Lost in Time

Hiking up the steep trail the earth's breath warms my face. Mist rolls in hiding the river cutting across the canyon floor. Rounding the bend, two large ebony objects cling to the volcanic rock as they move slowly towards us.

Closer and closer they come until we see their coal black eyes. Curling horns, dark as night, long hair shaggy sheep stare intently down upon us. Suddenly startled, they bound away, and from a distance watch us warily as we walk around the bend.

Across the valley, a small cabin clings to the mountainside. Behind it an enormous gaping wound in the earth's crust; great billows of steam float lazily across the parched dry earth. Coming to a massive hole in the ground, I take your hand as we scramble off the trail, move through lush knee-high deep green grass, across a boulder field, and around to the other side.

Waves of steam waft through the air mingling with the mist; the potent smell of Sulphur hangs heavily in the air. Kneeling down to test the water, the simmering liquid heats our hands. Yet rather than leave, we remain, mesmerized by the small and roiling seas.

Nearby another depression is bubbling, only a foot and a half wide, filled with soft, luxurious clay, smooth as silk, light gray, it boils and bubbles slowly, peacefully, as if it has been bubbling since the dawn of time. Leaning over I inhale deeply; the aroma tickles my nose and the mist moistens my lashes.

Without thinking, I reach down and dip my hand into the soft burbling pot, being careful to stay away from the center. I run my hand around the side, picking up the warm, velvety, smooth clay.

Clean with no odor I instinctively rub it over my face. You roll up your sleeves and we cover ourselves with the essence of the earth. We smile at each other and sit, for quite some time, with the warm comforting mud nourishing our pores.

Once the clay dries, we rinse off in a temperate pool and continue toward the cabin. Along the way we come across streams; some ice cold, others boiling hot, sometimes trickling into the same simmering pot. And we look on longingly, if only they were our size, but they're not.

As we walk, the cabin becomes more distinct. The small A frame tucked neatly on the side of a mountain is a hospitable sight. But we are separated by a series of fast running streams. Hopping from boulder to boulder we make our way to the other side. Safely across, we hurry up the mountain to the cabin, drop our packs and run towards the swelling steam.

The deafening roar echoes through the land as the enormous slice in the mountainside, nearly thirty feet long and half as wide continues to bloom with steam. Slowly, cautiously, we edge closer to the source. Heat radiates from the ground, which lay in nearly symmetrical bricks, scorched and lightly brown.

A bit closer and we are gazing down into the furious billows of raging heat. Staring intently, we try to see to the bottom. Yet we can't stare for long as the waves of heat coupled with the enormous roar drive us back upon the cauldron's shore.

We make our base upon the cracked and dusty floor, where we sit in silence amid the steam and thundering roar. Digging into the soft, silky clay, after only half an inch, the earth is so hot, we choose to dig no more.

Having gathered enough of the warm malleable material we begin to create. You roll a snake while I make a small bowl and Dad makes a plumb ducky. We remain lost in time until it begins to pour. As we leave, we place our creations with gratitude, upon the steaming cauldron's shore.

Running down the mountainside we pass the cabin, and on a whim, go into explore. The door is not locked, but it is heavy and we push it cautiously open. Inside there is dirt on the pinewood floor. Eight bunk beds line one long wall, on the other is a large window and within the cabin, there is nothing more.

Having reached our destination, we head back, with the bittersweet realization that while we've seen a lot, there is so much more to explore. We forge one stream and are about to cross another when we decide to find an alternate route to the opposite shore.

Approaching the river from this side there is a bend in the flow, with a large eddy off to one side. Looking hopefully, we see steam rising from the water, with a small dry sandy beach beside. All three of us take off our boots, roll up our pants and walk, through the hot water to the other side.

Reaching the miniature beach, we peel off our clothes and cautiously step into the water. Sinking down into the welcoming warmth we grin, and then we sigh. For this is what we have come for.

Immersing ourselves in the earth's natural heat we simmer as the pounding rain becomes a gentle pour. Moving about the pool we discover there are three distinct temperatures despite its small size.

The nearly unbearable heat is close to one side, while the more moderate temperatures are nearer the center, where the river flows. Lying on my back, I touch the sandy bottom and float effortlessly as the steam wafts peacefully before my eyes.

Feeling like we are the only people on earth, we close our eyes and savor the steam, the heat, and the sandy floor. Simmering in our own private hot pot, time no longer has a meaning. Our reverie is suddenly broken by a band of happy German hikers emerging from the mist.

Talking and laughing, they traipse right up to our private pool, strip off their clothes just as we did and jump in as if they own the place. First one, then two, and by the time everyone has arrived, there are seven in all.

By now the gentle rain is again a steady pour so we walk through the warm, whirling water, dress quickly, pick up our packs, and retrace our steps. We hike along the rocky path, past boiling cauldrons of steaming heat, with rain streaming down our cheeks, fog swirls before our eyes, we walk within the dawn of time.

Over hills, where shrouded valleys lay, small geysers leap from the ground as if to guide our way. Mist hangs heavily on the ridge as we make our way over the pass and down the mountainside.

You walk ahead while I hang back trying to etch the memory in my mind. Slowly, carefully, I try to record every detail. The billowing heat, the swirling mist, all are shades of white, gray, and black, except for your shiny pink raincoat; a beacon, showing me the way. I catch up to you both and we all take one last look back, knowing we are unlikely to return to this mystical place.

Quite unexpectedly, we hear pounding hoofs, closer and closer they come.  We huddle up against a craggy outcropping, where we wait, peering anxiously into the mist. Then we see them, black figures riding equally black horses, gallop past us, almost as if they don't see us at all, and just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone.

Catching our breath and laughing with relief we continue down the mountain singing a happy tune. I am content to concentrate on my footing until suddenly I hear a puzzling low-pitched throbbing. I stop in my tracks and listen.

Looking around, the earth's skin is smooth and unbroken, but I still hear the beat. Carefully I pick my way between flowing springs and parched earth. Listening intently, I follow the throbbing to its source. 

A lush patch of green grass lays pulsing gently in the warm and steamy breeze. Compelled to feel it, I kneel and put one hand on the beating earth and the other on my own. There amid bubbling hot pots, simmering streams and geysers spouting spray my breath mingles with the swirling steam, while the earth's heart and my own beat as one in gentle harmony.