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Health & Fitness

At the Russian River

Just a little summer reflection, a summer fling. There are great stories with great rivers. This one didn't make the cut, but it is worth telling I suppose.

Somewhere between Sebastopol and Jenner where the Russian River imitates a boa and the heat rises off the morning chill, I dipped into the calming waters. The current was slow and massive, a trickster. In a moment of distraction you can find yourself on foreign soil.

At the gas station I pumped the oily kerosene and thought the gas came directly from the bowels of the earth under my feet. This was a glorious hot day, with nary a thought on what to do next. Then I saw a smaller Toyota truck filled to the brim with split wood, alder and big leaf maple, a very professional approach to a different kind of heat. I carelessly eyed the half cord of wood, running my fingers over the grain. I really like the color of alder, the feel of its heartwood.

She stepped out of the rustic convenience store, having paid for gas and a few supplies. She didn't mind at all that I was eying the wood. "Interested?"

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"Oh, I'm always interested in wood—the type, the grain, the dryness. How it splits, you know. Wood is real."

She stood near me with short pigtails, a loose fitting cotton top, short Levis with the white pockets flagging below the scissor cut blue material. Her hand grazed over the wood in a quick and easy motion, very deft and familiar. She gazed over to me sideways with brown eyes glittering in the sun and a smirk on her freckled face. "Oh. I like wood too. Perhaps we could come to some kind of agreement. You could come to my place. There is so much more to see."

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The Russian River meanders down to Jenner in large sweeping curves. Groups of high school kayakers flow by with little effort, the river talking all along, not being listened to. I could float face up to the blue sky, let myself go and be carried effortlessly through this world, a very peaceful easy ride.

"Sounds absolutely delightful to me. Where do I sign up?"

She reached into her front seat. For a moment I thought she might actually have some kind of form, to protect us both. You never know what goes on in the country. But no, she resurfaced with a lit cigarette.

The blood emptied from my face. This was a different set of circumstances. I mumbled out a lame excuse, and hightailed it out of that gas station. It could have been a beautiful thing, but lips that touch tobacco shall never touch mine. 

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