Spray on the Boardwalk

Between the river and the town the gorge offers a detour with a warning sign, which is the best genre of sign: a boardwalk running under a waterfall that arrives from the cliff top as pure spray, a veil of falling weather. You cannot cross dry. The only decision is your attitude on the way through.

I chose delight. Halfway along, the mist had been thorough: shirt clinging like a second skin and about as opaque, glasses beaded useless, hair in rat tails, laughing hard at the sheer cold enthusiasm of it. The self-timer at the dry end caught the crossing at its wettest, a woman being rinsed by a cliff and audibly enjoying it. Dignity had no jurisdiction in the gorge.

On the far side the sun took over the drying contract, moss steamed on the rocks, and I walked out warm and rinsed and absurdly pleased. Tomorrow the mountain with the factory. Consider today the ritual bath before the temple.