Love Story

The mile walk along the Tuolomne River up to the bridges seems much farther than I remember from past years. I'm flummoxed by the altitude and move much more slowly than I'd like. Here is the reward, a forever view of clear sky and granite peaks, the gentle sound of water moving over rocks, a bird here and there, maybe a squirrel or a chipmunk. Okay, the occasional airplane, but nothing to complain about. Two women on horseback clack by, stirring up dust. Wind fills my ears, an underlying rush through the high trees. That water's cold, by the way. I sit for awhile with my feet dangling in the shallows, feet that turn red, then white as I wiggle my toes all around. What I am thinking about, besides the immensity of the universe and the astonishing beauty of this planet, is how to draw water. I've been sketching down river, close to camp, and I can't seem to get the marks right. And how do you draw one tree when there are hundreds shouldering up, saying don't I count, get me in there too. I want also to put in all our stories from all the years we've come here. Here is the rock where I fell asleep that time the headache was so bad. Here, the tree we sheltered under during a surprise shower, trying all the while to remember whether it was safer to be out in the open or under a canopy. Here's where the cascades fell in a wetter season; we took our sticky boots off on this ledge once, revelled in the sun on our backs. All my old friends, the rocks and streams and trees and shadows. Hello, I say, fill me up. I want to take you home in my bones.