“You might not think it, but high country wells do go dry. It’s been a long drought season. I feel it in my heart, despite the rain; finally a downpour, a little, too late. The wind woke me, last night. I thought it was a train wreck, but our road that rides next to a crevice of tumbling mountain water, funnels more than just that. It can let a whole host of tumult come raging out of the mountains without warning, tossing lawn furniture like pick up sticks, knocking out power lines, causing huge barn doors to swing, and bang, like someone wants in, who isn’t welcome. I startle awake, hair prickly as pins on the back of my neck, swimming to consciousness, poised for combat. It always starts like this. I need to stop the air, and jump out of bed to slam shut the window that’s been open, all summer. Summer. Summer has been full, and well, full ... of summer. Not all summers can boast, but this one has crowned its head with a gaudy show of golden rod, shameless, reckless, beyond all sense of decency. Summer is leaving, in a whoosh, and I can hear the urgent, pounding water, somewhere, running behind, trying desperately to catch up, like a tag team left holding the baton. I turn at the familiar apple tree, but instead of singing the Johnny Appleseed song like I used to, for my children, I continue further up the mountain road. It comes to a metal gate, and a pull-off. I’ve heard of a long, past town water supply, that the trail I’m now walking is named after, and that’s where I’m heading. Maybe I’ll find a place to soak, in the cold, cold water - low as it is, this is still a vibrant stream. It’s late in the day, & there’s no one else here, just as I planned it. Blue sap line laces the left hand side of the trail. Continuing across a small bridge, the cool division from working forest, into wilderness, begins to arrive. You might call it a portal, but its only a place, where things that are invisible begin to radiate and illuminate the world, as we know it. I can’t help it, there are tears in my eyes. I take off my sneakers to clamber down a slope, and into the water. How can there be so much water in a drought? After my first immersion, I head back up the trail. What is this? An old cement bulwark, is nearly hidden, if you weren’t looking for it. Rusted pipe, spillways, and this must be what was once known as “the waterworks”. The scene, is surreal. I’m not sure which time period I live in. A footpath, seemingly trod by hundreds of bare feet, polishing roots of large hemlocks, and granite stones, leads upward. Okay, I’ll go a little more. It’s steep, and the day is waning. The boundary with true wilderness is certainly nigh. Then I’m there. In the distance, a vague shimmer, in the late afternoon light. A waterfall, not a small one. In fact, as I crest the rise, and collapse onto the hollow woods’ floor, it’s a mosaic before me, of ledge, and drops, and boulders, and crushing torrent. How to get there, or “can I?”. I guess I’m a dancer, but only out here. The surface of the pool below the falls, sends a shiver of pure joy. Call it joy, call it intensity, call it power. We can touch it, catch it, repeat it, even crawl into its love, imaginarily. I am falling on slippery rocks, but without disaster. I want us all to remember, this is where we belong.”
