Following the heavy rain of the previous night, Daniel and I were certain that the run was a go. It had been a tough hike in but we knew that our effort would soon be rewarded; we were sure that the hidden creek had never been run. As we dropped down its rocky confines and got our first glimpse of its steepness, we were shocked to see such a thin ribbon of water searching for passage through the jumble of huge boulders. "It’s as if the water has been stolen!" Daniel said. "This thing should be rippin’ after that frog-strangler last night! We’ll be lucky if we can get down it at all." As I nodded in agreement, a gentle breeze filtered its way through the new green of the spring leaves. Their rustling was like the laughter of a million tiny voices.

It happens every year like this. Seemingly dead and without the slightest hint of the dynamic waterworks they will soon become, the trees awaken with the vernal equinox and begin pushing small buds of greenery out into the warming sun. By May these sylvan giants will be toiling at full capacity, sucking vast amounts of water up through their thin, searching fingers that reach down into the soil and into the seams of the rock. The springs and branches that feed the creeks and rivers will begin to wane and the roaring torrents that leap from the mountainsides will cease to be. The once bright and dancing rapids will be transformed into inaccessible streams of transpiration and will spill out as the faint blue haze that blankets the bioregion of Appalachia.

Disappointed, we dropped the boats from our shoulders to the ground. We took a seat on the decks and just sat there. As another gentle breeze stirred the leaves into a flutter, we looked up into the thick green canopy and realized what the tiny voices had been trying to tell us all along: that we and our silly boats weren’t even a part of this grand plan.