Century

Glacier-like, the ice on the river shifts slowly.  The frozen circle, formed first by the figure-eight whirlpool of days ago, maintained its shape for a while, but now has nearly disappeared.  The rock resting on the surface, thrown there by workers to test the safety of the ice, has settled, slowly being swallowed.  Underneath it all, the river runs, fed by all those streams bred in the South Woodstock hills or running down Killington mountain.

Watersheds intrigue me these days.  You hear the term in ordinary usage to note how nothing will be the same again, as in "Pearl Harbor was a watershed moment for America."  This derives, I guess, from the experience of moving from one watershed to another.  On one side of a ridge the water goes east.  Cross over and it flows west.  Having more awareness of this fundamental Earth entity, I try to be more alert to actual watershed moments, when you really do go over a ridge into a different river system.  Driving north on Rt. 12, climbing, following Gulf Stream to near its source, the road reaches a high point, the enters a different zone.  I'm not sure I can describe exactly how, but Barnard seems different on the Silver Lake side, compared to the Gulf Stream and Ottauquechee watershed.  Pond Brook flows out of that lake and joins Locust Creek, a tributary of White River.  The streams of that watershed create their own patterns, a different system, an individual of sorts, yet always connected to the Connecticut River family.

This is post number 100 for this river journal.  A watershed?