Quote of the Day:
“From a drop of water a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard one or the other.” –Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Under a week now. In spite of my frantic attempts to brainstorm a way out of it, to devise some means of time travel perhaps, or even a time treadmill would suffice, TB is faced now with the inevitability of forty. Some months ago I wrote about my dread of the actual day of reckoning and that I was determined to be somewhere great so as to cushion the blow or even to make it glancing and inconsequential. Well, thanks to the Rambler and the Scamp, I’ll be “celebrating” from the islands, mountains and rain forests of Washington state. What a travel trifecta! And to top it all off, there are a dozen or more waterfalls to pursue.
I love waterfalls, always have. As a child one of the highlights of my summers was the annual pilgrimage to visit my Grandmother in Phoenix, Mississippi. That’s way, way out in the woods my friends. Even deeper into the ancient forests, past the abandoned homesites, along the narrow ridges separating continually eroding gullies is my waterfall. It’s not much of a falls, but its always there. It’s spring-fed, so even during droughts, it always runs. It is a beautiful, peaceful place, quiet to the uninformed or the soulless, but if you are perceptive and willing, you can hear the active spirits of generations of animals, native Americans and 19th century school kids who have left their old trails and tree etchings, the occasional penny and even fossilized remains at the old waterin’ hole, swimmin’ hole, place of refuge.
It is the memory of these walks I guess that instilled in my bones this strange love of running water. I drag the girls with me to find some most anyplace we go. And on what would otherwise be a day to dread, instead I’ll be led by those girls to new and different waterfalls. And I’ll take lots of pictures. And when I look at them forty years hence, I’ll smile at the memory of a great birthday.