What I remember most is the simple act of staring always at the rushing water. This week we hiked the long tough hike to Lost Cove Creek. That name describes it perfectly– it’s lost. Lost from the clatter of now– where we all live. Lost in time. So lost there are no other humans. Lost to signal. Tuned instead into the frequencies of the arteries and veins of creeks and the sons and daughters of creeks, the mothers and fathers of rivers. I love how water seeks its own level. Such an odd way to put into words the punch and recoil of water moving at last to an uneasy equilibrium.
I pitched my tent on the same mossy spot overhanging the river where I’d camped before. The sound, the buzz, that lives always in my ears grew quiet next to the loud thousand part water music all around me.
It was like being washed by way of the eyes and washed by way of the ears right down to the bottom of the soul. How is that received in the soul? Like being stunned, silenced, adored, suspended.
We tried to keep up with the Hear and See by tasting things–spinach and nuts and packaged stews, intense dried cantaloupe, freshly caught and grilled trout washed down with bourbon or creek water, or both.
We used any excuse to bathe in the river to drop into the Touch part of being there. Smell was clean dirt and rain.
My firsts: crudely casting a fly fishing line and feeling in my arm the connection to the line’s motion; the almost invisible blossoms on a ginger root; learning the habits of the three kinds of trout in those waters. I saw my first ever wild lady slipper. And without really wanting to at all, we packed ourselves up and hiked away.