by Sara Gelfand

It was midsummer in central Texas where low swells of earth create what locals optimistically call the hill country. All air was hot and muggy, southern-style, as I assisted a friend with her ecological fieldwork. Slowly, we worked our way through an experimental plot of grasses on a private ranch, recording tedious measurements.

“There’s a swimming hole nearby,” Jennifer kept saying. “We can go there after we’re done.” Why she was so excited? Swimming holes in central Texas are murky, tepid things -- not like mountain snowmelt. But after hours of stoop labor, any relief, even lukewarm, was welcome. So into the toasty pickup truck we went, and bumped along through dust until she finally parked. We picked our way on foot through juniper scrub and cactus.

This is the dullest country I’ve ever seen, I thought but didn't say.

“Over there!” I followed her gaze and saw a modest pool of aquamarine surrounded by smooth, low rock. Admittedly, it was clear, but shallow, more like a wading pond than a swimming hole. But while I removed my shoes, preparing to wade, Jennifer dived in and submerged completely. Much to my surprise, the water was well over her head. It only looked like a shallow puddle because the perfectly clear, turquoise luminescence made every pebble and blade of grass visible from above.

I could even see Jenn’s freckles as she shimmied along the bottom. This was not your average mud-hole, but a gift from the Gods, specifically the Gods of limestone springs buried in the earth. I jumped too, letting the blue wash my blues away, and Jennifer laughed.

“I told you so,” she said.

Years later, I still sometimes dream at night about that hidden gem in the hill country – a pool worthy of swimming, or worship -- the way others dream of frosty beer on a parched throat, or sex with a perfect lover who got away.

It was like that.