A couple decades ago I had this idea to hike up the stream bed of a certain boulder-filled creek and do a “watershed study” in photographs. That never happened. But on a cold Saturday I decided I finally should.
It’s snowing. I’m finding that hopping from damp, moss covered rock in the stream bed to damp, moss covered rock forces me to focus on my foot placements and balance. I could have worn better shoes. Or I could make perfect foot placements. My feet feel rooted in the earth, but then I let my thoughts wander upstream and pondering what’s ahead and my foot slips on a wet rock. I recover before my foot goes in the clear, icy stream, but only because my focus had only wavered for a split second and came right back into the moment. I’ve felt the immediate danger of living in the future. Of letting my attention dwell in a time that does not exist.
I’m revisiting the place where an unnamed stream exits the hillside from a cave mouth, and then a dozen yards away it returns into the hillside. I’ve known of this place most of my life. I’m only here for the second time. It feels like a place of power. And few know of it. I fill up my water bottle and move on.
I try not to step in the sand. I chose hard surfaces to walk on so as not to leave prints. I look for perfect small white stones—quartz pebbles—that feel unblemished to my fingers.
I chose not to bring gloves, but then wondered if it was a mistake. But I like the feel of the rocks under my hands as I climb upstream. The cold doesn’t hurt me. My hands are cold from touching the boulders and reaching into the icy water to retrieve pebbles, but my body pushes heat to them and in a few steps they’re warm again.
I see the tracks of other people. I refuse to mingle mine with theirs. We are not experiencing this place together. Or the same. I come to a place where it’s difficult to avoid the sand, so I make deliberate footprints.
I find a pebble that looks like it was a finger broken off a marble statue. I hold it in my hand until it’s warm and feels as if it has a life of its own.
I have no destination. I’m following the stream, but I am not trying to reach any certain point along it. I do not know where or how this journey will end. That’s odd for me. Not having a goal is odd.
I’ve come to the place where I would have to get on the trail to continue. So I will go back. I’ve already seen more people than I’d like on this hike.
I find a pretty moss covered arete on a boulder. I don’t want to clean it, that would ruin its beauty. So instead of coming back with a crash pad and brushes I simply climb it in my mind. I can feel the movement upward from where I touch the starting holds, cold rock, damp rock, but good places to put my hands and feet, I feel the swing of my body and the tension in my muscles. I pull over the top and balance on the narrow summit.
A white pebble catches my eye. One side of the pebble is perfect, polished, smooth, so delicately white it’s almost transparent. Like a snowflake. Like a feather. The other side is rough, like gravel. Like a tooth. The pebble is me.
I’m back to the beginning and getting ready to step out of the stream onto the trail. I felt the anxiety return. I felt it when I stepped over the boundary between my world and everyone else’s. I do not like this feeling.
This is a sacred place for me. And yet it has been profaned; it is the heart of profanity. People have intruded into this valley to collect more hashtags. It was once a wild place few people ventured into. Now there’s a trail. Now there are well compacted campsites. Now there are names.
My journey has been long in reaching this place. In some ways it started here. Today isn't an ending. It's simply a point along the circle of life: beginning and ending at the same time.
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