Slide.
My folks spent last Saturday in Sedona and since I was around this weekend, they decided to go again. We got up early and then squandered our lead on the Labor Day traffic. We also lost our bid to get to the red rocks before the weather turned as had been predicted in the "news". Well we went anyway, with visions of sliding down rocks into freezing cold pools. Armed with a bag full of sandwiches and fruit, and no towels, we made it by about lunchtime and made a beeline for the outskirts of town.
The path down to the water was well worn but rocky, and as usual we were poorly prepared. With my mother in a long skirt and flip flops, we were moving fairly slow. This made us an easy target for the dark clouds that were shifting over the buttes and started making their intentions clear. The first drops were cold but small and sharp, like tiny daggers; these spies were followed by warm, bucket sized battalions of raindrops. The sparse leaves on the trees and the few trees left us exposed and ultimately drenched. Still it was really pleasant and I felt quite free as I cowered under a pine tree waiting for the weather to clear up enough to head down to the bottom of the canyon.
The bottom of the canyon seemed completely cut off from the 20th century and frankly in a time before people lived in the area. We followed the sound of rushing water through underbrush and over large logs that had obviously been deposited there when the creek was in flood. I thought back to the deluge from 10 minutes prior and the fact that the rain had come from upstream and wondered whether we'd get swept up ourselves. Luckily, the water hadn't risen that fast.
The water was freezing cold, but the sun was out again and it was hot as we dipped our feet in the creek. There were several groups of young folks sliding down the rapids, and it took us a while to get up the nerve to do it ourselves. It was so fun though! I was surprised at how fun it was, and that we actually did it. By then the rain was coming in again and we made our way back up to the car before getting some ice cream. The smell of the rain, the view of red rock layer cakes of the buttes was amazing. I always love the smell of the rain in a dusty land ...
postscript: One the way home we stopped at a roadside produce stand to buy peaches for my mother. While we stood waiting to get a bag, the proprietor gave me a small tomato, its stem still attached. I took a bite, reluctantly, and was surprised to get the full flavor of it. Since coming to America I had almost forgotten what a real tomato tasted like, since most tomatoes here seem to be bred purely for size and color. Even so-called organic, "vine-ripened", and heirloom (what does that mean anyway?) tomatoes are bland compared to the Sudanese tomatoes of my youth. Needless to say we bought as many as we could, along with some pinked fleshed Pink Pearl apples. The apples were so pink on the inside that their juice seemed like blood orange juice.
Comments
If you really care, I can explain to you what Heirloom tomatoes are sometime . . . (it's too long to explain here.) I know what you mean though, it's sad that the country where tomatoes actually originated is where you find the worst tasting ones. Tomatoes from a garden or farmer's market are tomatoes, those mealy flavorless things at the store scare me.
Also, it makes me smile to think of you and your family sliding down a creek that I spent so many summers going to and doing the exact same thing.
Posted by: Karen | September 1, 2008 5:26 PM