The bubbling brook was at Clear Creek State Park, twenty or fifty meters from the old shingle saw mill I saw there, and photographed, thinking it was water powered, but maybe it was steam, but I think maybe water since it was there by the creek by the river, and by the bubbling brook, and was part of the historical bit with the forest and the use of that natural resource that is that forest, go team, go.
The bubbling brook didn’t have a sign, didn’t have any written words at all, or arrows indicating its presence, and really, I’d have missed it, despite the fact that its water ran right past my back door for a week, if it wasn’t for the guy with the red mohawk.
HIs name was (likely still is) Dan. As I stood looking at the old mill and taking its image, Dan excused himself as he approached, and asked if I’d seen the bubbling brook. Dan was a natural Ginger, more on the blonde than fiery side of the redheaded spectrum, fair skinned, too, with his hair cut in the perfect 3” Mohawk, a style I’d not seen in a very long time, and probably forty or so, a guesstimate based on his son’s and wife’s apparent ages. I told him no, I’d not seen it, the brook, but that I was called brook, but I more often babbled than bubbled, and he said that was fine, as his son called it the babbling brook and not bubbling. They’d named it, albeit differently.
But it did, in fact, bubble, and not so much babble.
Dan with the Mohawk led me back to the spot where the water came bubbling right on up out of the ground, no upstream source obvious or apparent. It wasn’t a boiling bubble, not hot water, no, just stream water that didn’t so much stream down, the way streams do, and certainly it looked like a stream down stream, but spring water, I guess, bubbling up in a springy kind of way back there behind the saw.
And me, with background in limnology and such, didn’t think about that. The bubbling spring. Not a brook at all.
The cabin at Clear Creek was nice enough, roomy, no water but yes refrigeration and cooking capacity. Cabins are too densely dispersed there, for sure. I was flanked by two year olds on both sides, the two-ish boy called Bubba (yeah, Bubba) got whacked when he’d run out into the road. I’m not sure he got that; I didn’t, but then, it’s one of those cultural things I’m not supposed to judge. The two-ish girl on the other side cried a lot, as two year olds often do, but I didn’t witness any whacking there, so don’t have to worry about being judgmental.
Even if I am.
Dan with the red mohawk also recommended I visit the big bear rocks thingie, and I never did, mostly because by the time I got close to that point in the park along the trails I’d taken, I was thinking about how to get back to the cabin without dropping from exhaustion. I do tire easily these days, or at least within a few miles. The trails were good, empty, as always it seems, nobody hikes, at least not early, and only a few spots with lots of steep, not too strenuous, even if they did wear me out.
Resting along the way is easy when hiking alone. With snacks and drinks and smokes and such, better yet.
The bridges across the stream were so slick I fell, twice, the second time while being über careful, using my sticks, holding the rail, in my real hikers, death traps, those bridges. My wounds have healed, nicely. Love walking with my snowshoe sticks, so glad I kept them. When I get the pace going, I feel four legged, and felt the other day how mountain goats can be so sure footed, what with being four legged for life and living on mountainsides. A body gets used to it.
Today, I’ll visit the park near here that accesses the Appalachian trail, assuming the weather holds. Clouds block the sunrise this morning, so maybe tomorrow.
Life is good.