Mudlark
/'mAdla;k / n. & V. L18. [F. MUD n.1 + LARK n.1] A person who
scavenges for usable debris in the mud of a river or harbor. (Definition from Mudlarking on the River
Thames by Lara Maikem, a marvelous read)
Initially I was invited to mudlark for a
full-sized red pickup truck. Or, with some luck, a men’s size-large, black wetsuit.
I found a cow bone and a chair arm. Their resemblance disconcertingly similar.
If I had been scavenging along the Thames River in
London, I might have found clay pipes, Roman coins, or Victorian medicine
bottles, but mudlarking along Mill Creek River in the southeast corner of
Washington State was a different game. I hoped to find an arrowhead from a few
centuries back, but everything else was likely to be remnants of the cabin that
floated downstream or bits and pieces of stuff washed from structures in the
historic flood of this month.
My group of five mudlarkers with the owner's permission crossed a field
and approached the river. Looking just
to our left, this is what we saw. And to
the right, way down there upstream, black wheels atop the red pickup, belly-up just as
reported.
Two of our crew, Dave and Gary, began the
journey across the above bridge of natural and unnatural materials. Leary of the crossing, my mudlarking partner,
Gloria, and I kept to the riverbank and nearby islands of rocky rubble and soft
mud. Black plastic bags fooled us into thinking we
might have spotted the wet suit. Two
cabinet doors with old knobs were the only thing seemingly of interest mixed in
with quantities of splintered plywood and old beams. Brown was the predominate color.
I kept noticing the occasional iron-red
volcanic rocks probably washed down from Tiger Canyon. The careful examination of rocks rewarded me with
views of natural phenomena that I might otherwise have missed.
The pattern made by waterdrops falling off a
log into the mud.
And pebbles neatly wedged along a stick, as
if the river current had slowed and taken extra care in their placement.
Last week, I had spotted evidence of other mudlarkers in the area. I wish that I had seen the heron or the cat.
Last night as I glanced through my
photos, I came across another mudlarking find from earlier this week. I had
gone up the canyon to Oregon to help a family muck out their little cabin. The find appeared to be a cane until I got
close and realized that it was an old iron pipe. Mud filled, heavy, and leaded.
So much stuff. And none of it worth much anymore. Even the red pickup.
