A Ducklings' Guide to Navigating the River of Life

…. water wings may be required

This is a story about ducklings - nine of them to be exact - their momma, and a river. It is also a story about innocence and wonder, guidance and love, and courage and tenacity in the face of life’s often unfeeling currents.

A family member and I spied the female mallard and her brood of sweet fluffy babes at the lower end of Millstone River in Bowen Park, at the end of May 2023. The momma was leading them all upstream, making their way into the shade of the canopy cover. There, the water was shallow but moving fairly rapidly over rocks. Nothing to worry about though - well, for an adult duck perhaps. The littles, however, quickly ran into some trouble.

Amassing together in the middle of the river, on a slightly elevated part of rock, they eyed the tiny white-capped current. Then, one or two at a time, they courageously stepped forward, only to be caught up and swept backwards. (“Oh oh oh!” my heart leapt.) They managed to surged forward again, making progress. (“Ohh, are they going to make it?” I inwardly urged them on.)

Alas, they were carried off once again by the current, seemingly no more powerful than a rubber ducky in a waterfall, taking my heart along with them. (“Oh no! Catch them!”) Their protective mother turned around and dove after them. I wanted to do the same but of course I left it up to the mother and hoped for the best.

The dutiful duck managed to gathered up her raft of babies again, helping them find a tamer route and skirting some of the “rapids” by walking along the bank.

Here, they reached a stretch of river where the water was deeper but kinder. The overhanging alders cast a green hue over the water - an liquid emerald in which the golden-brown jewels of ducklings paddled and explored the new magical world around them.

My heart relaxed - as I’m sure the momma duck’s did - watching them paddle and forage easily in the soft dappled light.

As we walked further up the trail, the river and the mallard family were out of sight for stretches here and there. I wasn’t sure if they’d be able to get higher up the river, with all the big boulders along this stretch. But as we reached the bridge spanning the Millstone and stood in the middle of it, we could see the duck family swimming and scrambling up and through. They ended up gathering and foraging just below us on the bridge, creating a dynamic shifting piece of art. From our vantage point, they seemed even smaller and their journey upstream even more remarkable.

They passed under the bridge and continued up through the shallow, moving water. We watched as they nibbled at the slimy river bed rocks, having to fully submerge their little heads under the current to do so. It seemed to me that they were tempting a drowning in order to have a snack, but of course they’re better adapted than that.

I figured they might be heading to the little duck ponds near the river just a bit further up, but we didn’t follow them further. I wished the little family well on their continued journey upstream, awed and delighted by the tenacity and sweetness contained in each little one.

Seven weeks later, I visited the duck ponds. By then, any of this brood of nine would have been grown and fully feathered adults. Its hard to believe they could change that quickly. But, there on the little island in the middle of the pond was another brood - soft and golden, and seemingly smiling in the warm sunshine.

Sometimes our hearts and souls are vulnerable and exposed, glorious and sweet as downy ducklings on a sweeping river. Sometimes we play in the eddies and swim easily in the magic green light with curiosity and ease. Other times life picks us up and, despite our thrashing about, carries us where we’d rather not be. Hopefully, we have someone to watch out for us and help us regain our footing during those difficult times. Either way, we must meet ourselves with kindness and compassion, and hold our hearts as tenderly as we would a tiny blessed little duckling navigating the river of its life.

Blessings to you, my ducky reader.

Lindsay

Vancouver Island, BC

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