The Slow River Carves Canyons

Told by Cole Burnitt

When I was a boy, summers meant bare feet and the slow river that curled along the edge of my granddad’s pasture. We’d climb down the bank with a cane pole, bait can in one hand, slingshot in the other, and spend whole afternoons drifting along that water like time had forgotten us.

Now, that river wasn’t much to look at. Muddy banks, cattails bending, turtles sliding off logs when we got too close. But I noticed something then that stuck with me: the noisy creeks always bragged, splashing, rushing, throwing up foam. The river never hurried. It moved quiet, steady, and deep. And year after year, it carved banks wide enough to swallow fence posts and trees without anyone noticing the work was being done.

I didn’t think much of it then. But I do now, standing over a pit.

See, barbecue’s got two kinds of smoke. The fast smoke is white, loud, bitter. Folks get in a hurry, throw too much wood, smother the fire. Meat comes out tasting like ashtrays and regrets. But the slow smoke — thin, blue, drifting easy — that’s what sweetens meat down to the bone. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t hurry. It just works steady until the flavor is carved deep.

Life’s the same way. I’ve seen plenty of folks make noise, talk big, rush through, burn bridges like fatwood kindling. They make a splash, sure, but it fades as quick as it came. Then I’ve known others — steady, patient, quiet as a slow river. They don’t talk much, but they shape everyone around them just by showing up the same way, day after day.

I remember one brisket cook years back at the county fair. Young guy next to me fired his pit hot, flames licking tall, smoke billowing like a freight train. He strutted around, bragging about how fast he’d get it done. Meanwhile, I just kept my fire low, added a stick here, a stick there, sipped my coffee, let the river run. By the time the judges came ‘round, his meat was tough and bitter, and mine? Well, let’s just say that blue ribbon’s still hanging in my shop.

That night, as I drove home, I thought about that slow river again — how it always won without noise, without hurry, just by being steady.

I try to live that way. Doesn’t mean I always succeed. I still get impatient. I still want to rush things that take time — fences, friendships, briskets. But when I catch myself, I hear that river whisper: “Slow down. Let the banks shape themselves.”

And I think maybe that’s why I love barbecue. It’s not just about feeding your folks. It’s about remembering that good things take time, that smoke works better when it’s patient, that rivers carve canyons.

So when you stand over a pit, and that fire tempts you to stoke it too fast, remember the power of the slow river. Don’t let the loud creeks fool you. It’s the quiet current that does the carving.

Because in barbecue, and in life, the slow river carves canyons.