Thunderstorms early, then becoming clear after midnight. Low 49F. Winds SSE at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 100%..
Thunderstorms early, then becoming clear after midnight. Low 49F. Winds SSE at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 100%.
Early August, late on a hot Saturday afternoon, at the lake, sitting lap-deep on a submerged boulder. In the lee, sun hot, wind ruffling the water out past the point. A juicy peach, a cold beer, a blue sky, nowhere to be but here.
Laughing at the thought of the sign on the county lane on the way out, to notify passersby of a tree-felling operation along the road: CAUTION. FLYING DEBRIS. Appreciated the heads-up. Almost went back to the house to get a helmet. Heck, after reading the morning news some days, it’s a wonder the helmet isn’t on by the breakfast table, so rough seem the prospects.
We’re on the muddy bank of a flooded side-canyon of a larger reservoir, water level low from a succession of dry years. Companions are looking for — and finding — ancient pot shards, until recently under fifty feet of water. The four large rectangular pieces found, then left in the sun to bake some more, are white, rust, ochre and purplish brown.
The perch on the underwater rock proves hard from which to elevate, the perfect mix of cool and warm, so the searching is left to others. What is being sought from this amphibious chair, and being found, is … nothing. Or rather, nothingness, a disembodied weightlessness, a detachment from time. Windy hand brushes the low trees on the far shore. The clouds are amazing, very white against the lilac sky, cheerful, frolicking sheep. It’s been a killer summer: hard work, hard play, cool mornings, not enough bike rides.
We’d driven down a cracked asphalt road across a rolling tableland through stands of ponderosa pine, former harvesting ground for the largest lumber mill in the state at a time when everything was built of lumber. Parking at a pull-off, with a glimpse of the meandering canyon through scrub oak and piñon, a few false starts lead to dead-ends in the thicket guarding the lake, until a very civilized way through is realized, passing the circular foundation and scattered sandstone blocks of a way-long-ago dwelling at the edge of the trees. Fresh water, access to fish and game, good soil, relative privacy, land sometimes of plenty, turkeys in the pen; these guys, at some point, were diggin’ life.
Especially if they enjoyed a summer of rain like this one, with two months of afternoon rains slaking a thirsty land, greening the hillsides. Best monsoonal pattern in twenty-one years, old-timers say, a welcome drop in the bucket of the worst drought in centuries. Now, again, in the late afternoon, the clouds are stacking up against the mountains like a multi-car pileup on the freeway, the shadow under the cloud-mass creeping ever closer, like the future.
There’s a sign at the top of our street which shows the silhouette of a running boy and girl and reads: “SLOW CHILDREN.” A friend and neighbor always expressed the desire to bolt a placard below it that would say: “EVEN SLOWER ADULTS.” Another chuckle.
That friend, and others, passed away this spring. Miss them.
A speedboat, sleek and modern, up from the lake, comes around the corner, passes slowly and disappears upstream. The canyon is a series of symmetrical mule shoes winding northward. Easy to picture it full of cottonwoods instead of water. The boat soon reappears and goes back the way it came, followed, during the course of our stay, by a half-dozen others. They are visitors from another planet.
The sky to the north grows darker, telltale curtains of rain descending from a large cloud gathering to the east, encroaching, afternoon waning. If we want to swim in sunshine, it’s now or never, so into the drink, the first cold shock, acceptance, then cool, soothing. Silk on skin. Floating on the back, regarding the sky, clear to the south, stretching away forever, sunshine slipping through the fingers. Acceptance of impermanence, of being a passing cloud.
The best sign of the summer, on a stretch of highway known by some in cycling circles as Death Highway, for its lack of shoulders, heavy traffic and sometimes-inconsiderate drivers: “GIVE CYCLISTS THREE FEET.” This would be an anatomical miracle, and require the invention of a bicycle with an extra pedal.
A lingering shadow, and another acceptance: the inevitability of departure. Good-by to the lake and back to the present, on stepping stones through the mud, proceeding carefully through prickly weeds and up the narrow path through the scrub and back to the truck for a bubbly water on the tailgate, sheer bliss. Heading back up the cracked asphalt road, the sky over the mountains of home is a solid black wall – be ready for rain – which, unknown at the time, will dissipate at sunset and allow a pulsating band of orange on the flank of North Lookout Peak above the valley, and a celebration of that rarest of achievements: getting home before dark.
Sean can be reached at seanmcnamara58@gmail.com.
Sorry, there are no recent results for popular videos.
Sorry, there are no recent results for popular commented articles.