Carberry Creek swimming hole

    While my son was growing up, I used to go with him to a nearby swimming hole. The water was deep and green, the rocks smooth for picnicking on or high for jumping from. It was a jewel of a place. The only people I ever saw there were the friends who lived on its creek. I once took a class of kids I was teaching in a multi-age classroom for an outing at that swimming hole. The sight of children swarming over the rocks and jumping into the water under the looming cliff of the mountain—it was a picture from a children's book, a scene of the paradise of nature and innocence.

    The swimming hole is large enough for a real swim, round and round. It is deep enough for the daring to dive off the high rock at its edge. I did the last high dive of my life from that rock. I wrenched my neck when I hit the water and decided my high-diving career was over. 

    Then "city folks" discovered my swimming hole. It began to be trashed—plastic bags on the rocks, broken glass in the crevices, toilet paper in the woods. Once my son and his stepbrother were carefully picking up the broken glass when two macho guys who were there, drinking beer, looked at the two good-deed teen-agers and deliberately tossed their bottles onto the rocks, scattering broken glass. People like that were invading my paradise.

    Now, all summer, every summer, I see cars parked at the top of the road to the swimming hole. I never go there any more.

    The last time I wanted to go there, many years ago, I parked on the main, gravel road and started walking down the steep, deeply rutted road to the creek. I was alone; it was early evening. Although there were no cars parked on the gravel road, the access road can be navigated in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. I began getting weird vibes. Was I sensing something dangerous? Or was I just jumpy? I'll never know because I decided to trust my instincts and forego my swim. I turned around and went home and never went back to my favorite swimming hole again. It had been ruined.

    A few days ago I was on the road that goes by the swimming hole and suddenly yearned to see it again. How would it have changed? Was it still idyllic? There were no cars parked on the road. It was too late in the season for anyone to want to be there. I parked on the gravel road and started down the trail. I got no freaky vibes. I walked the ten-minute trail to the creek. 

    And there I entered Eden again. It was as beautiful as ever. No time had passed since I had been there with my son. It was as it used to be. There was no trash, no broken glass. The water was pristine, deep, and green. The little waterfall was as full as it ever was; no drought was affecting this creek. It was the idyll I used to know.

    I took off my clothes and went for swim. The water was as bracingly cold as I remembered.