As we lay on our backs every evening, the asphalt of the bridge still warm from the day’s sun, we tracked satellites in the sky like so many mosquitos buzzing over the valley.
Above us, Billy’s Peak jutted out casting a harsh silhouette against the sky.
Below us, Ripple Creek trickled along carrying the snow-melt of the Trinity Alps into the farmlands below.
The scent of the air was an intoxicating mix of creek water, pine, dirt, tack-room must and the occasional waft of diesel from the farm equipment.
Sometimes, while prone on that bridge, we’d contemplate the fate of the Donner party (being far from civilization and in the mountains, as we were).
Other times we’d pick a lone star (in a sky filled with trillions) and try to direct the others to guess which point of light it was that we had picked out.
“You see that star? The bright red one? Now, go two fingers to the left…there, that cluster of three? Now go up at a 75 degree angle…”
And still, there were times, when no one spoke, but for the occasional, “Oh wow! Did ya see that?” at a passing shooting star.
On those quiet nights, we’d huddle under the jackets and blankets we’d brought with us from base camp, gently intertwine our fingers with each other, and gulp in the thin mountain air the way thirsty men greedily drink cool water.
Out there, on that bridge, 30 miles from nowhere, we were free.
And for me, for just a moment, I was free of my body.
I’ve been chronically ill with an autoimmune disease for 8 and half years–and at 26 years old, that means I’ve been sick my entire adult life.
To be chronically ill is like forever being in a jail made of your own broken self. Freedom and independence so often seem to be but distant memories of a life that is no longer yours.
However, once in a while, the lock of your cage is opened by a kind prison guard (perhaps the right combination of fresh air, rest, caffeine, and allergy pills), and you are able to step out and once again remember what pure freedom is like, and bathe in it like it’s the fountain of youth.
There’s a reason so many sanitariums of days yonder were in the mountains.
There’s something mystical and healing in the quality of the air, the water, the sounds, the textures and the scents.
Up in the northern California hinterlands, near the Shasta and Trinity Rivers, is a little place called Ripple Creek, about 100 yards down from Coffee Creek Road.
The only proper music to listen to while ascending to this mountain hideaway (over poorly paved roads) is the album, Nebraska, by Bruce Springsteen.
And the only thing one must do while visiting Ripple Creek, is throw-off the shackles of pain, strife, sickness, and cell phone, and immerse oneself in the freedom of being alive with no expectations. Just shooting stars and satellites.
About the Author:
Julie Bien is the blog manager for the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles as well as a freelance writer and photographer. Coffee–not blood–is what runs through her veins. She received her MA in mass communications in 2012 just so she could include the phrase “received her MA” in all future author bios.
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