What the River Remembers

I went to the Mashpee Archives expecting dust and nostalgia and found a ledger that lingers in my mind. W.D. Sargent’s 1933 survey reads like field notes I could’ve written yesterday—warm traps, cool seeps, tight valley walls—and then two watercolor plates stops me cold: a 15-inch sea-run brook trout, mid-May, above Amos’ Landing, an 8 ½-inch freshwater form upstream. Not myth but measurements and observations. That pairing—spare notes and two trout watercolor plates, one fresh, one salt—gives me a working hypothesis: keep water cold and moving, keep the bay connected, and this river can write both chapters again. The piece walks from history to a punch list—shade, wood, better culverts, fewer heat traps, protected springs—and asks the only question that matters: could fifteen inches, wild and unstocked, be ordinary again?