“Out & about with the old ridge runner, feeling it in my bones, as well. This particular attempt involved a rumor, from a back country skier, who suggested a particular route, to ford a particular ravine. We left the trail, passing an old, abandoned weather station, to find traction in the deeper parts of where water goes. It’s a slow intake, as the rushing sound begins to dominate, as we drop down, like the murmur of a storm, or maybe just that, oppressive, beautiful, entrapping our attention. For humans are beings made to be in trance. So much happier that way, and yet, forced by the rigors of planetary rulership, to jig and jag, and dance to a duller tune. No wonder handfuls of us are always on the escape. Tramping, stumbling, groping, for realer stuff. His eyes, my eyes, we seem to look for the same things. He comments on a quartz outcropping; I point out a rotten log. We size up what we’re going into. The preliminary plan may have to shift, due to footwear. It’s not a stream with easy crossings. My idea to climb the opposing cliff, fudging a bit, going sideways, or making a short, hard ascent, might not work. That’s okay. You can’t really assume there is a right way, in this business. When he gestures downstream, I’ll go. I’ll follow him; his instincts are often ruled by better gods. It’s not a wild spring this year, the water isn’t as vigorous as usual, though in general it hardly matters, because so much energy is tied up in stone, and pressure, and wind and force. This much, or that much water, is notable, but not critical to our conversation. This hunk of terrain, our mystery mother, is going to take us on a journey, as we’ve learned from so many other sojourns over the years. It’s not good footing. No one said it would be. In a scramble to get closer to the sculptured waterfalls, I’ve lost track of time, and him. It’s not clear for how long, but he wanders and is elusive, & we both disappear. A portal perhaps, into which we’re gone by choice, to see things, briefly, working as a team, but separately. I can’t wait to see his photos. But the wind has picked up. The calm we felt initially is shifted. The muddled intention of the weather gods, that’s one unpredictable mofo. I’m not so sure, suddenly, that’s he’s okay. The incredible stone toss, irks me a bit, the disorderly creek beds, that don’t feel quite right. I stand with a foot half in it, careful not to breach the tear in my rubber boot. I can usually see him, if I don’t try to hard to look. Scanning the slope, I catch it, his movement. I get what’s he’s doing. The light is changing, and our plot, we’re reducing, to mitigate the danger of trying to go too far today. I move parallel, and across the leaf litter, skirting the bad parts, closer to the upper forest. He’s there, nosing it, gauging it. We’re definitely in synch. When the sun suddenly crashes out of clouds, it’s so quickly extinguished, & we both can’t catch it, not really. I lose him again. I’ve gone down to the bridge, to catch one last huff of slow water, in the dimming light, while he’s gone up. I feel a tinge of worry. I don’t know what this ravine has done to him, not exactly. It’s not what we’d planned, but, then again, we’re used to plans upended. I just want to make sure we reconnoiter in unison, and in one glorious piece. There he is, on the ridge. I’ve doubled back to shoot some twilit water. He knows how to wait for me and let me go. And that, my friends, is worth a million particles, of unadulterated mountain gold.”
