Between A Rock and a Wet Place

#74, August 22, 2001

We were group camping in Northern California. No more clues.

Okay, we were close enough to the ocean to surf a few hours of sloppy little thigh-high waves one fog-bound morning. After lunch I left camp to fetch ice for our cooler, and to scout upstream for a new swim hole. In years past, we had driven inland 60 miles to a lovely but too-popular spot on a different river. We needed something closer.

Eureka!.. just a few miles upstream from our campground. A peek through the trees at bend in the road revealed a pre-historic gorge, ragged with bare rocks guarding sapphire pools. I pulled into a turnout in the narrow road, and eventually found a path down the steep bank

There were long stretches of rock rising from the water. For the jumpers, a series of ever taller cliffs overhung a deep pool. The water was crystal clear. The road above was invisible, its traffic negligible and inaudible. Not a fleck of civilization in sight.

I found the place frightening at first. It challenged me to dive into its cold bottomless pool, to traverse its vertical banks, to step off a high ledge. To be fully here… alone. Could I still be courageous in the face of the wild? Boldness won the debate -- I was inspired by the memory of my daughter's recent adventures in the Utah outback. I stripped to my Speedo, waded onto a shallow ledge, and took the plunge.

The next two hours were among the most deeply delightful of my life. I indulged every impulse of curiosity, and accepted every sensible challenge. The place rewarded me with relentless beauty and mystery-- galaxies of golden foam lazily whirlpooling across black water; footlong steelhead hiding behind boulders and clouds of waterfall bubbles; rock hollows and fins fashioned in the image of their sculptor; and in the downstream rapids, a standing wave that peeled and tubed like a miniature Banzai Pipeline ("Lord, make me six inches tall!")

I discovered a rock that spoke with the voice of the water (through the miracle of parabolic reflection), and another rock that sparkled with patches of full rainbow iridescence. Everywhere was rock of such varied shape yet so hard and lichen-free, rising right out of a forgiving fall zone. It was bouldering heaven, a temple for rock yoga. I climbed across "problems" that demanded every shred of my strength and concentration, yet where the greatest risk was a only scrape and a splash. And when the water stole too much of my body heat, I hauled myself up onto the nearest sun-facing slab to get it back.

Overdue back at the camp, I parted in sweet sorrow, vowing to return. Two days later, I brought back my boys and some of their friends. I shared the canyon's secrets with them, and they discovered some new ones on their own. Have you ever looked out through the tongue of a small waterfall with a snorkeling mask, from upstream, while someone holds only your feet?

Discovery. Wild places like that canyon give you opportunity to find the world in its original beauty, and to discover and improve truths about yourself. But places like this are, in a sense, "human-made." Some group of people not long ago decided that this river was worth more flowing free than dead behind a dam, and they fought to pass legislation protecting it. And the existence of the path down from a paved road showed that others had been there before, yet they cared about successive visitors enough not to leave their garbage behind.

I will not tell you how to get to this place. I ask you: go looking for it, and places like it. They exist, though their numbers are declining. Find one, and leave it better than when you arrived. And take the inspiration you find there, and join those who work to protect what's left, and to restore what has been lost. Dis-cover America.