Mile 7,062 – The river of bees
Crater Lake National Park, Southern Oregon
Crater Lake National Park is a magical place. Created by a volcanic eruption, and tucked away between the Umpqua, Rogue River, Winema, and Fremont National Forests, this wide blue expanse is one of the deepest fresh water lakes in the country.
When the wind is still and the surface is glassy smooth, as it is now, it is difficult to differentiate between the water and the sky. Viewing both, one feels small and insignificant. This wondrous lake formed slowly, simply by collecting the run-off and rains of 800 years. Indeed, nature has a longer and deeper memory than does humanity.
Driving out of the park is almost as spectacular as viewing that lake itself. Gently weaving thorough the Umpaqua National forest, the road provides a wonderful view of the 8,500 foot Mount Bailey and the 9,000 foot peaks of Mount Thleisen. Patches of snow shimmer in gentle meadows and dense thickets provide a cool shade.
Ready for some music, I pull Phish's "Picture of Nectar" out of my CD case. Skipping ahead, I go right to track 16, my favorite song on the album, "Tweezer Reprise." The guitar starts, then the bass, then the piano. The music builds and then explodes. Listening to this music, looking out over this incredible forest and distant mountains, I am overcome with joy, and then grief.
I begin to cry, and then to sob. Tear overrun my eyes and drip down my face. I pull off the road and stop the engine.
For a moment, I am surprised by my tears. I am crying for myself and for my mother. It has been almost a year since she died, and I have been thinking about her. She will never experience this tranquility or know my joy.
After a few minutes I start my engine, begin to drive, and restart "Tweezer. Reprise" As the music peaks I begin crying again. I stop and wait fifteen minutes before I continue on.
Eventually I resume my drive. After about 30 minutes I realize I am low on gas. Uncertain when I might next find gas, I pull into the first station I see. "The Dry Creek Store," appears to be a small country market offering groceries, fishing licenses, and two antiquated gas pumps (no electronic dials or pay at the pump here!).
As I pull up to the pump, I cross a long rubber hose which sounds a station bell. I remove my gas cap and head to the pump. Before I get there, however, I am intercepted.
“Can I help you?" asks the woman who has come running out.
“Er, I just need gas," I say a bit disoriented by the bell and friendly service.
She starts the gas pumping and then begins to clean my front windshield. A minute later, a man comes out and begins to clean my rear window.
“Your a long way from home," he says apparently contemplating the orange on my license plate.
I respond with the now standard “traveling” response and then ask about the drive to Eugene.
“It's nice,” he begins, “You go 40 miles through the mountains and then its all expressway.”
“Is it possible to get there without taking the interstate?” I ask.
Becoming very excited, he launches into an elaborate set of directions involving exact miles, types of terrain, towns, and landmarks ("...across the T there will be a church with a neon blue cross. Go left and you will come into Cottage Grove, 16 miles south of Eugene.").
Thanking my informant, I get back into the truck, make a right out of the station, go seven miles, and make a right onto Steamboat Creek road as directed. One mile up the road, exactly as expected, I come to Canyon Creek road. I begin to turn left but then notice a small sign on the right pointing straight ahead. "Steamboat Falls C.G., 6 miles," it reads.
Thinking waterfalls might make a nice picture, I decide to take a detour and investigate. After a few gentle switchbacks, the road begins to follow Steamboat Creek back towards its headwaters.
It is beautiful. Gentle pools flow into small falls, and the sun seems to dance on the water. There is a woman wading in the gentle current. She looks to be about 50, and is wearing a one piece lime green bathing suit. There is a small girl, about 12, sitting in the water next to her. Two dogs happily (and noisily) chase a red ball through the pools.
I park the truck, walk down to the bank, take off my sandal, and stick my foot into the water.
“Burr, its cold,” I moan.
"What'd you say?" the woman in the green suit yells.
"I said its cold," I yell back.
“This is perfect swimming weather,” she retorts stepping closer. “You can dive off the rocks over there,” she says pointing downstream towards a rushing waterfall, “We have been doing it for years.”
I walk over to the rocks she indicated and contemplate the pool below. It is perhaps 20 feet deep, calm, and slow moving. The 10 foot jump would surely be delightful, but I am afraid. Mom drowned in a river similar to this one. "For years" families had hiked its shores with out an accident.
I look a moment longer, then return to my truck. As I leave, another car empties out onto the rocks. All are clad in swim trunks. All head into the cool water.
I continue four miles down the road to the end. It turns out that "Steamboat Falls C.G." stands for Steamboat Falls Camp Ground. I have already seen the waterfall. Disgusted with myself for running away and dissatisfied with the selection in my CD player, I fumble through the CD case looking for something to elevate my mood.
I select "In their Own Voices," a compilation of poets reciting their work. “The river of bees,” the first poet begins. His voice is deep and soothing. I listen for a moment but then fade back into my thoughts.
Before mom died, I would have never had a second thought about jumping into that pool. Unfortunately, her death has changed the way I relate to water.
Something in the poem catches my attention. I restart the track and listen again. “The river of bees. In a dream, I return to the river of bees. Five orange trees by the bridge and besides two mills, my house...”
I listen intently. Then, almost prophetically I hear what caught my attention. “We are the echo of the future,” the poet concludes, “On the door it says what to do to survive, but we were not born to survive. Only to live.”
“We were not born to survive. Only to live.”
I ponder that line for a moment, and then decide I can not let mom's death ruin my love of water. I change into a pair of shorts and return to the river.
People are scattered all along the rocks and in the water. A man of about 40 steps to the edge, steps back, and then flings himself into the air and then the water below. As he floats away on his back, a girl of about 12 does a cannon ball, her shriek filling the air. Opposite her, a heavy teenage boy launches himself. He hangs in space like a cartoon character and then splashes down.
Slowly I pick my way across the rocks to the lowest point. I reach the edge, look over, and take a breath. Suddenly, I am flying. The moment seems to last an eternity, and then I hit the water. It is cold, but quite clear and fresh.
“Its incredible”, I say to the man floating nearby.
“Is this your first time at the falls?” he asks.
“Yes, do you come here often?”
“Well, let's see, I am 46. When I first came here I was in a stroller. I grew up in Rosenberg. We come here every year.”
“If you jump off over there," he points, "you have to pull up your feet or you hit bottom. Just barely, but I go a long way down. You can slide off the rocks over there, and if the water was running just a little bit slower, you can crawl up to a cove under the fall. I've tried but each time I do the water pushes me away.”
I climb out and do it again. This time I linger underwater. Much of my youth was spent underwater. Seldom do I fell more safe and free then when I float between the surface and bottom. Free from gravity the world becomes a womb, and I am whole.
It is ironic, in the one place I feel the safest Mom likely experienced a moment of pure terror. What did she feel? Freedom or fear? How much different to choose to float, eyes closed underwater. Than to be sucked under, pinned against your will as life slips away.
The last time I saw Mom was on a Monday. She was soon to leave for Aspen and I for New York. I mentioned I was planning to go camping alone, under the stars, without a tent, as I have done on this trip. She pleaded with me not to. She said it was dangerous and that I should take care. I, puffed up full of self importance, said that life was short, that I could die at any moment, and that I was not going to live in fear.
She died the following Sunday reaching out her hand to touch the water flowing out of a waterfall. I sit here now watching a man of 40 strain with the joy of effort, trying in vain to swim upstream into a small cove.