Unharnessed waters seem changeless, but they change all the time.
It's just that the changes are so small and occur so slowly that the casual eye doesn't notice them.
A small example is Reyburn Creek, which flows near my little corner of Hot Spring County. It's a small, highland rivulent that meanders through the gentle folds of the Ouachita Mountain foothills toward its confluence with Ten Mile Creek.
On my frequent walks through the neighborhood, I observe two very small sections that flow under bridges.
The bridges are spartan and purely utilitarian. At first glance, they appear to be unsupported metal plates that flex violently when a large vehicle crosses. Underneath you'll see that they are actually repurposed flatbed railroad cars that are surfaced with asphalt.
The one I usually visit has two opposing metal tubes welded to the guardrails at the ends. Their purpose is to hold cables to prohibit traffic during floods.
In the 12 years I've lived there, cables never have been deployed. I doubt they ever have because when Reyburn Creek floods, as it often does, it sprawls a couple of hundred yards to the east. It gets so deep that it is impossible to get near the bridge.
The bridge itself is on a rise, so it is always above the creek. The creek governs passage. It don't need no stinkin' cables.
Reyburn Creek floods about every three years. Sections also go bone dry during really hot summers. It refills when rain resumes. Amazingly, fish always return, too.
Twelve years ago, the creek was wider, and it flowed straighter to the south through a wooded stretch before bending west.
A couple of things changed its course. First, neighborhood children built a big stone dam at the bend. Once established, it kind of became a community project. Everyone that waded in the pool added a few stones and built the dam up higher and thicker.
The result over time was to divert water to a sharp angle to the west. Every time rain recharged the creek, the current cut into the streambed and rerouted through what was formerly an overflow channel. Its steeper gradient formed a riffle that preserves the pool, even though only a remnant of the dam remains. The former channel is now the overflow.
During one flood, sediment formed a long, thin island about a third of the way into the creek that runs parallel with the channel. At first it was only a few inches above the surface, but in a short time it rose almost to the bottom of the bridge. Plants took root, and eventually small bushes were established.
The "island" split the channel. For a couple of years it looked as if the creek would favor the narrower, deeper channel and abandon the wider portion.
A high, narrow constriction at the end of the narrow channel inhibited flow and captured water. Over time, the narrower channel has slowly silted. It becomes shallower and narrower to the point that it no longer gets fresh inflow except during high water. It eventually will fill in and go dry. It's a case study in hydrology.
The water on the other side of the bridge is deep, with a sharp drop formed by concrete remnants of an old bridge. It makes a bend to the northwest past the remains of a railroad trestle.
Notable changes have occurred there, as well.
Several years ago, I wrote a column about a boy named Adam fishing from the bridge with his mother. I advised Adam to cast his bobber to the edge of a big weedbed that occupied a cove.
The cove is now open water over bedrock and a thin layer of silt. The entire weedbed has migrated, intact, about 15 yards downstream to the bridge. Fish followed it. Sunfish dart in and out, including a couple that would be considered big anywhere.
We occasionally see catfish, as well as an abundance of crawdads. We've even seen a big cottonmouth patrolling a small territory, but I do not recall ever seeing a bass at the bridge.
It's fascinating to observe the subtle changes in a stream that you know well. In Reyburn Creek, the physical changes are benign.
In other, more heavily used rivers, changes are not so benign. They bear close watch, as well.
Sports on 02/12/2017