Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
"River Monster"
The brown menacing river churned, and seemed to boil with rage. The steep rock wall, on the opposite bank, would be unyielding. It was our terraced savannah that would receive the brunt of the rising waters. Indeed, as Dickey had said, this flood was not the result of local summer rain that had recently greened the valley. This was the beginning of an uncompromised deluge, spilling down from mountains of the Chiquibul. In just the last three hours, I had watched it rise twenty vertical feet. And now, it breached the confines of the main channel, and spread across the entire first tier in mere seconds. And just like that, the Macal River had doubled in width. It was over a hundred and fifty feet wide.
I had studied the geology of the river valley during dory trips to San Ignacio throughout the last five months of dry season – all the while trying to fathom the scope of the primordial floods that had carved its magnificent path. Curious that, on any given stretch, the landscape on one side of the river was gently sloping, while the other side was steep and formidable.
I had studied the geology of the river valley during dory trips to San Ignacio throughout the last five months of dry season – all the while trying to fathom the scope of the primordial floods that had carved its magnificent path. Curious that, on any given stretch, the landscape on one side of the river was gently sloping, while the other side was steep and formidable.
Go around another bend, and in the next stretch, these characteristics would often reverse. But there was always a low -side, and a high-side. A low side might consist of snarly bush-bamboo, pastureland, or a grassy savannah, sloping gently upwards and leveling off as a flat terrace. Beyond that, another slope and another terrace. And then another. These were primary, secondary, and tertiary flood plains, each marking the level to which the river might rise, depending on magnitude of the flood. Directly across the river was its counterpart, a steep side – usually an enormous rock wall of compacted limestone chunks or a cliff face, pockmarked with holes. The rock formations were interwoven with thick bush and high-canopy forest, and they shot up at a dizzying angle, their crests against blue sky at perhaps two hundred feet. The geological wonder had filled me with awe. How much water? How much power? Somehow, I could not equate this placid green river with such force. But, then again, how old was the river? For all I knew, the sculpting of the valley might have occurred tens-of-millions of years ago.
Now I knew the truth. Yes. It had happened since the dawn of antiquity, but it had been happening ever since. It was happening right in this moment, before my very eyes. Like a cobra mesmerized by a snake charmer, I stood on the veranda, unable to tear my eyes away. The river chewed and clawed; the embattled pillars of rock and stone walls stood like fortresses. The scene seemed to embody the ultimate paradox of a Zen master – irresistible force meets immovable object.
High in the upper Chiquibul, the rampant flooding had previously been restricted by the deep jagged canyons. Through miles of untamed jungle, it had thundered and raced ever downward, crashing through narrow chutes, slamming into rock walls, surging around elbowed bends, and exploding against boulders. Now, with the decreasing elevation and broadening valley, the river was now able to spread. Yet it was still rising vertically at an incomprehensible rate – about two feet every five minutes.
And then my body was not my own. Like an automaton, I found myself standing atop the third terrace. Sheer madness. Yet it drew me like a magnet. Within the monstrous volume of water, I could see all the detritus – dredged and scoured from the rainforest: giant limbs, huge branches, whole tree trunks, tangles of bushes, brambles, and vines – even the carcasses of dead animals.
Without warning, the roar of the river magnified exponentially. Not just a sudden surge, but a vertical wall of water swept the banks and instantly raised the water level by another six feet. Flash flood. Reflex and instinct instantly dissolved my reverie, and I shot back up the hill. Half-strangled sounds of squealing and clucking made me glance briefly back over my shoulder, just in time to see a pig and two chickens, stranded on a swirling island of floating debris, disappear into the waves. The river had risen and traversed across the second terrace.
It was then that I experienced perhaps the most profound visual of my entire life:
A giant tree, about ninety feet long, came floating down the river. Its enormous root mass in the lead, it bobbed up and down in slow motion like a colossal sea serpent, a river monster – the sodden leafy crown trailing behind in majestic counterbalance. Suddenly, the mass of roots hooked on some unseen obstacle, and jerked violently. Unable to be restrained in the surge, the tree up-ended to a near-vertical position and then tipped over, completing the one hundred and eighty degrees arc across the sky. The crown crashed into the raging water, and the great leviathan continued to float downstream.
Now I knew the truth. Yes. It had happened since the dawn of antiquity, but it had been happening ever since. It was happening right in this moment, before my very eyes. Like a cobra mesmerized by a snake charmer, I stood on the veranda, unable to tear my eyes away. The river chewed and clawed; the embattled pillars of rock and stone walls stood like fortresses. The scene seemed to embody the ultimate paradox of a Zen master – irresistible force meets immovable object.
High in the upper Chiquibul, the rampant flooding had previously been restricted by the deep jagged canyons. Through miles of untamed jungle, it had thundered and raced ever downward, crashing through narrow chutes, slamming into rock walls, surging around elbowed bends, and exploding against boulders. Now, with the decreasing elevation and broadening valley, the river was now able to spread. Yet it was still rising vertically at an incomprehensible rate – about two feet every five minutes.
And then my body was not my own. Like an automaton, I found myself standing atop the third terrace. Sheer madness. Yet it drew me like a magnet. Within the monstrous volume of water, I could see all the detritus – dredged and scoured from the rainforest: giant limbs, huge branches, whole tree trunks, tangles of bushes, brambles, and vines – even the carcasses of dead animals.
Without warning, the roar of the river magnified exponentially. Not just a sudden surge, but a vertical wall of water swept the banks and instantly raised the water level by another six feet. Flash flood. Reflex and instinct instantly dissolved my reverie, and I shot back up the hill. Half-strangled sounds of squealing and clucking made me glance briefly back over my shoulder, just in time to see a pig and two chickens, stranded on a swirling island of floating debris, disappear into the waves. The river had risen and traversed across the second terrace.
It was then that I experienced perhaps the most profound visual of my entire life:
A giant tree, about ninety feet long, came floating down the river. Its enormous root mass in the lead, it bobbed up and down in slow motion like a colossal sea serpent, a river monster – the sodden leafy crown trailing behind in majestic counterbalance. Suddenly, the mass of roots hooked on some unseen obstacle, and jerked violently. Unable to be restrained in the surge, the tree up-ended to a near-vertical position and then tipped over, completing the one hundred and eighty degrees arc across the sky. The crown crashed into the raging water, and the great leviathan continued to float downstream.