Last weekend Clark and I camped with his family at Crescent Lake. We went by roaring motor boat to a white sandy beach on the far side of the lake that reminded me faintly of those Caribbean beaches with the blue water, but tainted lonely like those last homesick poignant days of camp where your footfalls echo alone alive with the echo dead of all the people gone home. In the thin mountain air I was too cold, full of wind and sered hot.
Still the white sand and aqua water is serene and mild if the wall of foliage is pine and severe. We snorkeled but there was nothing to look at but pumice sand and the eerie precipice where the water dropped off from 20 feet to over 180 feet deep. I fled with a twist at the waist and rapid panicked flippering. I don't care for deep water, shapeless dark water into which I can not see.
Down the beach a crowd gathered for a baptism. An elderly gentleman was dunked fully clothed after a group prayer while Clark and I watched, floating upcurrent drinking beer and peeing into the water. I figure we were straight marinated in holiness considering how much time relatively we spent in those waters having heard the sermon and prayers.
At sunset we skipped rocks until I could hardly lift my shoulder and in the morning all the muscles were aching and sore. I collect skipping rocks at all times and my collection more often then not maintains its integrity because I lack the foresight to pack it for mountain lake camping trips. The lake was rimmed with square porous rock and I had to make do after claiming to be a tri-county champion rock skipper.
I actually lack the upper body strength to own any titles but always make a good showing. If only I had brought my collection. What the 'ell was I thinking? I mean, its not like I can skip them across my frog tank. The truth is, there was a day I grew up a little bit and stopped carrying my skipping rocks in my purse and once put away it don't really surge back to life. I die a little each day.
Under no moon the stars were more then milky, they were weighty and impossible. I wish I could feel insignificant, cosmically proportionate under these stars but this phenomena seems to be just one more universal philosophers epiphany that eludes me. I still feel a full five feet ten inches, one hundred thirty pounds with big feet. I would die for a stellar-ratio perspective. If only I could be of so little value, at least to my own self.
When we came home I set to the task of finally returning all our duplicate wedding gifts and used the money to buy us a juicer. My new favorite food, up there with pickles, peppers and salsa, is super spicy ginger apple juice, or whateverisinthefridge juice.
I was at Zupans market buying ginger when I saw this beautiful vegetable fractal, which, says the produce guy, is a relative of both broccoli and cauliflower.
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