More of Will

Sweet Water

Those from other than a desert clime cannot embrace the internal map of watering holes and oasis that imprints itself of mind and soul. An ancient guide would know of every spring and seasonal flow, of hidden well and globular root that held the nectar of life. My friend Will was of these – from parched experience, Indian stories and feral whispers. One may not believe all of his stories of adventure ands spirit of the land, but one does not play false with water. And thus it was with the Sweet Water Spring.

“Draw a line from Big Bend (Walker River) to the Watinabi Marsh eighty miles south. Draw another from Miner’s Cup to Washoe Damp. Near the intersect you will find the sweetest water of the Great Basin. Or you can just follow your nose or turn your mule loose within twenty miles.”

“Why sweet water, and is it part of an underground stream, or what?” I queried by way of encouragement. The old man offered many things, but never talked just to move the dust about. I think many old folks start sentences and never finish their thought – a sign of senility, they say. But I think wisdom does not care to share with those who will not pay attention. “Many are called, but few choose …,” is a phrase that comes to mind. There was popular myths of secret underground rivers beneath the high desert – another treasure to be found. That he ignored my feint told me more than conjecture.

“There is a mineral taste to most water out here – everywhere, actually. Ever try that new ionized water? Dead, dead, dead. But some spring and creek water tastes pretty strange. So, when you find a spring with no noticeable taste but full of life and your taste buds sing -- you call it sweet. Brings to mind Jeannette McDonald singing ‘Oh Sweet Mystery of Life’ but in liquid form. We’ll stop by there tomorrow – take us some picnic fixings too.” With Will this meant chucks of bread torn from the loaf, slabs of cheese and beer soaked jerky, raw vegetables and found berries. This was part of a plan long in the making – my presence didn’t change a thing. Not that I had any objections.

Eating in a restaurant with him was another adventure. He never looked at a menu – just ordered what he wanted, and never ‘got no lip’. Never asked price and usually left a big bill on the table before the slip arrived. He wasn’t wealthy, but never poor either – he just enjoyed reliving the gold rush days. “Once paid $5.00 for an egg,” he ventured, “Back then a fancy Sunday suit only cost $10.00. Then I cooked it up on an assay pan and fed it to this young lady with a new born girl – and husband just killed in the mine. My Missus road with her back to Carson City where she would find a husband right off. Do you know what ‘fecund’ means – every ‘go west’ fella did? Worth more than gold – that’s for sure.” Anyway, that morning for breakfast he told the waitress, “Tell Fred to fetch a piece of rare prime rib you didn’t sell last night, sear it in bacon grease and hide it with a couple of basted eggs. While we’re waiting, I can handle a piece of strawberry pie and coffee.” And she did. I had to fend for myself and didn’t regret the homemade hash and scones and offered ‘grandma’s jam’. They only had butter milk, and I passed – wasn’t into coffee yet.

I was too young to ponder why every woman of any age always jumped to Will’s attention; and men always tipped their hats and asked for his advice. Once by a campfire, this man of 94 years whispered, “If you truly love any woman you must love all women a bit, and if you respect any man, you must respect them all.” Not sure if was speaking to me at all – just himself maybe. But I was telling you about Sweet Water.

When we got to the little canyon after four hours on a dirt road he hadn’t been on for 48 years, there were a couple of surprises. A little meadow had formed and three cotton woods struggled in the rocky shadows. The whole magical spot was smaller than your front yard as the meager water flow seeped back into the ground only a couple of yards from where it bubbled from a pipe. It was an artesian well! “Jake Simms and I drove that pipe down in 1904 and took turns sucking to get it started. Before that it was just a seep spring about a foot across.” The other surprise was a sign – “BAD WATER – DON”T DRINK”, and a crudely marked scull and cross bones. “What do you see?” he asked.

I searched and found many small animal tracks, but no bones or evidence of carrion birds. The sparse foliage was healthy and bright. The pipe was un-rusted, but green with moss. Will just nodded at my observations. “Let’s be safe anyway!” He scraped the skin on his forearm in two places. One he touched to the edge of the pipe. On the other, he rubbed leaves of the cress growing at the base of the spring. Then he plucked a leaf from a tree and placed it beneath his tongue. We waited. After twenty minutes none of his test showed any ill effects. “Silly folk don’t know good water from soda pop! Besides, if it were bad, the Indians would have destroyed the well. Why is it that people label anything as ‘bad’ if it isn’t like what they already know? If they aren’t willing to try anything new that they never experienced before, I wonder how some of them ever had kids. You just watch. When ‘different’ comes to mean ‘bad’ in politics, religion and education – it will be time to move – except that there may be no where else to go.”

When I got home, and Mother asked what we had done, I said, “We drank some poison water and talked philosophy.”

“I thought you were prospecting, or looking for Indian artifacts.”

“That too.”

I had a bottle of that water on my bedroom shelf for years. Somebody threw it out while I was in Viet Nam. Doesn’t matter. I remember.