Cool, Clear Water in a Dry, Desolate Land

There was supposed to be a spring on the ride today. I certainly hoped so, since I had biked downhill from my ridgetop aerie to creek level. It would be quite a grunt to get back to camp. The creek was turning into a pretty good sized tributary of the Green River, in western Wyoming.

The forest service is wonderful here. There was virtually no signage. When I finally got to a little parking lot for the spring, nobody was there. You had to want to find it -- you couldn't just be a tourist rushing to their next scenic delight. That might sound like a little thing, but it feeds a mood that you can love. I left my mountain bike in the parking lot, unguarded, unlocked, and walked to the spring. 

It actually seemed like a mountain stream at first. Quite noisy.

 But all that water was coming from one crack in the mountain side, where the water gushed out without any moiling riffles:

 I am almost glad -- I said "almost" -- for the ghastly drought, and for admitting how horrible it was. This just made the spring more divine.

There was a picnic area nearby. It is quite something how small and humble improvements from the forest service can add to public enjoyment. But the improvements here were almost out of a past era. The modern version would have cost millions of dollars, a dozen noisy tourist vehicles would have been in the parking lot, and the short walk would have been uglified with safety handrails and concrete.

I wonder how often early travelers took the trouble of going to the spring, proper, or whether they were content with the creek downstream. Springs must have had the best drinking water available.

Maybe I should watch a video of the "Sons of the Pioneers" singing "Cool, Clear Water." I actually prefer the Hank Williams rendition of the song.