Some experiences come only once, and some are repeated many times, and some of those that come only once stay repeated in the mind, a worrystone or rosary the soul comes to know as wholly holy. Here at Bridalveil Falls I step wearily from the car, a sere leaf fallen (and, almost, in last year’s love parade, marched to mulch). With careful deliberation, I shut out the sounds of the plain parkinglot, the cavorting kids and bees at my ears, the insistent glitter of sunshine telling eyes look look look. Out of the quiet and the dark, I am made aware of a coldness coming through, a cold of many winter nights compacted and pressed, a hundred years of igloo construction it seems, it is so cold, so starsharp, piercing. The tall trees surrounding the lot have stood in that cold the way commuters wait out a sudden shower: with newspapers raised over their heads, making ironic remarks to strangers. Through those patient trees a mist is springing. Like vodka blown off an endless icecube, the mist spritzes belligerently. Still, every face turns towards it, into the wet. After a quarter mile we are standing soaked among mossy boulders, the sound of the unknown river itself a kind of wetness filling every ear.