East Fork Bear River

A writer could spend her whole life wishing to be next to a rolling river while the sun sets behind the pine trees.

She could wish that her tent unfolds with ease and that the Coleman stove fires up quick. She might decide to use the extra pad she brought along so her back doesn’t ache quite so much during the night. Sleeping on the ground is hard if you are old and your rear end has melted into other parts of your body.

The river is busy. Wide enough to be serious and very fast moving. There are large rocks at the edge and popping up in the middle, giving the illusion that one could walk across the river by stepping carefully on the rocks.

But the force of the river says otherwise.

Only a fool or very desperate person would attempt a crossing. A writer is neither, consumed as she is by observation and imagination.

She is in Wyoming. No, Utah. The two states cozy up against each other, sharing roads to obscure campgrounds for people starting in one place and going to another. The river goes wherever it goes, and in some places she imagines people in waders fly casting into the rushing foam. She looks at the river and thinks – there are big fish in there but they’ve not made themselves known.

She wishes she knew the names of the trees bordering the river. They are all pine trees in her mind because she’s not taken the time to learn the differences between trees that stay green all winter long. These trees are different, their trunks blonder and their branches daintier. Still, they are tall like pine trees in Wisconsin.

The campground is empty except for an RV at the entrance. So, if a bear comes, she hopes the RV man will hear the screaming. Her phone doesn’t work here so there is no emergency help unless she runs up the road and waves her arms at the trucks that go by every now and then.

Come save me from the bear, she will say, but they are likely to keep on driving with their high beams on so as to spot the deer that might dart out from the forest.