If you have sisters, you always have a helping hand

So there I was, straddling a mossy, fallen log stretched across a creek, as water swirled madly around rocks below me.  I hoisted myself an inch at a time across the log, looking ahead and not down, lifting my seat with tiring arms, swinging my hips forward and hoping not to land on anything that would poke me in an uncomfortable place.  I inched forward toward my sister Carolle who had already made it to the other side.  She encouraged me as I labored upward – of course, the log hadn’t landed straight across, but tilted up to give me a better workout! – and she informed me when I was past the water and over the rock ledge.  Almost there!  Well, three-quarters of the way, anyway.  Lift, scootch, pant. As I carefully swung my leg over to lie on my belly and slide off to the ground, Chantal yelled a cheer of congratulations.  Both sisters, I know, were slightly surprised I made it.

We were playing out the same scenario that had played out since we were little:  My bookworm self, chasing after my lacrosse playing, track running, gymnastic team-member sisters. (Four of them.  Yes, four.)  Me always a little behind, needing a boost or a hand or a quick lesson in fence hurdling.   Probably to the relief of my sisters, I often opted to stay on the couch with my Wizard of Oz books.  These days, though, with middle age encroaching (are we there yet??!!), I am loathe to miss out on an adventure, and guess what?  Now I’m a yoga teacher and although I’m not hurdling fences, neither are they.  I’m still much more cautious (okay, scared) than they are, but physically, I can keep up.  Slow but steady, my lifelong motto, has served me well. Yes, the tortoise is finally catching up to the hares! (Lucky for me the hares were my cheerleaders, not my tricksters!)

Off the log, up the mountain to the waterfall we went. Hurricane Irene had sent two intertwined trees down the banks of the creek, their top branches resting high up on the rocks, and their roots lifted like a huge platter of wood and mud.  The power of water is astounding. 

The power of sisters is astounding, too.

The Mystery of the Swallowtail

Last time I was here the water was higher; it was early spring, and now it is early summer.  Up along the banks there are leaves and twigs and even rocks to show how high the water got during spring thaw. I am in the Catskills at a creek near my sister's cabin. Across the creek the land is state-owned, so it is rare to come across any other people down here. Carolle tells the story that one day she and her daughter were sitting on a rock in the middle of the creek, reading, at a time the water ran particularly high, and suddenly two kayakers swished past, each pair surprising the other. But today it is peaceful and quiet.  Except when we do some yodeling to make sure the bears know we are here.

I step out of the water to walk along the banks for a bit.  The water is icy cold and my feet need a break.  Turning to look for the others, I see a flock of yellow swallowtail butterflies drifting silently down the path made by the creek.  Truly, maybe fifty or more wafting past in a straggly line.  For the rest of our trek we spy the butterflies, mostly in twos and threes after the largest group went past, flitting by on their journey to somewhere.

There is no internet service up here - no cell phone service either - so I can't look up information on swallowtails.  Maybe I will when I get home; maybe not. Sometimes it's nice to simply enjoy a mystery.