Memories of Monongahela National Forest part 2

As I stepped into the water of the river, I was immediately surrounded by textures and sensations. The hard stones on the bottom of the river, those too heavy to be moved by the water, formed a knobbed and sometimes sharp foundation to walk on. I kept a slow pace, slowing shifting my weight. The water was cold, reminding you it ran down from the surrounding mountain, pushing softly from the left to the right. The current sometimes pushed fish into my legs, causing me to jump, remembering the snake.

Justin, Ray, Christina, Stephanie and I all played in the water. In we would go, splashing each other and diving under until you are shivering cold, then back out to enjoy the heat of the sun. There is no sand on this beach, but large flat stones, which hold onto and radiate heat through the day. They are hard, but a perfect complement to the water.

Lunch was to be a giant potluck with the full extended family. There would be those who came with us from Michigan, those we would visit about once a year, and those who were completely unfamiliar to me. This was long before I started doing genealogy, so I was completely not interested. The old ladies had a table full of books of pictures, brown and faded, they would ask who you were and connect you into their family. The grandson, of my second cousin. I smiled and nodded, but I was there for the food. My current self, wants to shake my past self when I think about this.

I got away from the matriarchs table as quickly as I could and got my food. Baked beans and ham. A few desserts and Kool-aid. I sat at the rough wooden picnic table, the red varnish on it is so thick it almost looked plastic. This part of the woods seemed to be pine trees. I took a breath and breathed them in. I could see a Rhododendron bush, which I had been advised not to pull an leaves off of, since it violated West Virginia state law. The buzz of family, known and unknown, surrounded me.

Yeah, I like to go fishing, I told my cousin. I dumped the scraps of food left on my plate into the green 55 gallon barrel marked trash. We ran to our campsite and grabbed a couple fishing poles. I carried a small blue box, which had the tackle inside. I didn't like fish, but I liked fishing, more specifically, I like casting, getting that bobber or lure to land so far out in the water.

We made out way back up the dirt road, to where it dropped off at the stone beach by the river. From there we walked upstream just a little bit, where you could more clearly see the bridge, beside a large flowering bush. The high pitched whine of the thin string unwinding into space. The click of the reel locking and then slowly being wound. The fish weren't biting, but I didn't care. Eventually, I added two sinkers to the end of the line, to get more distance on my cast. I was trying to get it to land on the opposite bank, but at all interested in the fish anymore.

We celebrated with each cast, further and further away. We stomped the sand and dirt bank. At first, I noticed the black and white insect in the flowers, then more of them. They were white head wasps, I had learned in boy scout camp, and they were mean. Suddenly, I heard the buzzing. It wasn't one or two on the flowers, it was a swarm and swarm growing around us. I dropped the rod and reel and ran.

I ran to the stones of the beach, empty right now. I swatted the wasp on my neck, which had just stung me. It hurt, but I was still trying to outrun the swarm. The little crisp body dropped from me. Suddenly I realized there was one in the sleeve of my tee shirt. Stinging and stabbing. I pinched it with shaking hands through the shirt. It was only two stings, but I knew I might be in trouble. I am allergic to bee stings.

At the campsite, I told my mom what happened. She moved from worry to remedy mode. I took the Benadryl, while I was trying to calm down, went to the tent and promptly passed out.