Every spring when I hike in the high country, it seems like winter’s snow will never melt. There’s simply so much white stuff, and it’s so deep.
And yet the snow does melt...or, at least, most of it melts. Little drips here, forming a small creek over there, heading toward a river down in the canyon. It’s a spectacular ritual that’s easily taken for granted, unless you are an Eastern Washington farmer who irrigates crops with that runoff, or maybe, like me, you like to eat Eastern Washington apples, or drink beer made from Eastern Washington hops.
In the corner of the country where I live, there is a veritable cult of fishermen who worship the steelhead trout. Fishermen (and of course fish) have more than a passing interest in water.
Come to think of it, the melt is a significant event for all of us, human and others alike.
