Saturday, March 1, 2014
The sound was of the breeze blowing through bare winter trees – only much louder. Like a huge, distant orchestra shrouded by a curtain of canyon wall, warming for a performance. Blended notes.
Canyon wall, to be sure. I was perched on a paved strip half way up and half way down. Motorcycle cooling behind me.
Over the edge I peered.
The symphony was of water cascading over an ancient, gray concrete dam barricading the American River. Built to halt debris from upstream mining or timber operations, but halting, momentarily, the river itself. Rivers are only halted momentarily, if at all.
Mist from this crashing water wafted up the canyon side and rested on the clear plastic face shield of my black Arai helmet. I opened it. Droplets, fresh and pure, coated my face and beard.
In washed the smell of the duff wetted in last night’s rainstorm. Breathe deeply.
Standing in a nearly vertical shaft of sunlight – the only degree from which sunlight would ever strike this winter canyon ground, viewing the water thundering over the dam, smelling the history of last night’s storm and the history of this place: Wherever I’ve just ridden is my favorite place to be.
Church of the Open Road Press