Driving south-east from Big Sur through seemingly endless Old California; hills of parched grasses and ancient Oak groves. We pass through a military base where soldiers play war in the heat; 70 degrees at the coast, 99 in the hills. An old tank sits in the distance, crow perched on the turret.
Granite and Limestone formations appear suddenly in striking variety, some piled high like cave filled monuments, others half buried and striated, looking like an alien spacecraft that crash landed 20 million years ago and calcified.
We’ve heard tale of swimming holes and wild rivers here, but there are no signs or maps. Gallant and drunk-driving rednecks show us the way, intent on a swim themselves in a pool called “The Hippy Hole”.
We drive on toward a trailhead in search of “Fish Camp”, or possibly a fabled place beyond full of fossils. Peeing next to the car, a lizard runs down a tree to my right and positions himself directly in my urine stream, I shift, and he dashes right back into my urine. New species discovered: Piss Lizard.
Packs shouldered we march clumsily along a narrow path carved into the steep hillside. Poison Oak, Foxtails, Yarrow, Sticky Monkey Flowers, and huge Succulents watch us hike. Bellow us the Manzanita is burnt out, charcoaled branches with Morning Glory vines twisting up their brittle frames. The Morning Glory seems to rise lovingly, consoling the Manzanita with an embrace and flowers for their gravesite. Unknown yellow flowers are the most abundant; because of them the mountain in the distance is as yellow as a pollen pile.
Winding down to the river we loose the trail completely, it may indeed have eroded well enough away. We make camp on a sandy plot. Later that night we see a Bumblebee walking in the dark in the sand, caught in our headlamp light, “go to bed Bumble!”
Our fire is fed by loose wood stuck in the branches and cricks of nearby trees, deposited there by the river at its fullest, or possibly in a small flood. Our bellies are fed with canned fish, ironically packed in. The Mosquitos are fed by Noël. My imagination is fed by the splashing of the river over the rocks… I swear I can hear something wading through the water. Evidence in the morning proves me less of a fool, I find deep hoof-prints in a nearby bank leading into the water and not out.
Two spiders perform a shadow show on our tent roof in the AM light. One a Daddy Long Legs trundling toward a more venomous relative, only after basically running into his cousin did Daddy realize he was there, and Long Legs high stepped it away at top speed.
When the sun makes it over the eastern hills and hits the pools: naked swimming, what could be finer. We break camp easily and in silence, division of labor dividing itself. A snake lies in the trail, absorbing solar energy, after becoming aware of us it slowly slithers directly towards us. It is curious and unafraid, possibly because the shape of man is still unknown to some creatures in this untrammeled country. It was massive though, four feet long, and thick, so I deterred it with my walking stick and strong talk, it stopped advancing and left the trail without haste.
Because of dinner plans with friends back in the semi-civilized world, we hike back at the relatively insane time of high noon, no shadows, no shade, it’s at least 100 degrees. Having lived and walked in the desert Noël is well prepared, I however am facing new challenges. We have to ration the drinking water purified by (camp) fire this morning, but I would slug it all if I could. A brook babbling through the trail sings to me, so I soak my kerchief there, wring it out over my roasting body and tie it around my head. A new awareness dawns: although I have always proclaimed it my favorite beverage, I still haven’t been this close to understanding water’s preciousness, and the way its presence means strength and comfort. The phrase “water is life” is tossed about often, but seriously, yes. Water is also our eternal companion, our loving father-friend-mother-source-teacher. This was a good moment for me.
Back at the car. Stuffed in the left wing mirror we find a hand-drawn map to an excellent swimming hole found by the gallant redneck guides, extra credit. Snacks in the shade, and an air-conditioned drive back to the coast. The mind busies itself again, but something of the quiet, overflowing place remains. If we trek into the wild, the wild treks into us.
