Our Little Island

And then our family goes to our not-so-secret swimming hole on the Scott River this weekend and I find myself forced to contemplate more fully the idea of peacefully coexisting, not just on a beautiful green and blue ball floating in space, but on an island in the middle of the river probably no bigger than my front porch. And my front porch isn't very big.

Apparently it's easier for me to imagine "World Peace" than a "20 x 15 Foot Peace!"

Backtrack to four years ago when we "discovered" this particular swimming hole one hot August day. Some friends had suggested we might find some good swimming, "Just go 16 miles down Interstate 5, over the border into California, then exit onto Highway 96. You should find some good spots along the Klamath River."

So we packed some lunch, towels, our dog, the kids, and my husband and I into our little two door car. Off on a Sunday Adventure, anticipating a refreshing dip within the next half hour or so.

Two hot hours later-- and becoming more and more irritated with the situation and each other-- we were still driving along the Klamath. Still going. Hoping. Yearning for that perfect swimming spot. That Oasis we were sure we could find. I guess we're picky. But we really didn't want to swim in the green muck and algae that was all along the water's edge--probably there because of all the other swimmers we observed enjoying the river: geese, ducks, migrating water fowl...

Looking at the map, I saw that in another few miles we'd come to a spot where a river dumped into the Klamath. "Let's check that out. It looks like it comes out of the mountains. Maybe it's better swimming."

About five miles past Horse Creek, we came to the place where the Scott River flows into the Klamath. We turned left to follow the Scott upriver. It was a beautiful but hairy ride on a narrow passage up into the mountains. And to our dismay, the road immediately rose higher and higher...and farther and farther away from the river.

Still we drove. Looking at the map, the navigator (that was me) says, "Let's head to Scott Bar. Sounds like a beachy sort of place. Maybe that's where we'll find our spot."

Scott Bar, once a gold miner's camp, is a picturesque little community in the hills above the river. Not the sort of bar I'd been imagining. Nothing sandy about it. I suppose I would have realized this before had I been more adept at map reading. (At this point I start imagining an altogether different kind of bar...one with ice old beverages and air conditioning.)

Feeling more and more frustrated, we decided (imagine this) to stop and ask for some help. We pulled into the driveway of a nicely kept little white cottage. Pretty summer flowers dotted the landscape. I knocked on the screen door and an attractive older woman appeared. I doubt they get many strangers knocking in these parts and she was a bit apprehensive. Or maybe she thought I was a Jehovah's Witnesses (I used to be one so I can say that) there to convert her.

But when I told her we were just trying to find a swimming hole, she smiled and gave us some rather vague directions to an area farther on up the road. "Just a bit up the road, you'll probably see some cars parked, that's a good spot."

Yeah, just up the road. Another 10 miles or so of a narrow, curvy road that if you make one tiny mistake you will find yourself, and your loved ones, careening over a cliff down into the rocky canyon far, far below.

After wondering if we'd missed it, if vague directions were intentional in these parts, and if we were just going to keep going higher and higher into the mountains on a journey to nowhere--we found the spot that fit the description.

We parked, got out, looked over the edge of the road... and saw the most beautiful sight. A perfect blue-green pool, rocks for diving, and a white sandy beach. We wondered, after all the heat, hunger, and frustration if it was just a mirage.

It's been our little mirage ever since, traveling there at least once but sometimes two and three times a year. And I've never forgotten that I learned something valuable that day. But sometimes I do forget that it was something to do with patience and trust and that it's the journey not the destination.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. It's our first visit to the Scott this year.

I'm driving (incidentally, we found a shorter, less white-knuckler, way to get there). We're a few miles outside of Fort Jones when I notice that I'm not thinking peace. I'm stuck behind a minivan with Missouri licence plates snaking along at 20 mph, mile after mile after mile. And it's pissing me off.

On this part of the drive there's no posted speed limit that I've seen, but 35 to 40 mph has always felt pretty safe except on certain turns. "Why can't this guy (not even sure it was a guy) get out of my way? I mean, I've got a swimming hole to get to. And by golly, I don't want anyone else (including you people from Missouri) to get there first."

"Geez, don't you hear what you're saying Debi? Don't you hear the impatience and worry and selfishness and anger and see the separation you're creating? Is this the path to peace that you speak of?" --asks one side of myself.

"Yeah, I hear it...but damn it, that guy could pull over."

After a good talking to with myself (and my family saying it's the universe's way of teaching more patience and tolerance), I finally bring my mind--oh what a beast it can be-- under control. Consciously choosing to feel peace towards the driver, trust in the abundance of the universe and its ability to make room for us at the beach, tolerance for the different ways people choose to drive/live, and acceptance of what is-- instead of always striving towards something in a future moment (a moment we are never guaranteed of even having).

Interestingly, it was immediately following my mind adjustment that the driver pulled over, letting me pass. (Of course, then I had to do some more adjusting because of the guilt feelings that arose from having the negative feelings...)

A few miles farther down the road we came to "our" spot. And I was so relieved to see that no one else was parked there. When we looked over the edge, we were surprised to see that the river had changed. We always know it's a possibility, but except for mild changes from year to year, it has always been the same. Now we observed that sometime in the past year, a river probably swollen with spring rains and snow melt, had changed the beach entirely. Gone were all the bushes (maybe it's a sign) and small trees, gone was the white sandy beach which had always been (in our knowing it) attached to the shore. What was left was a little island, shrunken by two thirds, with grey pebbly sand.

The upshot, we somewhat smugly thought, was that since it was so small, and we were the first ones there, we'd have it to ourselves.

Wrong. About a half hour later three people and a newborn baby showed up. Twenty minutes later, 12 more people and a dog. Then four more people and two dogs. And coolers and chairs and blankets and cameras and floaties and...

Fortunately, and perhaps due to the earlier experience, instead of frustration at this turn of events (that I'd only probably later realize and regret), my husband and I just looked at each other and laughed. It was the most people, on the smallest bit of land, we'd ever seen at this particular mirage. And, together, everyone made it work.

Instead of selfishly, fearfully, and nastily guarding and hoarding "our claim," I experienced the joys inherent in sharing and trusting there to be enough for all of us. I also realized that this little 20 x 10 foot experience was a beautiful metaphor for something much larger, what we can do for each other and together on this planet.

The only thing missing from the 20 x 10 foot version was the family from Missouri and that bowl of cucumbers and a pot of beans.

PS
I hit the publish post button and then went to read the news and opinion at Common Dreams. Had to come edit this post to add something James Carroll writes in his article published today, Sharing the Oceanic Feeling:

Normal rules of personal space are suspended at the beach. And you -- why do you love being in this crowd if not for contemplation that is also communal? At the ocean's edge, watching the waves and staring out at the horizon, you have the most intensely private sensation of all, becoming the ocean. But the sensation is the more precious for being shared.

Wow.