Yes, it's really like that.
Thursday afternoon, we hiked along the old railroad bed, to the Devils Punchbowl (just on the other side of the point you see above, on the right):
...where the water is a couple hundred feet deep, to go swimming and take silly photos jumping off the bridge. It was a glorious afternoon, and, as I splashed around in the astonishingly-clear water, I glanced over to the road on the opposite side of the lake.
I drove on that road in 1976, on my first cross-country trip. Last night, I pulled out my journal from that trip and read the narrative of that day. Now, over 30 years later, I find I have come back to this place many times, sometimes after long absences. Odd how these things work out.
Today is the 25th anniversary of my father's death. He was 75 when he died. I was 31. Time flies.
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