Running Deep Creek

RUNNING DEEP CREEK

NOEL LAFLIN

August 15, 2010

(For John Greenlee)

The two boys sat atop the outcrop of rocks watching the sun go down.  They had come to this spot often lately as summer was winding down and thoughts of school and home were creeping into their subconscious ever more frequently now.  Neither wanted to let go of this amazing time in their lives, surrendering once more to parental control, flat tasting tap water, curfews and cities.  August was upon them; September but a slip away.  They would be parting soon.  The friendship would continue of course; they both knew that.  But the constant interaction, as experienced over the last eight weeks, would be interrupted and put on hold for nine months until the next summer rolled around once more.  It was cause for reflection; thus the daily ritual of hiking the two miles just to get to this remote but beautiful spot, taking a rough hewn seat high above the forest and watching another day come to a close.

When the two were not here just outside the abandoned wilderness area watching the sun set they could be found sharing meals together in the old mess hall, goofing around with the rest of the camp staff.  As one was two years older and had a car, the other always had the shotgun seat for weekly nights off to Arrowhead or Lloyds. Together they hiked all of the old existing trails through camp or blazed new ones.  But, best of all was the slipping out of lunch early each afternoon and racing off to Deep Creek for a quick afternoon dip.  Oh, the treks to the coldest swimming holes in the entire San Bernardino Mountains were worth the five mile round trip hike each day.

There was a beautiful trail to Deep Creek, which they both had traversed a dozen times.  But, the real adventure lay in a more direct, albeit reckless route the two had discovered early in the season.  Instead of following the meandering Ahwahnee Creek until it joined the major waterway, the boys found that racing pell-mell straight over Inspiration Point itself and careening down the mountain until it ended at Deep Creek saved both time and miles.  The trick was knowing, however, when to stop the headlong race down the face of the mountain before the forest gave way to a severe drop-off and a potentially life altering plunge, just short of the water.

It was sheer curiosity that first took the pair over the edge of the point one day and gravity which propelled them downward.  The boys dodged giant granite boulders; massive ponderosas and their heavy offspring which littered the mountainside; a virgin mountain meadow teaming with snow flowers, lupine and red monkey pod plants.  They ran with pure abandonment, whooping and hollering, slipping and sliding, tumbling and leaping like young gazelles through the ancient trees.  Their nostrils flared and took in the rich earthy smell of foot-thick pine needles, dogwood, incense cedar and the distinct aroma of vanilla wafting off the warm bark of Jeffrey Pines.  Onward they flew, ever downward until they suddenly caught sight of a fast approaching drop off ahead.  Grabbing onto buck brush and sliding across the slippery pine needles they finally dug in their heels and came to a halt just short of the precipice.  The land gave way here across a wide expanse of the woods and dropped off in a large landslide below to the creek.   Sidestepping the cliff, which was underscored by the roots of mighty pines reaching out into space, the young men made their way to the right and found a safe slide down to the Deep Creek Trail and stream.  They made note of the great amount of time saved with this madcap run and definitely planned to use it to their future advantage.  As the two took time to empty their boots, which had filled with sand, stones and pine needles, they also made mental plans of when to start applying the brakes next time, well in advance of avoiding an unplanned fall.

Once on the main Deep Creek trail, the pals continued their run through the canyon, jumping or ducking over and under downed trees, criss-crossing the creek over felled logs or rocks, continually lulled by the swift sweet calling of the pristine water.  It was the culmination of many a run-off from many a minor other creek or stream lacing the mountains.   It was snow melt from high atop Mt. San Gorgonio itself or ice cold water that sprang from natural wells scattered throughout the San Bernardino Range. Deep Creek was gathering moisture from all these sources so that it too could swell in size and proudly join other spills down the hill.  It had drive and was picking up steam the further downstream it charged.  It sang its own Aquarian tune and it stopped for no man or boy.  And, it was ice cold, even on the hottest of summer days.  It promised natural Roman bath-like pools at the end of their trail; a place to jump or even dive into and melt the dust of the trail and the sweat off the brow.   And that was the goal today and every day, which these two had found most addicting.

Before long the trail petered out altogether as it disappeared into the widening creek.  It then became a game of boulder jumping, making one’s way over the large smooth rocks that straddled the middle of the fast moving water.  After a few trips here, the bouncing from boulder to boulder became second nature; even in the dark of night, thought the older boy, with only moonlight or flashlight to guide him then, as he had experienced once or twice before while searching for lost campers.  But it was midday now, fine and clear and blue of sky and they were by no means lost.  Quite the contrary, as these two were on the hunt!  The boulders felt like trampolines beneath their trusting feet.

And then, here it began; deep clear pools trapped by the giant stones.  The water flowed in, over or around an assortment of pools.  Some even had minor beaches and warm flat rocks upon which to stretch out and take a nap or dry oneself after a cold dip and then perhaps catch forty winks before the clothes and boots were put back on and the arduous task of climbing out of this steep, deep canyon was undertaken once more. 

But, before the series of switchbacks along the long path back were even considered, the lads came to their favorite spot; chucked off their boots, shorts and long socks; tore off their shirts, flinging them to higher, drier rocks above and dove into the chilly pools of Deep Creek.   They swam and splashed like kids on holiday.  They yelled and sang praises and curses intermittently.  

“Damn! The water’s freakin’ cold!” 

 “Damn! This feels great!”

“Hell, I don’t want to go back.”

“Well, we gotta be back in an hour, so get your ass out of the water so we can dry off and get moving.”

“I hate the fucking hike back!”

“Well, bro, what goes down must go up … and that be us unfortunately.  Let’s do it.”

And with that the two begrudgingly removed themselves from the coolness, toweled off with their tee shirts, threw on their shorts and laced up the high top boots.  They took one last drink from the cold creek to sustain them for the long trek back as they never bothered with canteens. 

Noting the time, they navigated the numerous switchbacks that composed this narrow, dusty, hot trail in long strides.  They both had to be back to camp by two and it was now fast approaching that hour.  By comparison, this trail was not as pretty as the way down, as it had no water flowing beside them or the coolness that accompanied any creek.  But, that did not matter now.  They knew the way and knew that they could make it in time as they had successfully done so all summer.  And, despite the drudgery of the return, there was always the allure of tomorrow, when they would once more sneak out of lunch unseen, run past the assembly area, pool, nature center, rifle and archery range and catch their collective breath as they stood atop Inspiration Point, waiting for that perfect moment to fly over the edge and down the mountain at breakneck speed.

Forty seasons have now passed.  One of the former lads currently sits and reflects upon that summer of 1970. His fingers stay poised, lingering above the keyboard.  “I have got to get this right,” he thinks.  And so he concludes:  The friendship formed during that brief time with his old mate did indeed carry on throughout the years.  There would be a few more summers together in the sacred land of their youth, but never again the daily flights off the mountain.  Both would finish high school and then college and pursue very different careers.  One would speak at the other’s wedding.  One would comfort the other after the death of a parent.  A child would come to each of them late in life; for one a girl, the other a boy.  And although a span of years might fly by, with time not giving a good goddamn, one friend would seek the other out at a most unexpected but auspicious moment.

When I need to relax, especially before the taking of a blood pressure reading, I find myself atop an outcrop of rocks watching a most spectacular sunset.  Or, better yet, I stand high above the camp on Inspiration Point.  My new friend, John, is beside me.  We view a distant mountain meadow in the distance and decide that we should run down there and perhaps beyond to Deep Creek itself.  There will be adventure and a cool dip at the end. 

My blood pressure readings are always good.

The boys at the top of the run 45 years later.