Ice Cream Headache
A creative nonfiction short story from my 2013 bike journey, never before shared or published.
Nobody wants to be caught alone stark naked in a remote gorge. I float on my back, staring at bounteous clouds, noticing that one in particular looks like a mountain range. They remind me of the Rockies—whose summits my body has already scaled many times. The monotony of my legs pumping reminds me of pushing myself and my gear up over another white snow-capped range, like climbing the white cloud I’m following with my eyes above me. I hit the top of that cloud and my eyes follow the line back down the other side, feeling chilled as I fly down the mountain gaining speed, eyes tearing and hands on the breaks in case I gain too much momentum. It is obvious my head has mountains on the brain: I’ve been climbing gorges for days in Northern Idaho, through Yellowstone, the Tetons and currently along the Wind River in Wyoming. As I float there like a toy boat in a bathtub bobbling about, I see the last layer of sunblock finally wash off my body, and wonder how long it’ll take the oils from the lotion, mixed with hours of my sweat, to dissolve downstream. I am taking care of my body like an Olympic athlete nourishes their body for competition. Each day I fuel it with calories, conceal it from the sun, rub sore muscles out, protect my head with a helmet and hydrate my body with gallons of water. I do not consider myself a nudist. However, at the most basic level, after 6 hours of cycling a day, skinny-dipping is the best way to heal.
The ‘perfect’ refreshing dip location.
I need to bathe and refresh my muscles by cooling off in clean rivers. I feel vulnerable yet safe. I feel naughty yet validated that this is exactly what the doctor ordered. Skinny-dipping cools my head off, both literally and figuratively. I am one with nature and the experience nurtures me back to life. I wondered if X (unnamed man) would ever be “the one” the day I climbed a tree in the heart of the Mississippi’s De Soto National Forest. He refused to join me a story up among the branches of this enormous oak tree. He stood at the base of this tree taking my photo, slapping his legs, complaining how the mosquitos were eating him alive. As I observe the clouds passing by and find familiar shapes in the cotton ball puffs, I reflect on how if he were with me, he would be at the picnic table waiting for me to end my crazy shenanigans of swimming in my “birthday suit” in the middle of nowhere. He would tease me the entire time I was in the water, but I knew all he wanted to do was jump in and join me. Fortunately I already knew that climbing trees, like skinny-dipping, are the moments in life that create passion, growth and adventure. My mind began to wander away from a man in my past life, to the things I wanted in that moment: ice cream, air conditioning and the comfort of a sundress over my clean, cool body.
My daydream is halted by something I didn’t expect in the wilderness: a voice. “Look at this setting, it’s beautiful.” I hear these words over the sounds of the river, tall reeds blowing in the wind, birds flying above and singing a song about how perfect the day is.
I pop my head up to listen more clearly, who are these people? And how many? Do they know I’m here?
“Oh—somebody must be swimming; their bike is here.”
My heart is beating so hard I can feel the blood pulsating in my neck. I am lightheaded from standing up out of incredibly cold water too quickly. My mind naturally goes to the worse case scenario. What if there are two intoxicated men waiting for me to show up to retrieve my belongings? This isn’t quite the adventure I wanted to draw in. Everything is exposed. My phone is hooked up to the solar charger. The peanut butter and honey, crackers and carrots from my half eaten lunch are sitting on the picnic table. My shoes, sweaty socks, sports bra, and bicycle kit are strewn over my trailer. In the 15 minutes I ate lunch, I didn’t see one car pass the remote picnic area when I hastily made the assumption that nobody else would stop here. And now, the freezing water is beginning to give me a horrific ice cream headache.
As I wait, breathing hard, but as softly as I can, I rationalize. I haven’t yet been spotted, but what about my belongings? What if I have to walk over to my things naked? I consider how embarrassing this is. Is X right? Should I always keep two feet on the ground and stay clothed in public? I venture into “what’s next?” mode. Do I leisurely walk over waving like a woman watering her roses as her neighbor pulls in next door from a days work? Do I grab a few of the tall reeds feet away to use as a sword? I have no martial arts training, but maybe I can pretend? Should I grab a large leaf and try and cover the spot where my legs meet and use my other arm to cover my very white breasts? What if they are fellow cyclists heading the same direction and over the next month we leapfrog each other daily, after having seen me up close and personal? I admit that I just feel mortified. I don’t want to encounter anyone because they will see me without any clothes on, clear as the river. Was this a stupid idea? Do the essential and necessary healing aspects of skinny-dipping in a remote place really outweigh the risks?
Indecent exposure laws in all 50 states make it a crime to purposefully display one’s genitals in public. These laws are in place to protect people from sexual harassment situations. But, if somebody skinny-dipping causes you offense, the law is against the person cooling herself off in only Crocs with horribly unattractive tan lines mid-thigh.
The voice sounds like it is coming from a woman. It’s tinny and middle-aged, allowing my shoulders to release slightly. I take a long deep breath, sit up and stand in water, barely two feet deep. The brutal, dry heat assaults me. Here I am, I say to myself, all or nothing. Here I am, blazing in the wild, hot wind.
As I leave the deeper part of the river and head for the bank close to the turn, the two women and a large new orange Hummer parked near my bike come into view. They have not spotted me. I start to creep around the tall grass maneuvering around rocks in the river, one hosting a turtle that seemed angry enough with me disrupting his sunbathing to plop into the water. I tiptoe like a ballerina, careful not to slip or stumble, creating a huge splash. At least it’s two women.
I wait and I think. I’m feeling many different emotions in this moment. My mouth begins to curve upward, considering this is pretty hilarious. Although I am a little freaked out these two women may steal something. My face is slightly pink with embarrassment, and my ice cream headache isn’t going away. In fact, I barely feel my feet and keep lifting one out of the water to warm up in the air. I switch to warm the other.
The car doors open. I stay completely still with the hope of what I may hear next.
Both car doors shut and just like that, the two women are on their way. I breathe. I throw my head back and laugh so loud it echoes in the canyon with acoustics like an ancient Greek opera singer at the Theatre of Delphi. The whiteness of my bottom is out there for anyone to see, as remote as it is. I walk quickly out of the river squeezing the extra water dripping off my hair. I put on my bike shorts and sports bra. My body is practically steaming, it is so hot outside. I dip my bike shirt in the water and pull it over my head as one more chill flows through my body. I sit down on the picnic table graffitied with knife indentations of who’s been here and who loves whom “forever.” I wiggle my toes as they dry pulling on my socks and shoes. I eat the rest of my peanut butter and honey sandwich, pack up and mount my bike. As I turn on my bike computer, clip into the pedals and adjust my gloved hands on the handlebars, I think, the benefits still definitely outweigh the risk. I know that come the next day, my incredibly white ass will back in freezing water.