I am a big river woman. Bred and raised on the mighty St. Lawrence. I use big to modify river. Not big to modify woman. Not a big river-woman, although that too is true. Big bones. Big body. Big woman. Big passion.

But it is the river that is the subject of this story. Not me. Although some claim you can't put a word to page without declaring yourself. Who you are. What you think. Which way your own river twists and bends through the banks of your mind.

When I say I am a big river woman I mean it literally. Although you may choose to believe otherwise and perhaps this story will bear your theory true. But that is your interpretation of my words, an act quite separate from writing.

 I love big rivers. I am in love with big rivers. The thought alone of the St. Lawrence makes my heart pound with anticipation like no human lover. Although I keep these words secret from my husband, words written upon this page like his fingers upon my body. Such is the measure of my river-passion.

 You can imagine my disappointment. Ending up here. In this town. This region of towns actually. Kitchener, Waterloo, Cambridge, Guelph. Hugging their tiny rivers. The Speed. The Conestogo. The Grand. Grand-standing. Grand-ly claiming their river status. A lie no less than a cheap novel.

"So, where is it?" I said to my future husband a few days after the move.

 "Where's what?" he asked.

 We walked in a wooded area along a creek. He picked up a stone, examined it, felt its flatness. He flung the stone sidearm so that it bounced on the surface once, twice, three times and then landed among the reeds at the other side.

 "Good one!" I said, admiring the throw. "Where's the river?"
 He looked at me oddly.

 "Is it close to here?" I prodded.

"You're standing at it," he said, water lapping at my open-toes.

 You can't skip a rock across a river. This had to be a tributary. A small creekthreading its way to the larger water. Like random thoughts threading their way to the story. This pissy-trickle wasn't worthy of the title "Grand". There's no river here, I thought. And no story either.
But there is always a story.

My future husband became my husband. We exchanged vows at Victoria Lake in the park named for the same queen. At the edge of a pond pretending to be a lake. In the city with the creek pretending to be a river.

 "Is he a good lover?" my best-woman asked at the base of the statue of the stern monarch whose jowls wrinkled her disapproval at such topics brazenly discussed in public places in bright daylight. Better done at night, if at all.

 "How would I know?" I answered, innocent and round-eyed.

The best-woman rumbled a laugh that started in her gut and exploded geyser-like from her mouth. "You a virgin bride?" she spouted.

So I wasn't a virgin bride. So what?

The desirablility of virginity is a modern convention. Once, it was dangerous to be a virgin. Virgins got fed to dragons. Virgins got sacrificed to gods. Virgins got put in canoes and pushed over falls to appease the spirits of the raging water. To answer her question, he was a good lover. Meandering. Slow. Attentive. He explored my body. Listened to my response through his fingertips. Moved his touch accordingly. Until finally I would moan, and die that death that has no words. But he wasn't a St. Lawrence.

I met Larry in a bar. Seven year itch, they call it. I had the itch. The lovemaking was swift when it happened. He swelled, rode the rapids, exploded into a rushing cascade, and then collapsed. I saw flashing lights, heard bells, and felt swept away by a tidal wave.

 I never saw Larry again.

Never called the telephone number he scribbled on the hotel notepad. Never went to the bar to look for him. He could still be there waiting to this very day, but I doubt it. Not Larry. He had other women to conquer. Other women to navigate.   

When I said this story was about the river, I meant it. But which river, that's the question. If not the St. Lawrence, (for which I still harbour a love that runs deeper than a one-night stand), what river then?         

We began to trek the network of trails that wind along the Grand in our eleventh year of marriage. After a dog showed up at our doorstep and stayed. Dogs need water to drink on a long trek, after all.        

 I was startled to notice the smell of the river along the Grand. A smell that only rivers have -- a musk of seaweed, fish and clear fresh water. You might say clear fresh water doesn't have a smell, but it does, as any good river woman would attest. I love the smell of river.        

 I noticed other things, too. The thatch-tree canopy over the trails that stretched for miles. Sunlight filtering through leaves like an Emily Carr painting. Heron standing rock-like, on single leg. Rocks standing heron-like, water spilling over and around. High cliffs carved by a raging Grand of older days. The river, constantly reinventing itself along the journey. Now meandering. Now rushing. But always river. Without a doubt, river.

I didn't want to bond with the Grand, didn't want to feel love, but it happened. Slowly and surely. Over miles of trekking. Over miles of marriage. Over miles of dog walking.

Without knowing when, love happened. Love like the Grand itself, I suppose. Gentle and meandering, mostly.

But life is like that. Takes twists and turns you don't expect. Sneaks up on you with a gentleness and unexpected beauty that steals your breath away.

A passion no less passionate.