Why are naked people never hot?; McCreedy hot springs

11/26/16

We left the home RV pad early.  I woke up, visited mom and dad , collected hugs, and went to visit grams.  I promised her I would come visit her before heading south.  The final destination was the redwood forest, in particular the giant red woods.  California’s redwood forests boast, in-arguably, the biggest trees in the world.  After all America is all about the biggest and trees are no exceptions.

                The birds flitted about on grandmas porch, eager for food in the cold wet weather.  With the temps dropping below freezing at night they needed the seed to survive the cold.  A pair of red wing black birds hung from the suet feeder, squabbling and squawking at each other over the last glob of beef fat left in the feeder.  The flapping of their wings snapped through the crisp morning air.  The sun had not waited for me.  It was long up at nine am.  Grams had the kettle boiling and was up tending her wood stove.  Despite her short stature, and seemingly unending continued shrinkage, she still shuffled about the house with difficulty using the walker I had outfitted with wheels.  She used it, at times, more like a cart for hauling heavy objects than a crutch, for her that was anything over 8 pounds (4Kg).  Her silver hair fell aside as she turned with a smile, one that had been used a lot according to the wrinkles on it, to greet me.  I thought you might come by, she said cheerfully.

James scurried through the door, wagging at full speed, his tail a pendulum which had lost its tempo and now just swung like an out of control metronome.  He quickly greeted grams, who petted him on the head, as he proceeded to dart around the front room smelling everything from top to bottom.  An inspection which only a dog can do meaningfully.  I hugged her tightly, after our trip to the beach last week, I could fully grasp her ephemerallity.  Though it now appeared that she had a new and significant spring in her step from our adventure.  I had not seen her move this much in months, maybe years.   It was a quick downhill slide after her house burned to the ground, along with all of her worldly possessions a brutal start indeed to her retirement years at 78, and yet here she was smiling and full of life.  She was indeed a rose in the desert, very tough, resilient, unwaveringly so.  She was a bright spot in my life. The smell of smoke wafted over me, a remnant from the open wood stove door.  I wrapped my arms around her and soaked in her affection. 

It seemed that these days I could nearly wrap around her and my self.  Had she gotten smaller?  It must be so, I thought, but when could that have happened.  I thought about all the times I had seen my self in the mirror this morning.  The lines, the thinning hair, and the full gruff beard.  I wondered when that happened, I thought about it trying to recall when I first noticed my age.  I wondered if she ever thought the same way.  I took a breath in and the smell of lavender oil and bengay filled my nostrils.  It was grandma.

                After filling her bird feeders, sweeping the floors, and vacuuming the carpets, I sat as our coffee brewed.  I filled our cups, big cups, American sized ones, 14 oz.  Mine full of coffee, and hers an almost equal mix of coffee and cream.  All a cleaver plan I had devised to try to put more calories in her diet many months ago, that and sugar, added a few extra calories, otherwise she never ate enough.  I sipped coffee, the nasty Folgers instant stuff, as she told me about the most recent TV news.  The birds fought like teenage boys over the high school prom queen as they snagged pieces of suet and mouthfuls of seed.  Mostly the news was politics, the soap opera of choice for my grandma these days.  This morning the coffee seemed to pass by more quickly, as it usually does when someone would rather stay a while in the warmth and familiarity of somewhere they enjoy being.  The bottom of my cup peered up at me as the last few sips of the almost unbearably bitter black liquid drained from it.  After hugs, and a few pats for James, we made our way back to the pad and our bus.

             Alice groggily sat on the couch,  fresh out of her bed, as I cast off the shore lines for the bus.    First sewer, then water, then power.  The bus hummed as the diesel engine warmed up the rest of the way, the compressor ran, letting out a sharp hiss as the control valve released the excess pressure beneath, spraying out a small shower of gravel from the ground to the rear of the rig.  It was time to hit the road.  Her thick ebo accent, which I could not begin to understand, danced through my ears as I stepped in to the bus.  You know that guy who is dating a wonderful girl, but he doesn’t really have much going for him?  Just for once, I am that guy, and I gotta say, its pretty sweet. 

                We headed down the road, missing the thanksgiving return trip traffic somehow.  The new air bags and suspension on the bus made it ride like my old 1987 Cadillac Fleetwood.  After a quick scramble through the local super market we hit the highway.  Two hours later we stopped at a rest area for some light lunch, and some water.  I used the bathroom, my bathroom, and took James out for a walk.  After another short hour we were at the McCreedy hot springs.  We parked in the day use area, which was completely vacant.  We took a short hike in, about a quarter mile (1/2KM), and decided it was worth our time to make the return trip with our towels and a day pack.

            The McCreedy day use area located along highway 58 in Oregon State is virtually abandoned this time of year.  The busy season is June through September, so for me this was the perfect time of year.  Across the river from the day use area is another set of springs, the clothing optional area, where much to Alice’s surprise there were about six American sized *obese men strutting around as naked as the day they were born, though wearing a lot more calories.  How come naked people are never attractive, she asked me.  I laughed.  It was true, only attractive people have body image issues, I thought to myself.  They could not have heard us over the rush of Salt Creek, the seasonal flooding roared away.  Their hike was considerably longer than ours, and the trail considerably less developed.  However, from our vantage point it was easy to see that the springs on the other side were deeper, and less used. 

We resolved we should visit the other springs the next day.  We sat in our shallow rock pools, and watched the creek pass just on the other side of the skinny rock walls that made the soaking pools we floated in. The overcast sky obliged us with a sprinkle or two, but the heat of the spring water prevented even a hint of cold form the showers. Steam rolled from the tops of our creek side pools and was quickly swallowed up in the white caps of the flooding creek.  The rainy season had started a month ago, and the water was well above its banks.  We lay, soaking up the heat, and listening to the river.  I caught a stale and familiar scent.  Again it intruded on my nostrils, cigarette butts, I realized. I looked around.  Strewn on the beach side of the pools was a few old discarded butts, and hence Americans hatred of smokers.  Though it is littering to leave garbage, for some reason smokers just don’t see it that way.  I was instantly ready to leave.  I rousted my Alice from her zoned out, half awake, state and we headed down the trail to the bus. 

                After a quick shower, and change of clothes, I drove us to an overlook at crescent lake and cooked the salmon that my cousin Sam had given me in trade for bringing him coffee at work one day many months ago.  The fillet was more than two people possibly eat, and it cooked up perfectly with some roasted asparagus, basil leaves, and coriander, topped off with a little olive oil.  I sat in my chair overlooking the lake, watching as the rains started to shatter the smooth glassy surface of the grayish blue water.  I counted my blessings.  How lucky we were to have bellies full of food and warm beds.  I turned the furnace up to 70, and had a frosty glass of chocolate milk for desert.  The sun finally sank below the hills, concealed by a thick, now black, bank of clouds.  The perfect end, to a perfect day.