Celebrating Themeless Discontinuity

12/26/08

Creek. Scuffle scuffle scuffle. "What is that? Do you hear that?" Silence. Creek creek creek. Scuffle. A jab in the ribs. "Go check." Groan, sigh, weight shifting. Stumble. Grab clothes and flashlight. Glare. Nothing to report, melting snow.

We had these funky sounds all night, that sounded more to me like a chipmunk trying to borrow into our roof than melting snow crumbling and sliding off. I'm not convinced that it wasn't, though there is no evidence to the contrary. But it did stave off sleep for a while, so when light began to sneak through the worn curtain in our cabin, indicating that it was time for new adventures, we both attempted to roll over and ignore it.

But we eventually found solace in the fact that the floors of the bathrooms were heated, and sometimes that's enough to get you out of bed. We had decided last night, after stuffing ourselves to the brim and rolling out of the bunkhouse back to our cabin, that we should at least go exploring today to work off some of the holiday cheer. The volunteers headed out to Fairies' Fall, across the valley and off-trail, a 32-footer than Jonmikel has seen before in the summer but that is oft forgotten amidst the draws of Tower Falls or any of the other well-known and on-the-beaten-track falls that require little to no commitment. They showed us pictures of the frozen structures, towering over the landscape and threatening to burst, and we were hooked. So we enjoyed the heated floors, zipped up our snow pants, strapped on our snowshoes, and began an early-morning jaunt over the river and through the... fields.

The falls aren't hard to get to, especially when, many decades ago, the old park road was located on that side of the Lamar River, opposite its current location. Old photographs of the creek, Amethyst Creek, abound, even some creative stereophotos, but new images are virtually non-existent. Even people who have worked in and around the park for years have never ventured to it, leaving us with a little private peace.

We managed to startle a herd of bison, who took that opportunity to frolic playfully and kick up mud and snow. We hopped across the frozen Lamar River and the various creeks surrounding it, at first going slowly and cautiously and eventually striding forward with confidence that no frozen river to claim us. When we hit the small crevice with the falls inside, we followed a playful coyote's tracks up and through and over and around to the statues of ice drifting almost 30 above us. You could hear the water inside the natural ice pipes, and when you stepped up close you could see the clear trickles flowing down into the melted river beneath. The ice was thick and glacier blue, frosted with last night's snow and wind, and with the coming daylight the imprisoned water threatened to burst through the clear bars.

We play around the creek, climbing under and around and through, daring the shards of stalagtited icicles in the hallowed out cave behind the falls to come crashing down on our heads. We touch the frozen pillars and are amazed at how warm the ice actually feels. When we feel the air beginning to heat up, and the sun begin to break through the almost-constant cloud cover, we decide to head back to the Ranch, knowing that should the Lamar River melt, it would be a long hike around to get back to our radiantly-heated bathroom floors. As we hit the river and creeks, we can see evidence of melt, see the water flowing underneath the now-thin layers of ice and snow. My foot slips through the ice once, the heavy and long tip of my snowshoe saving my toes from a frigid and wet walk back. The wind has even died down a little, and it feels almost like spring as the sounds of melting show and flowing water grow that much louder. The snowfall is small and the temperatures high for this time of year in the interior, and I hope that winter will come again soon, as much of the wildlife ironically depends on a rough winter to make it through spring and summer.

We also head home today, knowing that we have a cat at home who would probably like some human company soon, and has probably eaten our Christmas tree and puked up its needles on our carpet out of spite.