I just returned from a trip to Glacier National Park, where I spent no little time jumping from some height into, and swimming in, glacial cold waters. This has been a habit of mine since learning how to swim after an embarrassing near-drowning incident in cub scouts. Since then (when I’m not kayaking, rafting, or rowing upon bodies of water), I usually never miss an opportunity to jump from, and sometimes dive from, cliffs into cold, clean, bracing waters. If I can’t do that, I’ll settle for a swim. If that’s not possible, I just allow the cold waters of a stream to wash over me.
Those who have hung around with me over the years and have witnessed this almost-religious custom of mine, may be perplexed. I am, too, though I think I can shed some light on this ritual:
Water is alluring, sacred, dangerous, vital, and invigorating. I’ve floated on it in all conditions, in many different situations, and when it has taken on every color – even white, with hail and sleet that floated like a great white serpent. I have even rafted and kayaked in the moonlight (not a good idea, but relatively safe in the conditions in which I did it). The presence and absence of water defines everything. When I am in any sacred place, whether it be one of beauty, struggle, or pain, I always invite water into that experience.
Water makes everything all the more real. Just as I revel in the textures, fragrances, sights, flavors, sounds, and even painful sensations of the “wild places,” I revel in overlooking an alluring river pool, standing on the shore of an inviting lake, or watching the waves of an untamed river, and I want to experience it. It makes it more intimate. I want it to be indelibly emblazoned in my mind and felt by my body. I don’t just place myself in wildness and beauty, I immerse myself in it. I take it all in. That includes feeling the invigorating, cleansing, and healing power of strong, cold waters. This trip was no different. I ate berries, smelled mushrooms, tested the stinging qualities of the nettles, stopped to listen, stopped to observe, took too many photographs, and jumped into, swam in, and climbed into many glacial fed waters. I loved it! Try it yourself, when you can do so safely.
Loren M. Lambert © July 26, 2016
Those who have hung around with me over the years and have witnessed this almost-religious custom of mine, may be perplexed. I am, too, though I think I can shed some light on this ritual:
Water is alluring, sacred, dangerous, vital, and invigorating. I’ve floated on it in all conditions, in many different situations, and when it has taken on every color – even white, with hail and sleet that floated like a great white serpent. I have even rafted and kayaked in the moonlight (not a good idea, but relatively safe in the conditions in which I did it). The presence and absence of water defines everything. When I am in any sacred place, whether it be one of beauty, struggle, or pain, I always invite water into that experience.
Water makes everything all the more real. Just as I revel in the textures, fragrances, sights, flavors, sounds, and even painful sensations of the “wild places,” I revel in overlooking an alluring river pool, standing on the shore of an inviting lake, or watching the waves of an untamed river, and I want to experience it. It makes it more intimate. I want it to be indelibly emblazoned in my mind and felt by my body. I don’t just place myself in wildness and beauty, I immerse myself in it. I take it all in. That includes feeling the invigorating, cleansing, and healing power of strong, cold waters. This trip was no different. I ate berries, smelled mushrooms, tested the stinging qualities of the nettles, stopped to listen, stopped to observe, took too many photographs, and jumped into, swam in, and climbed into many glacial fed waters. I loved it! Try it yourself, when you can do so safely.
Loren M. Lambert © July 26, 2016
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