There is a deceptively deep little blue pool in the middle of the woods in this State of Happiness in which I live. I tried to get to it last fall, but I took a wrong turn out of the parking lot and then mostly forgot about it.
This time, S. and I set out with coffee and snacks in the early afternoon, and turned the right way out of the parking lot ("Right?" she said, joking. "YES," I said, "it is absolutely, definitely right. Do not go left.").
The path meandered gently along the river, through the woods, along a lava field, and up to the pool. It was easy. It was lovely.
And then suddenly there was this pool beneath our feet. I had seen a photo, but still we both just stopped and said, "wow," and "wow" again, and possibly a few more times for good measure.
We made our way down to the edge, past the dry waterfall.
A waterfall looks so strange without its water, like a home with no people.
The water was just-out-of-the-ground, snow-melt cold, but we went in anyway, me in my quick-dry hiking clothes, S. in her suit. It was so icy cold that it hurt within seconds, and I hoisted myself back out so fast that I slammed my foot against the rock overhang that was the shore without even realizing until it swelled black and purple as the cold numbness wore off.
Three teenage boys dropped rocks off the cliff opposite us, over and over, and then jumped themselves. The small crowd on our shore watched, stunned, as they went over one after another.
We all thought, If they don't come up, I don't think I can make it across to help them. It was that cold.
But they bobbed up, each in turn, and set out swimming as fast as they could for our shore, too cold even to shout back when their friends asked, "How was it?"
S. went in twice, and after hiking another two miles further in and four miles back out in 80 degree F sunshine, after driving an hour and a half back to Universe City, she said, just as we pulled into the grocery store, "I don't think I've actually gotten warm since I got out of the pool the second time."
One dunking in 38 degree F water was enough for me.
This time, S. and I set out with coffee and snacks in the early afternoon, and turned the right way out of the parking lot ("Right?" she said, joking. "YES," I said, "it is absolutely, definitely right. Do not go left.").
The path meandered gently along the river, through the woods, along a lava field, and up to the pool. It was easy. It was lovely.
And then suddenly there was this pool beneath our feet. I had seen a photo, but still we both just stopped and said, "wow," and "wow" again, and possibly a few more times for good measure.
We made our way down to the edge, past the dry waterfall.
A waterfall looks so strange without its water, like a home with no people.
The water was just-out-of-the-ground, snow-melt cold, but we went in anyway, me in my quick-dry hiking clothes, S. in her suit. It was so icy cold that it hurt within seconds, and I hoisted myself back out so fast that I slammed my foot against the rock overhang that was the shore without even realizing until it swelled black and purple as the cold numbness wore off.
Three teenage boys dropped rocks off the cliff opposite us, over and over, and then jumped themselves. The small crowd on our shore watched, stunned, as they went over one after another.
We all thought, If they don't come up, I don't think I can make it across to help them. It was that cold.
But they bobbed up, each in turn, and set out swimming as fast as they could for our shore, too cold even to shout back when their friends asked, "How was it?"
S. went in twice, and after hiking another two miles further in and four miles back out in 80 degree F sunshine, after driving an hour and a half back to Universe City, she said, just as we pulled into the grocery store, "I don't think I've actually gotten warm since I got out of the pool the second time."
One dunking in 38 degree F water was enough for me.
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