The dark chthonic waters – essentially ancestral waters – rise from the unseen land of the dead into light and become visible. This process is controlled by ancestral agency, the waters becoming a medium through which ancestral presence surfaces and circulates. (Mark Nemglan)
The part of southern Indiana I belong to is characterized by karst topography, where water flows through soluble limestone and forms sinkholes and caves. Sometimes the water even disappears underground in what is called a sinking stream.
Lost River is such a sinking stream, originating in Washington County and then disappearing and reappearing in a series of locations in Orange County before flowing into Driftwood River (a.k.a., the East Fork of the White River). According to Wikipedia, 23 of its 87 miles are in underground caverns.
Reading about chthonic waters recently, my mind turned toward the Lost River. Not thirty minutes from my house flows a river between the worlds.
Orangeville Rise
But first, a groundhog. Just after crossing Driftwood River on Highway 37, a groundhog came galloping across the road. I hit the brakes and veered left. The groundhog safely crossed and I drove on, appreciating the (somewhat dangerous, especially to the groundhog) synchronicity of this encounter with a chthonic being.
The day was heating up by the time I parked in the little pull-off by the Orangeville Rise. The river flows back up to the surface at the base of a limestone wall and then flows on between steep banks. I noticed a couple of paths down to the water that are better suited for energetic young people. I contented myself with a spot several yards from the rise where I could see both it and the river downstream. After spending some time watching the rise, the river, and dozens of ebony jewelwings, I introduced myself and left my offering, with a promise to come back soon.
The road crossed the Lost River a bit south of the rise, past some Amish farms, at this wonderful old iron bridge. I will admit to a bit of a pause before crossing, before deciding it was probably more solid than many modern bridges.
Wesley Chapel Gulf
The Orangeville rise was nice. The Wesley Chapel Gulf was stunning.
The water in the gulf is part of the Lost River at one of its underground points. The gulf itself was formed when a sinkhole at the then-surface spectacularly collapsed. This would not have been one of our usual sinkhole collapses; rather, this one formed essentially a box canyon where the Lost River bubbles up (this, I’m told, can be seen and heard at times of heavy rain) and drains again in several spots within the gulf. I posted a video on YouTube if you want to hear the draining and birdsong.
Down a long flight of steps the Lady went into a deep green hollow, through which ran murmuring the silver stream that issued from the fountain on the hill. At the bottom, upon a low pedestal carved like a branching tree, stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and beside it stood a silver ewer.
With water from the stream Galadriel filled the basin to the brim, and breathed on it, and when the water was still again she spoke. “Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,” she said. “I have brought you here so that you may look in it, if you will.”
The gulf is a special place. As you descend into it, you feel the temperature drop. The wood lark, whose song always gives a feeling of mystery to the woods, feels even more ethereal here. The banks are half mud, half sand, and fully dangerous; I’m bringing a walking stick next time. The limestone walls rise high above the water and strange watery sounds can be heard from time to time. Minnows swim in small schools in the shallow edges. Out of sight on both ends are drains where floating material can be seen spinning above the drop back into the caverns below. Along the bank, trees lean in toward the water, their roots exposed. A sort of precarious attention.
This is a place that will reward attention. Another offering, another promise, and I headed home.