From Bald Knob Mountain by Jake Bailey I spent my morning walking up a mountain called Bald Knob. I was hiking the Appalachian Trail, in the state of Virginia, on a hot summer day. Uncertain of the exact time, I looked up into the sky to gauge the afternoon. I had walked maybe ten miles. After a long climb, my canteen had only a gulp of water left. When I came upon another hiker, traveling in the opposite direction, I asked him, "How long ago did you pass a campsite? Did you stop for water?" He told me, "A mile up the trail, there's a campsite with water. Near the lean-to there is a sign leading to the nearby creek, yet when I followed this sign down to the stream-bed, the water was dried up. Don't be mistaken, there is water. But don't take the regular trail that goes directly to the creek. If you look closely, off to the right, someone has tied blue pieces of ribbon around the trees. Follow the ribbons and they will lead you up the creek to a cairn stacked up in the middle of the creek bed. Right next to that cairn, there is a small hollow among the boulders full of water. I think it's spring-fed. Its cold, fresh and deep enough to sink your bottle into." So, I followed his directions when I got down the trail. I walked into camp and tossed my pack on the floor of the lean-to. I took my bottle, as I followed the direction of a sign that said "water" in white paint. However, I didn't follow the trail all the way; I cut right when I saw the blue ribbons. The creek looked like it had dried up some time ago; parched boulders created a barren path through the trees. By following the ribbons, I found the cairn of stones, and when I stood on top of a boulder, next to it, I found the hollow filled with water. I looked through the clear water of the hollow to the pebbles and sediment at its bottom. The

hollow wasn't very big; it held maybe a gallon of water. Yet, when I submerged my empty bottle, cool water sloshed into it, and the hollow refilled itself from an unseen source. I took the bottle in my hand and wrapped my fingers around its cold metal as trickles of water rolled down its side. I wanted to drink the water right where I crouched, but I left my filter at the lean-to. I looked up the stream-bed to see if the spring surfaced at any other point; I looked for pollutants like dead animals, or any kind of defecation. Finding nothing, I held the bottle up to my lips, tilted it back, let the crisp water roll over my tongue, as trickles of water rolled down the bottle's side over my fingers and down my stubbled chin. Without worry, I drank because I knew I could. I drank because I could not find this water in any store or home. I drank because when I returned to school in Buffalo, when I rested after a long day in front of a computer, lost in thought, I would remember the time when I climbed a mountain to its highest ridge where the water of a budding spring filled a rocky hollow; there, I drank clear, unaltered spring water straight from its source, as it trickled down my chin.