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There's a SAAB,under here, somewhere.
Breakthrough Day... in terms of getting the hell out of the house. The two-day manual effort of digging out of the clutches of winter seemed like plowing out a new Panama Canal... without the mosquitos, of course. My seventy-ish neighbor (widowed for four years) joined me with a shovel towards the end, showing infinitely more enthusiasm than my wife (who continued to hide indoors). Between the two of us, mobility is returned. Only now, it means going back to work. For a day. After all of the things that I hoped to get done (the vile checkbook is jiving again), one regret is missing the CD release party for DubSide, tonight. The physical activity, plus the need to ride solo, cramped my style. I don't even want to use the excuse of "it's a work night" in my defense. My DJ cred is going to hell. Still in my possession are most of the program guides for the marathon. Big distributing day, Thursday. I'm gettin' stupid. Eyes, burning. Throat, raw. Lights, out. ....................................................................... Hostel Environment Day Twenty-two: Syringa to Jerry Johnson State Park Again, the similarities between the Lochsa and the McKenzie Rivers was a mind-boggling d�j� vu, first thing in the damp dawn hours. Highway on the left bank, gently rising... river below, boiling. Almost literally, I was to learn. After passing through Lowell on the ride upriver, no other manifestation of civilization intruded on the tableau, save for the path and a state park somewhere ahead, not even mentioned in the guidebook. There may have been a reason for this. Once arriving at Jerry Johnson Park, we offloaded packs and the provisions we'd bought back in Lowell. Food. Order. What was missing? Showers. Sixty miles of constant uphill, regardless of the forgiving slope, made for funky bodily emissions. The campground was of the "primitive" type: pit toilets, dodgy water supply. Not a good forecast for the sleeping bag. Dudley, though, piqued our interest with tales of hot springs, a short hike away. Steve, Brian and I bit. Deep into the unfamiliar woods, following blazes on the trees, we eventually reached a wide-open space... not exactly a meadow, but terrace after terrace of pools of water, alongside a cold creek (shades of Oregon). We met others there. From a distance, a guy and his female partner were enjoying the uppermost pool... quite a bit. We avoided them so they could continue to create their own bubbles. Settling to another, the water (sulphurous as usual) was hot enough to burn skin. Down to the next, the temperature cooled, and so on downward. Stairsteps of magma-warmed elements. And sooo nice. Since we were enjoying each in turn, eventually we stroded across rocks that carried us around a huge encropment of stone, joining the widening river; and three skinny-dipping young ladies lounging on submerged boulders, water level just above breasts. It was a if a single shaft of light beamed from the heavens and spoke, "Behold!" Credit to our manners, we didn't allow our tongues to lol out of or mouths, make crude remarks, or behave ungentlemanly. I couldn't imagine our drawers were making a big impression, though. They invited us to share in the spot they'd found: at that precise point, the blistering cold of the river met an unseen plume of hot water from the last spring... leaving your body cold on one side, hot on the other. Amazing. Just as we were beginning a good rapport, fate intervened. Cor. Bouncing across the rocks in gawdawful briefs like a skinny, deranged goat, chanting "Mmmm, yes! Quite Nice!" More than our hosts could stand, obviously, as they beat a hasty retreat before he dove in... creating a serious setback in US-Dutch relations for some time to come. |
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