We climb over the levee and down into the hot shade near the river.

We walk single-file for 10 minutes through the Johnson grass to the levee, looking forward to a swim in the river.

RIVER BOTTOM BY LYRA HALPRIN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 72

The July day is getting hotter and we want to swim. But we are young to be by ourselves—me, eight, April, five. We can’t cross the levee to the river without Dad.He tells us to wait for him. He doesn’t want us where he can’t see us. He trusts us, though, even teaching me to drive the Korean War-vintage Willys Jeep truck on the farm.

He walks up and down rows of hundreds of walnut trees all morning long updating a map, noting which trees look parched. While we wait, April and I flatten the tall Johnson grass to make nests where no one can see us. We stand up every now and then and wave to Dad.

At last he comes over, a Panama hat shading a wide smile. Dad’s lean body is protected from the sun by ironed khaki pants and long-sleeved shirt. His initials on the inside of his shirt, “LH”, the same as mine, are inked there by the Chinese laundry in town. Dad tells us that the laundry and Chinese restaurants are run by descendants of those who came from China to work at the gold camps 50 miles east in the Sierra Nevada.

“Have some water,” Dad says, offering us his large plaid-cloth covered canteen. The water leaves a rusty stain on pipes and cups because the well contains iron, but it is still cold, and we like it.

We walk single-file for 10 minutes through the Johnson grass to the levee, looking forward to a swim in the river. The Johnson grass is the bane of Dad’s existence. Osa Johnson brought it here from Africa during World War I, Dad says. It was enthusiastically and mistakenly planted because it grew fast and seemed like food for horses and a way to hold down sandy soil, but for Dad it is a noxious weed. 

We climb over the levee and down into the hot shade near the river. I imagine we’re in the “darkest Africa” of cartoons or the Early Evening Movie, African Queen, we’ve watched with Mom. 

Dad tells us about the architecture of the riparian forests of the river bottom land. “See the understorey of wild grapes and berries?” he asks, pointing to the tiny fruit on vines creeping up the towering cottonwood trees whose feathery seeds give the river its name, Río de las Plumas. The sky through the softly moving leaves is striped with the vapour trails of jets from nearby Beale Air Force Base, home of the Lockheed U-2 spy aircraft. 

A few tree trunks lie on their sides. In our winter and spring vacations we help Dad pick enormous and delicious elephant ear mushrooms that grow out of these rain-soaked decaying logs. 

The tiny white blossoms that dot blackberry bushes in the spring have turned into luscious black fruit in the deep July heat. The dense berry and grapevines, brush and cottonwood leaves, provide a shady stillness.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a pile of rags and the remnants of a fire.