prior I taught school children about plants and birds along estuaries. I wanted to share those experiences and point things out to you. “See those plants,” I said, “the ones that look like fuzzy hot dogs on tall sticks. They’re cattails.” Even Cruz sat up to look at hearing the words, “hot-dogs” and “cat-tails”. I explained that cattails used to help people find freshwater and provided them with food and fibers to use for many things.

A team of geese flew overhead honking as they went. They flew in the familiar V pattern, allowing them to draft behind each other. We tried speaking Goose and honked back at them. Vaughn, you asked me about the blackbirds with the white bills and blood-red eyes. “American Coots,” I told you. The ducks, however, were by far your favorite. We also tried to speak Duck. I think the ducks may have quacked back at us, disapproving of our dialect. I told you both that they are like us. Small flocks of ducks consist of a mommy, a daddy, brothers, and sisters. But, unlike us, in the duck world, the boys are the pretty ones. You both got a kick at the idea of the pretty boy birds in all their pretty makeup.

We walked further until we came to a sign that read, “Fragile Riparian Area. No Trespassing.” Next to it was a slightly worn path. I imagined it was used by someone impatiently taking a shortcut to the water. Months later that path was still healing from the wound. “Do you guys know what Riparian means,” I asked? Your confused looks confirmed what I already knew. This was a bigger topic than you were ready for, but I wanted to begin the process of you learning about it.

I told you that a riparian habitat is where land and water meet. I see it as a unique place where vegetation and creatures become something greater in the convergence of multiple habitats. Riparian birds are not only identified by their flight, but also by their ability to swim. It is a place of constant change yet in constant balance. I spent my youth in the water. I fell in love with the interface of land and water long ago, so to me, it feels like home.

I tried to explain to you both that we don’t tromp through the bush to get to the river. Riparian habitats are fragile and are easily thrown out of balance. “It’s like a family. It’s like us,” I told you. “If one of us got sick, the rest of us can get sick too.” “But,” I continued, “if we help take care of it, then everyone is happy. The people, the cattails, the coots, and the ducks.”

I didn’t expect this statement to sink in all the way. It was more important that you both learn to look at nature as a partner. I wanted you to begin to see the worn path as a wound, the ducks as a family, and the river as a companion. I wanted you both to eventually learn to evaluate our impact on the land and assess the balance.

Since I taught other children about nature, I wanted to teach you a little about my past, about our present culture, and allow nature to slice its way into our lives. Mommy and I have spent a lot of time on trails, on rocks, in the forests, and especially the ocean. I hope you will learn about nature and fall in love with it just as we did.

That is why I planned our outing. I wanted to take advantage of the warm winter sun. Despite the constant change in our lives, I wanted to seek balance with all of you out in nature as a family. I wanted to laugh with you about the cattail hotdogs and the pretty boy birds. Most of all, I’m glad I got to teach you both about one of my favorite words, Riparian.