Chapter 1, excerpt continued
Steam rises from numerous small vents among rocks nearby, and today’s cold draws mist from the mountain air. There’s no breeze, so the fog rolls about and obscures visibility. The pool glows an eerie turquoise, almost fluorescent in places. As I get closer, I can see a person in the clearing, and I curse softly. My pail clunking down on the rocks draws Grant’s attention.
“Hi again, Lauren.” I smile thinly but don’t speak, and he adds, “I’ll be on my way. Uh … go ahead and get ready, if you want. The temperature seems just right; mineral content is good, lots of lead, some lithium. It should be therapeutic.” That grin, again.
The pool is clothing optional, and in practical terms, that means we locals go in naked. Our etiquette also requires downcast eyes and minimal interaction beyond a brief greeting to any others. Then it’s silence, as we look steadfastly elsewhere and deny their existence. Most townspeople happily meditate or zone out while they soak, so it works.
But I don’t know if this newcomer knows the rules, so as I step aside under some low-hanging cedar fronds, I keep an eye on him. I really do need to warm up before my walk down the mountainside in the dusk, for hypothermia can quickly bring on mental confusion and disorientation that are more dangerous than this affable geologist who is going to be departing the scene soon, anyway.
I twist my long hair into a knot high on my head and clip it with a plastic grabber. Then I wait while he makes more notations. Out of curiosity, I join him by the stream of cold water that flows in to temper the heat of the pool.
“That rivulet was a glacier, probably no more than an hour ago,” Grant says. “It may have been ice for ten or twenty thousand years before that.”
I stoop to cup some in my palm. “Hello, water, and welcome back.” After a moment, I ask, “Do you think it has anything in it from back then, like spores, or pollen, or bacteria?” I enjoy thinking about the earliest sources of our food, the tiny ancient seeds and cellular beginnings. Who knows what might have survived the ice ages and sneaked into our own time?
“That’s possible, though I’m looking more at minerals. I could take samples back and check under a microscope, if you’re curious.”
It’s a nice offer, but I don’t ask him to do that work. The faint sun shines weakly through clouds and is about to pass behind the ridge nearby, giving us early evening in midafternoon. I look longingly at the hot pool, and Grant, following my glance, kneels at the edge. As he dips a hand in the glowing emerald, it trails iridescence. We watch the glimmer as he sweeps the surface and asks, “Plant, animal, or mineral?”
“It’s called bioluminescence. And if it’s ‘bio,’ then it’s something alive.”
“Yes, and since this is fresh water on land, it’s from fungi or bacteria. Have you ever seen wet wood glowing, like an old stump or tree trunk?” he asks. “I’ll bet you have.”
We both shift slightly to gaze into the dark woods beyond the clearing. “Back there, I think I see a bit of a glow,” Grant says. “That means an enzyme is working on the wood, interacting with calcium and magnesium. It’s called luciferin.”
“What, like Lucifer? That’s the old term for matches.” It’s also the name of the fallen angel, or the devil, which brings a medieval quality to mind.
“So, is that living, or not?” he asks. “The closer I look at some of these processes, the harder it is to answer.”
“I wonder too, sometimes, like when I use yeast to make bread dough. It looks lifeless at first, but then I feed it water and sugar. And after it eats, it exhales air that makes the dough rise.”
“And what do you call that?”
“I call it alchemy.” As I laugh, he glances at me and smiles.
“Well, modern science is calling, and I’d better get back.” He picks up his backpack and swings it over a shoulder in a fluid motion. “Enjoy your soak, if you’re going in.” With that, he gives a wave and leaves, his reddish hair and brown clothing blending quickly into the woods.
I’ve replied, “Have a nice rest of your day,” and my standard repartee from the café sounds artificial as it lingers in the misty air.
Back under the cedar branches, I undress quickly. The hand towel I stuffed into my jacket pocket doesn’t provide much cover as I step gingerly across cold, hard rocks. I call myself curvaceous, as I’ve accepted that I won’t be willow-wand slim in this lifetime.
I lower my legs carefully into the heat, and at first my feet sting with pain. Sometimes, the cool stream has been dammed up too much, and you can parboil your poor feet. As I slide in up to my neck, the heat, though intense, is bearable. Someone has set up just the right stack of stones on the ledge where the cold water flows in.
I sigh and my eyelids drop as I start to forget about work, the past week, the coming winter, and even the guy who I trust has left the scene. After a few minutes of trying for oblivion, I crack my eyelids and watch steam swirl around the fringed edges of cedar limbs. I admire the thick coats of moss on every rock leading back into the woods. The ferns here are so huge they must be redreaming the Pleistocene Era, or whatever. The geologist would know the eras, and I could ask him sometime.
The woods seem empty with Grant gone, and I feel oddly vulnerable. This is backward; I should feel safer, alone. I never am afraid in the forest unless I catch signs of a bear or mountain lion. Sometimes our minds have to work at finding reasons for the feelings that arise on their own from places like the heart, or belly, or tingly toes.
Tree limbs arching overhead drop bits of leaf, frond, and bark through the steam. The forest is never still. I sift the water to hold a few dead bits and examine them. Except now I realize they could hold living things. A branch cracks in the distance, and a crow scolds, raucously and repeatedly. Farther away, a marmot shrieks an eerie whistling cry. These are reactions to intruders, and I grow aware of the forest watching me. It feels highly aware of me. And if so much around me is living—even the dirt and the invisible critters that make the water glow so beautifully—why wouldn’t it be?
I hoist up out of the pool and perch on the rock ledge to cool and waft dry. Is it possible for the forest’s awareness to connect with my own when we sense each other’s presence this way? These moments arrive so rarely; yet surely they are what keep me coming back to the woods and the mountain ridge. I’ve read recently that trees send out not just aromas, but also chemicals that cause humans to feel good as we breathe them in, walking by. I wish I could keep this sense of connection as I head back to town, but daily life pulls me quickly toward practical concerns as I return to my clothes and start to dress.
