Creek Valley sculpture

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I sat bolt upright in bed. The sound of the rain pounding down on the roof had jolted me wide awake. I slid out from under the covers and felt the coolness of the wooden floor under my feet as I made my way over to the loft window. It was amazingly dark inside the cabin. No light shone in through the rain-washed windows.

I peered out through the glass. All I could see was sheets of rain falling, or more likely plummeting, straight down, and even through the closed window glass, I could hear the creek, rushing wildly down in the valley. I returned to bed, thankful that we had built our cabin high on the valley’s hillside.

It was still raining the next morning when we first stepped outside to do the animal chores. We made our rounds and all of our creatures seemed to be doing well. The cattle and sheep were really quite oblivious to the rain. I did notice, however, that the little horses’ hooves were exceptionally muddy. The cattle, in contrast, were beautifully sleek and clean. There really is nothing quite like rain to wash a bovine, a least until they decide to lie back down in the mud.

Chores done, Greg and I decided to head down to the creek. The power of the rushing water always draws us to it, and it never ceases to amaze us. Its sound and smell seem to surround me and transport me to an appreciation of the valley that is difficult to describe. When I stand by its side and look at the rushing water, I can actually see how it has carved its way down through the earth, ever deeper and ever wider.

We walked to our favorite bend in the creek, right across from the from the start of the pasture, and there, to our amazement, saw a large section of earthen hillside, just across the creek, that had broken loose and slumped down into the rushing water. Several trees still stood upright in the slumped ground. Only yesterday, they had grown high on the hill, but now they stood about to embark on an inevitable trip downstream, headed toward the Gulf of Mexico. I bid them best wishes on their travels.

Greg and I turned from the rushing water and looked up to the top of the valley. I imagined that the creek had once been a small stream meandering across the forest floor high over my head. I imagined its water gently flowing some 175 feet above where it rushed past us now. That would have been about 15,000 years ago, when the last glacial ice had begun its retreat, and was no longer marching south across the uplands. The towering ice had left behind the flat fertile land just over the crest of the valley hillside. I did some quick calculations, and realized that the creek valley has been digging its way down about one foot every 85 years. These figures made perfect sense.

Greg and I have called the creek valley our home for over 20 years, and even in that short time, we have seen so much change. Our favorite swimming hole has moved up the creek at least ten feet as the limestone ledge rock at its northern end has been chiseled away by the water. My favorite sunning rock, easily measuring over ten feet across and one foot thick, has sunk several feet lower. One end of it is now more often covered with water than not. Perhaps I should start to think if it as my favorite wading rock. The jacuzzi waterfall, where we used to sit and let the water splash across our backs, has all but disappeared.

So, I have come to realize that the creek valley is like an ever-changing piece of sculpture, carved out of earth and stone, by the water that flows through it. Perhaps that is why we are drawn to the water after each rain. It is as though we have our very own, ever-changing art gallery right outside our cabin door, and we can't wait to see what the latest exhibition might be showing.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.

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