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All About Maintenance I took the Ural slowly over the pass to Hopland and Ukiah in the nearly 100-degree heat, letting off the throttle on downhills. Traffic passed impatiently in this no-man's-land of dry grass and twisted oaks, and caution signs warned of elk crossing and rocks falling.
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I arrived at the hostel hot
and tired, sweaty and greasy, just before the sun sank below the western
cliffs. It took me five minutes to check in, pay, and change into my
bathing suit.
The swimming hole was deep and wide, and in one place the current flowed so strongly that I could swim in place. Another spot was so calm that I could float on my back without the current taking me downstream. After my swim I sat on the rocky banks of the Eel River and contemplated the dark, wet line that separated the ecosystem of the water's edge, with its wild buzzings and green dripping plant life, from the ecosystem of the dry rock above, with its parched grasses and lizard droppings, where birds eyed the crevices for a quick snack between flights. The sound of water, after the sound of a motorcycle engine, was calming. But even so, I detected a Mack truck engine in the distance. There are few true escapes. The Eel River is clear and blue. Fish nibble at leaves and drowning insects. It is life and death in my swimming hole . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book. |
