Twelve Waterfalls

One of the first things I do every morning when I get up is look out my bedroom window at the San Francisco Bay. All that water. And it’s just a dropper full compared to all the water in the ocean.

Last week we took a day and a half mini-trip over to Yosemite National Park to see more water—twelve (twelve!) major waterfalls—gushing, roaring, cascading, pouring, surging, spilling over the breathtaking gorgeous, awe-inspiring landscape of jutting mountainous rock. The amount of water falling into the valley, into the Stanislaus River, was unfathomable—how could there possible be enough snow melt to keep feeding that endless rush of H2O?

We took the mile hike up the paved path to Upper Yosemite Falls, through a sub-alpine forest, the cold air rich with cedar and oxygen. It tasted of granite. Birdsong laced through the thunder of water on stone. Our clothes and skin were saturated with the fine mist of airborne spray: it felt like a kind of initiation into the mysteries of Spring.

I couldn’t help but think of one of my favorite YA novels—Alison McGhee’s ALL RIVERS FLOW TO THE SEA—the deeply moving story of one sister’s journey through grief to redemption. 

Now when I look out in the morning, I think of all that snow melting, dripping, falling and gushing into that river that flows into the sea and then into the Bay outside my bedroom window. And I am even more astounded.

Sharry