There is something primal about our attraction to water. Humans, like all other animals, are probably hardwired by our genes to appreciate water whether it is still and calm or moving dramatically. We are magnetically attracted even when we have no intention of drinking it, swimming it, boating on it or fishing in it. Water in streams and rivers, lakes, seas, and waterfalls can sooth our souls and lift our spirits even though the threatening rush of a flash flood can scare the bejeebers out of us.
Water is a sensual element. Part of its magic is that water can be a mirror reflecting the colors and objects around it or a window through which we can peer at what lies beneath, or perfectly opaque when it carries a load of mud and stones. It can be a liquid, of course, but when the temperature changes it becomes a solid or a gas. Or something in between as it turns all frothy and foamy tumbling over boulders in a stream or misty at the base of waterfalls. Water also releases the aromas of the environment: the primeval, mucky smells of the Low Country, the sulfur of geysers, the flinty, mineral bite of water falling over granite cliffs, the distinctive salty tang of oceans. The sound of moving water is distinctive whether it is the very real "babble" of a boulder-filled creek, the drip of rain from trees, or the roar of a cascade. It has no shape of its own so it steals one from the world around it, writhing through a meadow or strictly controlled by a canal, dam (beaver or man-made) or natural high banks. Though it seems to give way to everything in its path, over time it cuts through thousands of feet of solid rock as it creates the overwhelming grandeur of the Grand Canyon.
Water is infinitely useful and absolutely necessary to all life as we know it. Scrolling through my files, water convinced me yet again that it contributes more than its share to the joy Shirley and I take in our travels.
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