Duh… Icicle River
I fell asleep in crazy love, waking, not only before the earth switched on its’ lights, but before, Sandy, the “Up and at em” guy. I slip out of our zipper joined cocoon, pull on Sandy’s day old T-shirt, inside out jeans and flip flops. Digging through a nest of cookies, Richard Bach’s book, “One,” and crumpled M&M wrappers, I grab the Benson & Hedges and Bic lighter. I roll onto my stomach, slide off the loft style bed and slowly open the noisy, barn style doors, of the van. Sandy rolls onto his side as the door creaks, skipping two beats before returning to the snoring melody. I consider crawling back up for a rerun of last night, choosing time on my own, instead.
I follow the path we walked last night, leading down to the Wenatchee River. There’s a few faint lights inside trailers, but I appear to be the only one ready to seize the rising sun. There’s a path of rocks leading to a large boulder, midstream, beckoning. I attempt to stuff my cigarettes in my bra, and find the pack floating at my feet. Retrieving the pack, I remember a bra is not one of the two items I’m wearing. With the pack in my jean’s pocket, I prance across rocks leading to the inviting boulder, knowing I can’t fall. A rare moment of unexplained confidence, like when you toss a wad of paper, knowing it will score the trash can, or raise a hand without a doubt you’ll catch the ball.
Lifting Sandy’s T-shirt, carrying his alluring scent, I retrieve the pack, lighting a first smoke. It’s chilly, the nip to my face is welcome. It’s an orchestra moment, the water rushing, swirling, cresting, the sky breaking open, pink and yellow, even the quiet plays a part in the symphony. My thoughts wander to the God discussions of late. Is God here, now, watching me? I don’t feel alone. Not in a creepy sense, like a stalker, more like a child, aware mom is on guard. God are you here? Do you know I exist? As the sun persists breaking through the dark, I remember that time I prayed, asking for someone to love me, really love me. What if, God answered that prayer with Sandy? It’s a silly thought. A God over everything and everyone, chooses me from among the other ants on the sidewalk, granting my wish for love. Nice thought, but it’s not logical. I choose to face life “as is,” eyes open.
As other campers mosey down to the river, my solitude is threatened by splashing children, eyeballing and nearing my boulder. There’s an early morning promise of another crackling hot June day. Snubbing out my fourth smoke, I surrender to the young pirates, and head back to our camp. Sandy meets me on the path, showered and ready for the day.
By noon the temperature is nearing 100 degrees. We’re heading west, on Steven’s Pass, alongside the Icicle River. Bare feet on the dash of the van, dressed like Sandy in cutoffs and T-shirt, I’m in a foreign land of contentment
“The river looks amazing. Is there someplace we can get down to it and stretch our legs?”
“I think so… after the next bend or so.”
We park, climb down a steep, narrow path to a haven of Celadon green water, spraying across glassy boulders, sparkling in the sun. The other six or so paradise seekers, basking in the sun, nod a welcome as we approach. Sandy guides me, just enough for balance as we maneuver the slippery rocks. Standing side by side on a boulder built for two, I take his hand, suggesting, “Let’s jump in.” He makes a funny wincing face, then nods. Like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell we leap into the air, free, happy… in love. With the splash, our lungs deflate, defining the rivers name. Like a pair of plastic fishing bobbers, we pop to the top. Shivering, we race to the car, while onlookers snicker with looks of, “Duh… Icicle river.”
The sun dries our clothes and thaws our bones quickly. We mosey on toward Skagit Valley, detouring whenever a yard sale sign beckons, leading us down back roads, munching Windmill cookies and black licorice.
I catch a glimpse of the woman in the side mirror. It’s me, without the trademark look of stress. She’s the woman I don’t get. The one I ignore at a party. But this time, I kind of like her. Razzled hair, clean, sun flushed skin, and an alien, content look in the eyes. Then fear begs the question, “What’s happening to me?”
I hate hanging outdoors, hyper-aware of potential flash attacks by bees or snakes. Every time Sandy convinces me to give outdoors a chance, I forget…. I am not the woodsey type!
One time I agreed to sit in the car and work, while he fished his favorite hole. I told Sandy not to buy me a fishing license. He forgot. At the fishing hole, I delve into my work, prioritizing stacks of paper on the dashboard. Not wanting to be a jerk, I keep an eye on Sandy, ready to applaud if he outsmarts a fish. Did you know there are television programs with two guys in a rowboat talking about fishing? They say things like, “Yup” and “Well, looky there.”
Work, is not happening. Maybe it’s the way the sun has placed Sandy in a spotlight, appearing majestic, golden, surreal. I watch as he laces the line through the eyes of the rod, ties a knot, bites the line in two with his teeth.
Earlier, in the, are-you-joking-it’s-still-dark morning hours, we drove to a house with a hand written sign, nailed to a tree, reading: Night crawlers. A man with a yellowed beard answers the door, leading us to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulling out a Styrofoam container, kept next to an uncovered bowl of red Jell-O. Gleaming a six tooth grin of pride, he lifts the lid displaying the worms, eagerly cooperating, wiggling their alluring charms. For a moment they share admiration for the performing worms. Then, well pleased, Sandy hands him a dollar.
Now, in the sun’s spotlight, he slides the Styrofoam container from his vest pocket, chooses victim one, threads it onto the hook. Broad shoulders swaying, he casts the line, hitting the mark, a shadowed pool next to an algae covered rock. A breeze lifts and lowers the line. Bewitched, I study his solid block build, dark, unkempt beard and taken for granted confidence. I’ve found my Grizzly Adams. A man who’ll bash through the door, toss me over his shoulder, forge through fires and storms, defend my honor and bring fish home for dinner. Okay, no fish for dinner. He’s a catch and release guy, petting the fish before putting it back in the stream, (slightly maimed).
I submit to the subliminal calls to give fishing a shot. The sun baked boulders and grassy patches look like prime snake territory to me. As per my humble request, he slays a worm, handing me the pole, ready and waiting. I cast the line, then wait forever while he untangles it from the tree behind me. He overreacts to the fluke accident, sending me upstream with a fresh worm on my hook. I tiptoe back through the snake infested grass, balance my pole on a rock, worm dangling in the stream to light a smoke. While fumbling for matches my pole rolls off the rock. I grab it, relieved to have saved it from sailing down current. Lo and behold there on the hook flaps a frantic fish. In my moment of victory over nature, I wave to Sandy downstream.
“Look! Look! I caught one!”
Driving home, I can tell he thinks he’s got himself a new fishing convert. I should have hidden my exuberance over the fish.
“Yup… yup… well lookey there.”