Take Me to the River

When someone asks me why I'm so keen on Richmond, the first thing out of my mouth is always something about the scene - music art and restaurant-wise.

After I take a breath, I usually rave about cost of living and quality of life.

What I don't mention nearly often enough is how much the water matters to me.

When I wake up needing not just to see, but to hear and feel water, and it's a day like today when social obligations prevent me from being able to get in the car and drive to the ocean, I realize how lucky I am.

Less than a mile from my house are a river and canal practically beckoning me to come down and enjoy them.

Which is exactly what I did.

But not to my usual Belle Island because there were gobs of people and police blocking 5th Street, but further east to the Pipeline Walkway.

Over the railroad tracks, down the wooden steps to the vertical metal ladder that keeps out the unworthy.

Then that lovely walk past rushing and flat water, past rapids and cascades, past girls in bikinis on the sandy beach (on their cellphones, of course) until the metal walkway gives way to just a concrete path on top of the pipeline.

Usually I stop once the pipeline ends, but today I kept going on the path through the woods, not entirely sure where I'd end up.

Brown's Island, that's where, and whatever event had been clogging 5th Street must have involved all the tables set up on the island.

But as long as I was there, I decided to make a loop around with a detour to walk out on the windy overlook.

Back in the woods, I climbed out on some rocks for a better view, only to find a cute guy out there doing yoga.

Downward for him, onward for me.

Back on the walkway, I stopped to talk to a clutch of fishermen, learning they were catching bait fish in the slow, shallow water to use to go out deeper and fish for big catfish.

When I got back to the sandy beach, I dropped down off the walkway to go down to the river.

I found a big rock, took off my shoes and socks, and  waded into the water. It wasn't nearly as cold as the ocean had been on the Outer Banks in July.

Standing there up to my thighs in the river, smelling that distinct scent of water and marsh, I spotted a blue heron just yards away.

He saw me, I saw him and it was a face-off to see who would persevere.

Don't think you can outlast me. Over the years, I have developed formidable patience, my feathered friend.

After about ten minutes, I backed up slowly to the rock and settled down to see what he'd do.

First he walked from his rock perch into the river and then up into some nearby marsh grass, occasionally looking over his shoulder (?) to see  what my intentions were.

Hell, on a sunny Saturday, my only intention was to listen to the rushing water, smell the wet air and keep as much of my legs wet as possible.

From behind me, a guy eating a sandwich leaning against the pipeline, called out, "He's keeping his eye on you."

His voice caused the bikini girls' dog to come bounding out of the thicket and that was all it took to spook the heron.

Watching that elegant form take flight allowed me to wade back in, the better to see him fly around the train trestle and away.

Karen, 1, heron, 0. I win.

After drying off in the sun, I climbed back up onto the walkway and ascended the ladder to return to city life.

It may not have been a day at the ocean, but it satisfied what needed to be scratched today.

A Richmond re-charge, so to speak. Wet shorts and all.