Whitewater

 

It rained last Monday. Steady rain for hours. Unusual for us here in Southern California in July. I sat down to work on a writing project, but did a quick scroll through Twitter first while I finished a cup of tea, and I came across a tweet by some baby-man lamenting the fact that he had just turned 49 and was "sad" because now he is "old." Are you kidding me?? This was my reply to his tweet:

But as I shot it off, I thought, "Well, K Murphy, when was the last time you went hiking?" And I realized I hadn't gone since John and Lisa, my hiking buddies, left town on vacation. And so (as they say in Ireland). As soon as the rain stopped, I threw on my hiking boots, kissed two dogs and two cats good-bye, and took off for Whitewater Preserve. Normally, I wouldn't go there in the summer at all, as it is far too hot, but since it rained, and temps were lower-than-normal (still in the 80's though, sheesh), I thought I'd be fine up in the preserve where there is plenty of shade and cool running water. Except the preserve was closed.

So I did what I always tell other hikers NOT to do: I hiked on a closed trail. The thing is, I knew that the preserve was closed because there'd been flash flood warnings, and the rangers didn't want to be hanging out in the intense heat and humidity, dragging dead bodies out of the stream. I get that. So I didn't drive all the way into the preserve (because the gate would have been closed anyway). I followed the road to the first big stream crossing, parked in a turnout, and headed downstream, all the while watching the clouds and the weather and never going so far that I couldn't beat it back to the car if the water began to rise. Still a bit dangerous, I know, but I was feeling spunky. And it was so beautiful.

Whitewater Preserve is in a deep canyon you would never suspect was there (unless you're a curious person like me and you decided to exit I-10 to see why this seemingly isolated place is called "Whitewater"). Like the sign says, it's only 4.5 miles from the freeway. These photos show the area outside the preserve. It's way, way prettier (eventual blog post to come when the weather cools the hell down) inside the preserve itself.

Anyway, there was water in the stream, flowing enough that the videos I took had a water-over-rocks soundtrack.

 

And since I was the only human around (at least at that time)

...it was quiet. So very, very quiet...peaceful...lovely...and soul restoring (because that morning, while I waited for the rain to stop, a friend had called with a serious issue that would impact his life going forward due to his age).

Getting old is not for babies, whiners or wimps. The older I get, the more my independence will be challenged. I realize and accept that. But as long as I can still climb (carefully) over rocks or walk (slowly) along a streambed or place my feet (cautiously) in wild, running water, I will still feel strong and capable and joyful.