That summer, unprecedented snowmelt in the Sawtooth Range brought the Boise River flooding to the doorsteps of Garden City. The trunks of poplar trees and the backs of benches protruded from the high water, curious afterthoughts in a landscape submerged. “We were sitting on the grass right there a week ago, tripping on acid,” said my friend Moira, pointing to a spot in the middle of the river.
I met Moira two years back at a music festival, and was spending my night in Boise on a bean bag chair in her living room. “I’ve never done acid,” I admitted.
“Damn, really? If you were here one more day and didn’t have to drive all the way across the state tomorrow…”
“Oh well,” I said, trying not to betray my relief. I didn’t think the old brain could handle LSD. You wouldn’t drive a tank over a bridge held together with chewing gum. “How was it?”
“Great, until Toby told me I was sitting in goose poop.”
“I’d known the whole time,” said Toby, Moira’s roommate, “but there was no grass that wasn’t covered in goose poop, so I thought you accepted it.”
“My hands were in it,” said Moira. “I cried.”
“Goose poop is just another part of nature,” I said.
“Ugh,” said Moira.
Where the water surged over the Greenbelt, we could go no farther, but had to double back and take a different path. We passed a cormorant, stretching its wings to dry in the last rays of the evening sun, then we came to a rope swing. I grabbed hold and jumped, but failed to throw my weight forward, and instead of soaring out, plunked into the shallows at the river’s edge. We took turns, flying out farther each time, but never getting used to the cold.
An older man smiled as he passed us, then paused ten yards down the path and waved us over.
Toby was swimming back to shore and Moira was preparing to swing, so I jogged barefoot down the gravel path by myself, wondering if the man had found a dead body—or wanted to turn me into one.
“There’s a beaver,” he whispered, pointing across a small brook parallel the river to the spot where a plump, shiny-furred beaver sat, munching on a blade of grass. “That’s a good sign.”
“Wow!” I said. “A healthy ecosystem indicator!”
The beaver soon had enough of us analyzing her, and she swallowed the remainder of her grass and slipped into the water of the brook, crossing to our side and disappearing under a mess of branches.
On my way across Idaho the next morning, I passed a sign that said BLISS: NEXT 2 EXITS. I did not pull off the highway.
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This is the second post in a cross-country road trip series. To start from the beginning, click here!
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