It’s hot. 103 degrees and my dog, Ansel, won’t move anymore. Not even to join me today for my daily escape to the nearby waterhole on the South Fork of the Merced while my kiddos nap.

We’re in Yosemite at the family cabin that great-grandpa Floyd Alvin built in the 1950s. The original olive green décor inside has come in-and-out of fashion three times since, I think. I can’t keep up.

It’s our first visit ever for a full week, and by day two, we’re all covered, completely, with the fine, soft dirt that coats the ground of the High Sierras. Our Yosemite tan, I tease. Cancer free and it washes off with an easy scrub.

At the waterhole, it’s quiet. An unusual thing in this kind of heat. Siesta time for everyone, I think. Lucky me.

There’s a monolith of granite that reclines into the hole. The rock is starting to bake, warm in the sun – just coming out from the shadows of the redwoods on the bank. That’s my rock, I drool as I see it just a few hops away.

My left clog slips off my foot as I scramble up the slipery, four-foot cliff. Into the mini boulder field below it goes. Who cares? I’m nearing the top. One shoe on, one shoe off. Made it!

Shirt off, shorts flung, I leap from my rock into the waterhole. The water is like butter.

Buttah -- in my hair, in my ears, in every pore of my body, mind, and soul. I feel the Sierra minerals soaking into my cells, feeding me. Mother Nature’s spa.

The brown, native trout that had been quietly munching on bug treats before my arrival scattered, rolling their fish eyes at the intrusion. Another crazy ape disturbing their lunch. Another hidey hole to wait this one out. Looks like this is going to be a long one, guys.

I float on my back and look at my toes poking out, stretching to the sky. My Yosemite tan now in streaks around my toenails. Dirty. Happy.

Five more days, I think, and then duck down, deep into the cold water to tickle the fins of those fishies.
Five more days.

By Annie B. Yearout

Labels: Annie B. Yearout

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