And quiet flows the Don

Driving into Toronto from the east, the fastest way to get downtown is to peel off the 401 and head south on the Don Valley Parkway. Built upon what must once have been a verdant river valley, the DVP is six lanes of furiously buzzing expressway that splits the downtown core like a chainsaw through old wood. Splinter roads fly up the Don Valley’s ravines, singeing the adjacent neighbourhoods with diesel fumes. The floor of the valley itself is cluttered with bricky remains, railroad tracks and tire parts. It is space so befouled that even bridges span the whole cut rather than touch any part of the valley floor.

There is what is optimistically referred to as “park land” in the valley: garbage-strewn paths cut up and down the ravines, skirting around power lines, cement dams and piles of half-burnt clothing. There are bike trails along the rails, and arthritic willows upon which crows and grackles roost among tattered grocery bags.

Years ago the Don River was aggressively trimmed to make room for first the railroad and then the Parkway. What’s left of it is a canal; dutifully it conveys runoff from the ravines, along with assorted urban spillage, down through the valley, past the brickworks, factory lofts and storage elevators, dipping under the Gardiner Expressway and then finally spewing out into Lake Ontario. The river is sick-kidney-coloured, needing dialysis, pumping unfiltered ooze into the guts of the city.

I work on River Street, which, as you might guess, is a road that runs parallel to the river, and although I also live west, ongoing construction causes me to have to take an odd route to and from work each day. As a result, I cross the valley twice a day on the streetcar - either the 505 across the Gerrard Street Bridge, or the 504, which crosses on Dundas. I have been doing this for almost two months now: coming and going, morning and night, I look out upon the valley, and although I have noticed the slight mist of panic and despair rising up from the Parkway (it’s hard not to!), I can’t say I had ever really looked at the river.

But yesterday, even though it’s still bloody cold and wet out, I decided to walk across the Gerrard Street bridge. Stopping in the middle, I looked south toward the lake, following the stream of the water. The northbound lanes of the Parkway were clogged with drive-home commuters, while the southbound lanes moved slightly faster as they force-fed dinner-goers into the downtown core. I leaned over the railing and watched stuff float out from under the bridge: a coffee cup, a plastic bag, something pink.

And then I realized there were swans on the river. Two of them sailed by going south, gliding around the broken willow branches and crumbling bollards that line the western bank. I looked down the river and saw another swan and a family of ducks, paddling upriver along the eastern bank. The funny thing is, the birds were in the proper lanes. Keeping right, maintaining a proper distance, the two groups passed without incident as I looked on wishing I had a camera.

Telling James about it last night, I wondered if the Parkway, with its relentless controlled flow of traffic, had imprinted on those poor birds. Is it possible that living alongside six lanes of mayhem had trained the swans and ducks in the waterfowl equivalent of keeping three chevrons back?

Just to be sure, I went back today with my camera. This time, I walked from east to west across the bridge. It was around 11:30 in the morning, so the Parkway traffic wasn’t as intense. Alas, there weren’t many birds in the water. Just a couple of swans, hanging out in an eddy pool near the bank.

I took a couple of pictures anyway.