A searing sensation arises in my skin as I timidly lower myself into the water. Utter weakness attests with stark reality to the exhausting day. All my instincts scream at me to vacate the hot tub and cool in the bitterly frigid air. The contradiction between the air and water is the epitome of a dichotomy. There is no escaping the extremes, rather which one can be endured longer. Submerged to my chest, the super-heated water permeates my skin and my soul; my heart rate slows, and each breath is a luxurious struggle of acceptance of the inevitable.
In the distance, where I had stood no more than 30 minutes earlier, black dots on a white backdrop scurry frantically down the mountainside like ants abandoning their nest during a summer rain storm. Watching them is hypnotic; I enter a trance initiated by the increase in core temperature. The water no longer singes my skin; rather it soothes the dully aching muscles and I slide a little further into this magical liquid abyss. The losing struggle to keep my eyes open pushes me towards slumber. The monotonous throaty buzz from the bubbles is a persistent and peaceful symphony of relaxation. Through closing eyes, I notice that a well-dressed attendant has slid into view. He utters something unintelligible to which perplexedly, I absently respond, “What?” His lips move at a rate as constant as the rolling tide with no sign of ceasing. Incoherently, I acquiesce to his request and he glides away as a rudderless sailboat might in a light breeze.
Minutes or eons, I am not sure which, pass. I find I am gripping a frosty glass filled with a fizzing liquid substance of lighted green and yellow hues. In it floats an infinite number of perfectly translucent cubicles of ice. The first sip electrifies my taste buds and sends a jolt through my being. The trance is vanquished, my brain awakens, and my eyes snap into focus. While I swallow, I can discern the popping and crackling of the beverage’s harmonic concert. I set the elixir behind my head on the cold, hard, unforgiving concrete and take a deep breath. Acute mental clarity and total physical well-being ensues simultaneously enveloping me in an out-of-body euphoric transition of unwavering relaxation.
Once again, my gaze is inexorably drawn to the expansive colorless mass that overwhelms the all-encompassing foreground landscape and I cannot help to observe the strange resemblance it has to the stark blank canvas of an artist before he has laid his brush to it. The ubiquitous black specks cascade downward in an endless stream carving proportional geometric curves into the mountainside. The widths of some are skinnier than others and it can be presumed that those who created them must have been moving more swiftly. The swarm pulses rhythmically; thickening, thinning, ever-changing, always flowing downward.
Beyond the snarling jagged peaks of the mountains, the cool cerulean blue mountain sky is painted. Clouds are conceived and fade away; sometimes in gigantic rolling waves, and other times in elongated boney-thin streaks. High above the clouds, jet contrails mark the path of a recently passing plane, much like the way wet car tires leave traces on a dry street. From these, it is difficult to discern the speed or direction of the object, but nonetheless, indicates the exact location of something now impossible to find.
A multitude of smells are available for the olfactory senses if only one makes the effort to distinguish them. The faint smell of chlorine with its hideous acrid personality has been creeping up on me for a while, and only now that my attention is drawn to it do I recognize it as the beast whose sole mission is burn my nostrils and throat with the intensity of a blazing inferno. By contrast, I also detect the delightfully friendly camp-fire smell of burning pine or perhaps charcoal as a camper is no doubt warming himself against the frigid air or perhaps preparing some agreeable repast. Above all this, I get the occasional whiff of the wonderful fragrance of cooking garlic from some quarter of the complex where dinner is being prepared by an obviously talented practitioner of the culinary arts.
As time passes, people visit and depart my small outdoor retreat. They occupy similar heated pits of water, engage in their personal salutations, and depart. The pattering of damp feet walking on the hardwood deck alert me to their presence even before I see them and they seem to depart with no warning or fanfare. I enjoy the fact that they are there and I am not sad when they leave.
The decking is a strange thing. Composed of the same material as the surrounding forest, the deck appears worn and craggy; a sunburned scarred and battle-hardened facade. By contrast, the trees are timeless in their youthful vigor. Their supple and flexible nature is long forgotten in the visage of the wrinkled and dried planks. Overhanging part of the deck is the roof of the building. Upon its edges hang an assorted menagerie of razor sharp pointed icicles. Some of these reach menacingly down to stab the top of an unsuspecting head, while others are only babies and completely benign by comparison. Each day as the snow on the roof of the building melts, it deliberately descends down the icicles formed the previous night. These droplets of water freeze adding to the already-ominous shards of glassy ice daggers.
The caffeinated beverage is now nearly gone, and I feel its effects setting in; my senses are now sharply in focus. The mountain breeze whistles through the trees, ruffling the pine and is mixed with a low growl of heavy machinery in the distance. This hum travels as one with the zephyr. These opposites, however, do not clash; they complement one another. The whistling breeze would give one too eerie of a feeling without the synthetic moan. Likewise, if one only heard the artificial noise, he or she would get the impression that a city surrounded them and this was not the case. Serenity would be the only word to describe it.
The elongated exposure to the heat requires a hasty cool-off. A quick jump in the frigid waters of the adjacent loch does the trick. Upon emerging, I hurry to the crude piece of cotton I call my towel and endeavor to dry off. And so tomorrow morning, at 8 am, I will once again join in with the masses of black dots and harness the force of gravity as I traverse the steep mountainside on skis.