August 4

I push my face into the skin of Hat Creek. The water is like cold silver against my eyelids. My palms planted on two boulders for stability. I imagine, for a second, a fish seeing me do this. I scream underwater, just to hear the muted sound of it. Coming back up, beard dripping like a sponge, I look around and realize that I am still in California. I am actually doing this, living like this, walking and walking. How did I make it all the way from the bottoms of Kansas City to this creek in California? How did all those years twist and turn to lead me here? Where is this? Who is this?