It’s always hard to break away from that familiar hold of the sea. Heading west down that road, I was slowly slipping out of her grasp, letting the feel of the rolling hills ease into me. Gentle and soft, fresh greens of spring, the pungent taste of raw earth. Hills giving way to mountains. Spruce and fir mingling with the clear smell of mountain streams. The land worked its way through me, whittling away worries. Wandering lost down that dirt road, caught under the spell of that ravine with its lazy stream. It felt so familiar, with its quiet strength. I drank in the feel of it. The way the meadow tucked into the twisted stream triggered thoughts of other places. The open feel of it took me to Wyoming. The funny flat spot on top of one of the hills looked like a volcano in Guatemala. The smell of sweat grass and the call of the mourning doves, smells and sounds of Kenya. This place was a window, like I could wrap my arms around the world for one moment and hold it close. I savored it, took it in deep and smiled big.
I loved the contrast of the amber reed grass and the green fields that warmed the lake’s edge. We hit the beach in style and climbed out eager for our adventure that lay ahead. There were ten of us, a motley collection of British, French, Canadian and American. We had been together long enough to skip past the social shine and get right into the abusive humor, which suited me just fine. Nothing sacred at this point. Lots of laughs. We walked along a dirt road surrounded by cattle in the fields, very peaceful. The smaller cattle had collars with three-foot sticks wedged through them to keep the little buggers from slipping under the fences—good idea. The road gave way to a small jungle trail that would occasionally flirt with the banks of a good sized stream. Occasionally some of the local girls would be on the trail trying to sell banana bread. We assured them we would buy on the way back.
The cobblestone street was edged on both sides by churches, stores and homes all tucked in close to one another. One of the churches had a blue steeple, giving it more of a human face than god-like. It was close to five so the streets were full of people and action. A mother with her two daughters caught my eye. They were all holding hands with the little one of about two in the middle. She swung from their loving arms only touching the ground occasionally, ponytails on both sides. She caught my eye and said ola, eyes smiling. She lifted my spirits. I got to the top of the hill where the road turned to dirt. A boy was running ahead of me pushing a tire rim along with a stick, keeping it alive in balance with his fancy stick work. A herd of women, all in their traditional dress of bright woven colors, all greeted me as they walked past. I cut down through a narrow dirt path tucked in by homes tight together. A gang of six-year-olds were hanging on the walls relaxing in the late afternoon and munching on chips, ola, ola.
Shedding my garb, I jumped into that cooling water. It let me open my eyes without the sting and see its underworld of blues. Coming to the surface, I was greeted by the sight of water birds fishing for their day’s feed and those big Fing mountains. Quite the way to start the day.
Billy Goat Dave 