By two o’clock the girl was free to go; the daily agreement
with her Grandmother accomplished (one room of the cabin deep cleaned—often including
waxing the linoleum—and lunch prepared for- and cleaned up after- her brother
and Grandfather’s lunch break from cabin building) she had the afternoon to herself
and, without fail, she raced to the beach where she and her friends played and
swam endlessly, joyfully and without restraint.
Occasionally the Scientists would see fit to deliver a
floating log to their giant sandbox on the shore. A well-travelled log worn smooth by the ice-cold
Shuswap Lake and its mile long journey to the very end. The girl and her friends would take turns
standing on the log, balancing as best they could on the wet, slick surface, counting
out the seconds to see who would win. Or
they would clamber aboard like it was a pet horse and float wherever the log
wanted to go—it being too heavy for them to maneuver with any reliability—until
their toes were too cold to sit still.
*
Greetings Dear Reader from Stanley Lake, Idaho, one of my
favorite places on this gorgeous planet:
Tucked away in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area and miles from the
popular and over-run Redfish Lake, Stanley Lake contentedly rests below Mt. McGowan
(9,860’) and disallows motorized boats so it remains quiet and peaceful, particularly mid-week.
Right now I am enjoying a cup of Chamomile tea (with spun honey), having just finished the world’s best Reuben sandwich: The basic pastrami on rye with thousand island dressing but also topped with shredded purple cabbage lovingly pickled into a spicy and sweet slaw, a taste combination so divine nothing was lost when, five hours after my first half, I ate the second despite the fact that the bottom piece of rye had turned soggy and bright pink. This delight came from the Stanley Baking & Company Cafe, whose cinnamon roll was dry and disappointing, but after two long day hikes, my body was craving some fat and carbohydrates. I ate it all.
Yesterday’s hike, like today’s, was a repeat of a hike I did
last year; the good news is that they both seemed much easier this year. Except for yesterday’s exit.
On the way up to Lady Face Falls, I noticed a tantalizing
path veering off to the left toward the inlet of the lake. Like last year, I made a mental note of it in
passing, and continued up the trail. After
four miles the snow forced us to turn back so, unlike last year, I had the energy
on the way down to do a bit of exploring. Time to take the Path Twice Noticed.
It was delightful back there: Having come from a mile or so of wide-open
meadows, the detour offered a nice gravel path meandering
through small islands of 4' tall grasses. Occasionally I could glimpse the river off to
the right quietly flowing toward the lake.
After half a mile or so I pulled Opus off to the side and we ventured
closer to the river: Being Spring, it
flowed quickly and soundlessly over the dark green reeds and submerged rocks
and we sat down to watch the flash of dark shapes flitting from one side to the
other. It was the second time I wished I
had my fishing pole.
Since we were clearly coming to the head of the lake, I
assumed the nice gravel path would just take us around the shore and back to
the campground; we continued until it abruptly ended in a flooded marshland. Looking across the many fallen trees you
could see the boat ramp, offering its welcome return to dry land, a mere thirty
yards away. Opus and I have crossed many
a stream on logs so, stooping down quickly to release him from his leash (he
crosses much better on his own), we barely broke stride as we each took a log
to begin the crossing.
And here’s something obvious: Just because a log is on top of the water does
not mean it will stay on top of the water.
By the time I crossed to Log 2, I noticed that the logs had
a lot more give to them than I was used to.
Pausing on Log 3 because I heard a splash slightly behind me, I realized
that the logs were bobbing on the water.
Balancing on my log, which was just barely holding its own at the water’s
surface, I looked back to see Opus in water up to his cheekbones. And the look!
He is very expressive and this one did not say, “I love you and will
follow you anywhere,” it was more like, “What the fuck?” and “I am never following
you again.”
But as my log was sinking, I had no time to offer any
aid. I watched as he clawed himself back
up onto the adjacent, half-submerged log, turned his back on me and began to
shake.
What to do? I could
back-track across the logs (maybe) and hike back around which would be another
two miles or so added onto my already close to eight, or, and this seemed
perfectly reasonable, I could take off my boots, hop into the water and wade to
the boat ramp.
Balancing on my own half-submerged log, I proceeded to
remove one boot and sock (all those dance lessons came in handy) and, while
holding the first boot against a branch, remove the other boot and sock. Tucking the socks inside, I tied the laces
together and hung the boots around my neck.
Now to get The Dog Who Isn’t Speaking.
I stepped off my log and into the water. It was about mid-thigh and the coldest water
I have ever felt—remember that snow I ran into above? The cold was a blessing because, as my feet
sank down into the silty, muddy, clinging bottom of this marshland, I began to
wonder about snakes and glass and sticks and other things that might puncture
my feet. But no need to fear: I had no feeling in them after the first
three seconds.
I turned back to get Opus who, thankfully, sat still as I
picked him up but who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to let out a little
growl—or maybe it was just him getting his breath back.
Boots around my neck, a soaking-wet, shivering dog in my
arms, and a backpack on my back, we set off across the marshy water to meet the
boat ramp. With each sinking step, the
water became deeper and colder; when it reached my hips, the possibility of leeches
entered my mind.
But we made it! Opus,
whose legs had clearly had time to thaw, leaped from my arms as soon as the
ramp was within three feet. I felt like I
was feeling gravity for the first time as I hauled my numb legs up and onto the
ramp. We sat there, thawing, in the warm
afternoon sun, checking for leeches.
*
The woman weighs more than the girl.
-K
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