The Annual Bath

Day 333: For as long as I have been hiking in the backcountry as an adult (some 50-plus years), I have observed a particular ritual of plunging myself into a cold mountain lake or creek some time during the month of September in what I refer to as my "annual bath." I will further inform you, should you ask, that the purpose of this ablution is to "cleanse myself of the dross of humanity," refreshing and renewing my spirit that I may survive another year of contact with humankind. It is, of course, necessarily done completely naked and is not complete until I am but one click shy of hypothermia, emerging from the water with tingling skin and painful scalp. Sometimes, the bath takes the form of a swim in an alpine lake, but the most common observation of this rite is done in a shin-deep pool of a stream, and consists only of splashing and/or pouring ice water on myself until every inch of me has been rinsed with clear, pure living water, and only that.

For the last several years, I've had to make do with a small kettle lake as my bathtub. I've stepped out of it at least twice with a scummy coating of fir pollen clinging to my hide. What matters is not the physical cleanness, but that of my inner being. Once, I dunked in the Nisqually River and came out coated in glacial silt and had to shower when I got home. For obvious reasons, the clear water of a mountain creek is more desirable, and for several weeks now, I've been trying to figure out the best spot for my annual dunk. There are more people on the trails than there used to be, and of course I am beyond the years when I could hike into the deep backcountry to find a private spot. One possibility kept rising to the top of my list of options: a secluded corner in Lodi Creek where it veers away from the trail to Berkeley Park. 

When my botany partners suggested a hike to "Fremont junction," I assumed we would be turning around at that point. When we got on trail, I found out that Joe had meant the Northern Loop junction instead, a mere half mile from first contact with Lodi. I really debated whether to ask them to wait for me there (Joe is still breaking in a knee replacement) since I didn't want to burden them, but when he said that he thought he might shear off onto the trail to Skyscraper Pass, I asked him if he'd mind waiting. He'd heard a rumour about goats in the area and wanted to get photos, and having not seen any yet, was more than willing to grant my request. I took off at a lope. Forty-five minutes later, I met up with my friends again, my spirit divested of humanity's dross and hair still wet beneath my hat. Unbeknownst to us, the Goat Rocks Fire was preparing to divert us onto another adventure: having to make a full circuit of the Mountain in order to get me back to my house. In Sharon's words, "At least there were goats." And I got my annual bath.

And It's Not Even September!

Day 315: For forty years or more, it has been my custom to have an annual bath in clear, cold water; a spiritual renewal, washing off "the dross of humanity," as I put it to friends. This ritual is generally performed in September, and may be conducted in an alpine tarn or in a pool in a mountain stream. On occasion, it has been done when pats of ice could be found floating on the surface or when fingers of snow reached across the meadows to the water. This process is generally prolonged until I start to feel the first touches of hypothermia creeping into my core, a call I have learned to make reliably. I go in naked as the day I was born, and emerge refreshed and invigorated (if cold), and because I prefer to drip-dry in the sun, these locations have to be very carefully selected. (I dressed for the photo, by the way.)

A couple of years ago, I was detailed to find a "lost" hydroelectric dam (defunct) in Mount Rainier National Park so that it could be removed from the Federal Register of dams. No one knew exactly where it was, and the vague directions I was given proved to be rather far off base, but given my eye for natural vs. altered forest, I was able to track it down. While there, I noticed that the catchment behind it looked like a good spot for my annual immersion, and I mentally bookmarked it for future reference.

The river you see here is glacial, literally. It is fed by meltwater from one of the Mountain's named glaciers. It has not travelled very far to reach this point, and therefore has not warmed much in transit. I made my way out to a three-foot deep pool without once cursing (rather amazing, that), submerged myself up to the neck and threw handsful of water into my hair. Two more trips were necessary in order to get a suitable self-portrait. I'd saved my britches out to put on for warmth in case I got too chilled, but as the afternoon warmed up, the wet shirt felt really good against my back. It was still damp when I got back to the car. Maybe only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun, but only Crows and polar bears go paddling in waters such as these!