For the majority of my life I have lived within five minutes walking distance of the Santa Ana River. Ever since I was young, I could feel the immense power of this river. It's more than a half mile in width, 110 miles long and travels through more than ten vegetation zones. Where I grew up, the river intersects the El Camino Real - the route the Spanish took to establish their missions and cities. The Spanish tried to forge the river on St. Anne’s feast day, but an earthquake shook them from their horses. This is how the river got her name. A Tongva Indian village once existed on the opposite banks. They fed off the steelhead trout that swam in plenty. The river was their life source: in all, its watershed supports more than 200 species of birds, fish, amphibians, mammals and reptiles. At the beginning of the 1800s, my ancestors settled the first rancho in Orange County living off the richness of this grand river.

The Santa Ana River was once considered the most dangerous river west of the Mississippi River and in 1825 it provided devastating proof of its reputation when it swelled and splashed over its banks in such a fierce flooding that changed its course, thus altering the rancho’s boundary lines and killing thousands of cattle as well. I imagine my ancestors biggest concern was the lost cattle, until several generations later when a huge battle in the Mexican American War was fought and lost on its riverbanks. Soon after California became a state and the Spanish landowners had to prove their land grant’s validity by measuring their land with American measurements by an impossible deadline. Since my ancestors measured their land in reatas (lassos) and major landmarks, i.e., the Santa Ana River, they lost their land – all 72,000 acres.

This river once flowed free and supported a vast variety of life throughout its entire route, but several years ago it was dammed by the Prado Dam. And even though I can close my eyes and hear the rush of water as it dashes toward the Pacific Ocean, or feel the power of its feral unpredictability, the mighty Santa Ana River is a ghost of a river today. Once full of power, vigor and life, it is now strangled in many sections by man-made inventions – including, even, a golf course. For much of its passage through Orange County, it’s filled with concrete, dry as a bone, best for skateboarders trying new tricks. Still I respect the spunk this river had, and I miss it terribly. I can sence the rush of the water and multitude of fish – as if the river still is there and the concrete is the illusion, not the other way around.

I think this is why I love to travel north to where rivers run wild. I gaze in amazement and ponder the river’s power to destroy or provide. I wonder if the river has an awareness of its self and whether the river’s flow is indicative of the river’s personality – if such a thing is possible. Mostly, I love to stand at a river’s edge and admire its winding path through valleys and gorges, a wild journey that reveals its uninhibited nature.