We happened upon a cold plunge.
As I got closer, I saw a group of Native Americans in a ziggy-zag single file line, laughing as they joyfully dipped into the cold river, with icy water coming from the glaciers and snow on Mt. Hood.
(I’ve previously toyed with the idea of cold plunge therapy, mostly from the coziness of a hot bubble bath, sinking my shoulders in a little deeper as I think, someday.)
On the rocky river’s edge, men peel off their clothing into boxer briefs.
No shame.
(No need.)
As if I’d been summoned, I sit alone on a charcoal rock, elbows on my knees, just inches from the baptismal.
Exhilarating shudders and shrieks, a quick dunk in and out.
I feel my warm tears coming. The beauty all around takes my breath.
I accidentally eavesdrop on conversations, one about a man’s sweet peace of sobriety.
Brothers chatting and chortling, a vibe of camaraderie and openness as undeniable as the majestic Mt. Hood in the distance.
No, wait, it’s not just that. It’s a plot twist.
The camaraderie and openness overshadow Mt. Hood. It’s not a perfect analogy, but it’s like a “Freaky Friday” switcheroo. (And it was Friday.) The palpable, coterie love rises above the white mountain, dwarfing this hill into submission.
Love always wins.
As I’m walking back to the car to meet my group, I hear music. I look to my left.
Mesmerizing melody.
The canyon’s terrain is spotted black and white, like chocolate chip ice cream or a Dalmatian puppy—blackish boulders and snow, evenly divided.
It’s the denouement:
A man in a vast open space, standing alone on volcanic mudflow rocks, surrounded by fellowship, sings toward the white mountain in his native tongue.
He belts it out.
I couldn’t understand the words.
I understood the worship.