A Hidden View of the River’s Slow Awakening
In spring, the river swells with memory. Ice pulls back, revealing thick ribbons of mud and trails softened by thaw. The Red doesn’t rush—it rises with purpose, curling along its banks and carving out new lines in the land. It’s the season of wet hems, heavy boots, and air that smells like moss and melt. Everything feels in transition—like the ground is still deciding what to become. You walk slower. You watch more. Spring makes a ritual of returning.
Just off the beaten path near The Forks, there’s a little incline that dips down toward the water. It’s easy to miss unless you know it’s there. It gives a beautiful view of the river and the bridge.
The beauty of spring isn’t in what’s accessible—it’s in what returns, despite it all. The view from that hidden point feels earned: a still frame of water, steel, and sky, framed by bare trees and soft mud. The river below doesn’t ask much. Just that you notice it. That you meet the moment with a little patience and a willingness to get your shoes dirty.
