The hills close in on us as we turn off 93 North at Exit 28 and wind our way along the road that follows the river. We pull off to the side of the road at just the right spot and carry our gear down the path through the woods to the river’s edge. The forest floor is dappled with afternoon sunlight, and the smell of sunwarmed pine needles is heavy and sweet in the air. The cousins are in the river in a flash, shivering at the shock of the cold water, shouting and laughing. The river cascades over smooth rocks and forms little waterfalls and dips and soars and slows in mysterious pools. Grandson #3 fly fishes for trout in the deeper pools. My daughter and I bake on the warm rocks, then ease into the chilly water. Grandson #4 and I slide down the mini waterfalls, again and again. Hysterical fun. Gradually our bodies get used to the feel of the mountain snowmelt.
The river rushes with energy, pulses with captured sunlight. We are subsumed into it. I wonder whoever called it the “Mad River”? It seems to me to be laughing at some joke it longs to share, some longstanding and secret joy. Surely night will never come again. Surely these children will stay young forever.
