A Riot of Poppies
A refreshing dip on a hot day, with surprising company
Whenever we stay in Mariposa, I am compelled to visit Yosemite National Park even though it offers little for the three of us. I do it because I love my brother Eddie. He used to live in Merced and fell for the great park long ago. We visit at dawn, take a few photos, smile knowing that Eddie used to explore the area, and then find a hike on National Forest land.
I booked two nights at the Mariposa Lodge, which is neither very good nor very bad. It's clean and safe, allows dogs, and is strict with Covid protocols. So what if the furniture is old, one lamp doesn't work, the microwave is missing the glass plate that sits atop the spinner, and the air conditioner rattles like one my father used to have? It serves as a convenient base for nearby trails.
Our first hike in the area was one we hadn't done before. It's forty minutes away, and we stopped to check it out on the way back from Yosemite. I'd read online trail reports, and the most recent hiker noted wildflowers were blooming along the Merced River Trail. I was not prepared for the riot of colors, the sweet scent in the air, how the scenes grabbed hold of my heart with increasing greediness every half mile.
The most outrageous scenes came when we continued beyond where the official trail ended. I was searching for a noted waterfall. While traversing a ledge above a feeder stream that rose as high as 200 feet above the water, we were overwhelmed by a dizzying number of orange poppies. It's as if God got carried away and overdid it. Hillsides were coated with this orange paint. I couldn't turn back. I had to see more, more, more!
Our five-mile hike stretched to an eight-mile adventure.
We were exposed to the hot midday sun, and it took a toll on us. Several times, Samwise and Emily made their way down to the Merced River's safer parts to drink and wade. Eventually, we came upon a watering hole surrounded by rocks, fed by a cascade. This was below where we were extrapolating beyond the map. We'd seen no one for hours, had the place to ourselves, and when Sam and Emi waded in and decided they weren't leaving, I followed their lead. Since they were skinny-dipping, it was only fitting that I join them.
We splashed and played. I threw rocks, and my friends made great efforts to find them as they sunk below the surface. I sat on a stone couch with water up to my chest. Hot sun be damned.
We were soaking in the same blessed waters John Muir had when the Sierras were his passion, his church, and his universe.
We were there for close to an hour when a dog suddenly appeared. He approached the water with tail wagging in that "I come in peace, can we be friends?" way. He was followed by two women who had also gone searching for the same waterfall I couldn't find.
We chatted, they noted my clothes hanging from an oak branch; one smiled sheepishly, "You look like you are in heaven. Sorry, we are interrupting."
"No, you're fine. Besides, Clover is enjoying the water with us."
That was their dog's name. Clover was splashing with Samwise and Emily.
The women's names were Lucille and Sarah. It became evident through our conversation that they were a couple.
One thing led to another and before I know it, a monkish pink-skinned fellow from New Hampshire who had long been ashamed of his obese body was joined in the buff by two friendly lesbians.
That's about as steamy as it got. We sat, we soaked, told of our scars, minor and major victories, and about the mortar that held our lives together. We dabbled in religion, politics, the coronavirus. And we laughed—a lot!
This was not what I was expecting when we set out to take a walk where the three of us could be as free as we wished. Like the infinity of poppies, the freedom we ended up far exceeded the limits of my imagination.
All six of us ended up climbing up on wide slabs of rocks and let the sun dry us. We were as innocent and naked as babes after a bath.
Lucille got a curious look on her face as three recovering Catholics sat unashamed in the skin God gave us. She was leaning back on her arms, her white stomach glowing in the sunshine.
"You said you're a writer from New Hampshire?"
"Yeah. Moved there a dozen years ago from a little town on the North Shore of Massachusetts called Newburyport."
"You wouldn't happen to be Tom Ryan!"
Sarah recognized the name, too.
I blushed for the first time.
"We loved Following Atticus!"
They've not read Will's Red Coat, but I think I made a sale. Just goes to show you the extremes an author will go to.
Samwise, Emily, and I are returning to the trail at dawn. I like the idea of spending more time in the company of wildflowers, especially in the soft glow of morning light. This has been our winter of hanging with plants, both big and small. I've found comfort and inspiration in their company.
It brings to mind something Robin Wall Kimmerer, the author of Braiding Sweetgrass, wrote.
"In some Native languages, the term for plants translates to 'those who take care of us'."
We left New Hampshire in search of solace. It's come to us by way of scrub pines; juniper trees; bristlecone pine; ponderosa pine; barrel, prickly pear, and saguaro cactus; and Live oaks. Now we're beset by a wealth of poppies, flaming purple redbuds, and lupine.
Each region has delivered healing through its signature plants.
We all could use some healing after the past year. This has been mine.
We'll begin our day with morning miles, prayers, and walking meditation; leave by noon, and drive to our next stop. Goodness knows what awaits us there.
The joy of a successful coddiwomple is that one never knows where he will end up and with who. If you told me I would get naked in the Sierras and be joined by two fans of my work…well, that would have been unlikely.
Onward, by all means, y'all—clothing optional, of course.
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SPECTACULAR!!! Thank you for sharing the beauty you experienced in nature & fellow humans!
One of my favorite posts to date, Tom! I marveled at the beautiful photos, then laughed at your skinny dipping adventure! What a great way to start my Saturday! Thanks for sharing, Tom!