Summer is halfway over, and for me (and probably most
everybody) summer usually means lots of time spent in the water. My many summers
in West Virginia were tied to swims in the pond. Dips in the pond at night,
after lunch, during swim time, and during intersession... basically whenever I wasn't busy. The pond was my calm and an essential piece of
my summer. Oof just writing about it now pulls at my heartstrings. I love pond.
Similarly, last year summer was marked by dips in Spruce
Pond at Bear Brook. Every sunny weekend day I took a dip, sometimes a long
swim. Sometimes I’d swim alone, but most times I’d go with a group of friends
to decompress after 10 days in the field. Spruce was our spot, whether to howl at night
on the bank or to stand around and giggle about skinny dipping and if the
tourists across the pond could see us. Spruce was my perfect replacement for
the pond at camp—I needed that nearby water.
Hitches themselves last year were infinitely better if there
was a nearby lake or swimming hole. Days
off were spent by rivers and lakes, and joy was found in water with friends
after a long and sweaty day of manual labor. My last moments with Reed were
exactly that: happiness and a refreshing post-work swim. About a month after
Reed drowned I took a chance at swimming again in Spruce Pond. It was a blazing
hot October day and I felt happy walking to the pond and stripping down and
wading in. But dunking my head was another story, I felt a flash of complete panic
and got out immediately, vowing to not swim on my own again anytime soon.
Here we are on a hitch meet-up, after an afternoon spent swimming and jumping of a cliff:
Here we are on a hitch meet-up, after an afternoon spent swimming and jumping of a cliff:
Fast forward to this dry, hot, Idaho summer, where there is
no nearby pond to jump in. This summer water is difficult. Water is anxiety and
sometimes panic. There are tough memories linked to the sensation of flowing
water. But still, it is refreshing and sometimes so necessary after work. A
couple weeks ago on my Wilderness hitch we were camped by the Middle Fork of
the Salmon River, a premier whitewater rafting river. It was absolutely
stunning and also quite fast moving, glittering and powerful. Work was insanely
hot and draining, as we were working on an exposed rock slide area moving boulders.
Everyday after work we flopped by the bank of the river to relax and wash our
clothes and wash ourselves, and so everyday I had an internal struggle in my
head. Should I reiterate the rule about not swimming alone? Should I watch vigilantly
or just focus on enjoying the feeling of sun and wind and water? How much do I
trust people to swim in a strong river? How much do I tell my members? Do I use
Reed’s/ my story to tell them why I am so safety crazy? Or do I just let the
story come out when it’s natural? Should I just try to chill out and have faith
that I’ve said enough to instill a culture of safety on the hitch?
My brain buzzed through these questions and flipped flopped
between my need for water and my anxiety. I needed to cool down after a day
working on an exposed site in 100+ degree heat, and I needed to bathe. I
dreaded the feeling of the current pulling on my legs, and thinking about rocks
or sticks that I could slip on and get stuck on. But then I could look down the
canyon and the sunset reflecting on the water and I would feel happiness and
love for the rushing and wild river.
Luckily my crew happened to be camping at a popular spot at
the confluence of a nice creek and the mighty Middle Fork. Someone had built a
round pool out of rocks, sort of like a natural hot spring tub but extremely
cold. One of my best memories from that hitch was sitting in this pool with
everyone after a particularly tiring day of rock-moving, enjoying the feeling
of the numbing water and laughing about our day. We were all instantly
refreshed by the river pool, the exhaustion of the workday completely forgotten.
The enjoyment of water was there, but the fear was at bay.
It’s slow progress, but I’m going to try to look at enjoyment of being next to a river as progress. As much as I don’t mind and even quite like being by the water now, I still have not been able to swim freely yet, which honestly has been shocking to me. I dearly want to have a joyful relationship with swimming again. I can dunk for a split second, but the action of rinsing my hair or taking a stroke is still terrifying. The motion of having my head back in the water and rubbing my scalp with my fingers immediately dredges up memories of my first seconds of worry at the river back in New Hampshire. I’m scared that what I fear most will happen again—that while I’m enjoying myself and feeling the rush of water though my hair, an accident will happen.
Those are the thoughts I’m dealing with, but I believe those
thoughts will lessen with time. So maybe for the first time in my life I need
to be ok with this summer not being about swimming. This summer is for
appreciating water, and for being aware of its power. This summer is for
refreshing dips but it’s not for testing my level of comfort. I don’t know what
next summer will bring, but I hope it at least has a nearby pond.
