Weekdays the traffic is minimal. Campers are dotted along the American River-bed; a few rafters brave the currents;
A light summer breeze cools our dampened skin; Water bottles are dry; We walk on, so much to see. . .
Broken granite stones seize the imagination with its left over bars and cells of the jail that once held the riotous, drunken, and even murderers.
Trees of all sorts- majestic Oaks, beautiful Walnuts, Maples, Sycamores, Pines and lovely Figs, display their weather-beaten scars, born courageously, and whisper secrets of long ago, in a language all their own.
A short rest, fresh cool water, power bars and the car rides up the little hill where a monument of James W. Marshall, discoverer of gold, is erected.
We take in the panorama of Coloma's country life stretched out before us; We pause and our awakened senses feast.
The moments drifted quickly. The ache of long hot walks has caught up and we are ready to wind back down the road to our abode. Dad's invigorated and points to all he sees with child-like enthusiasm. He stops the car to try and grasp on to one more moment, to make it last a little longer. With camera in hand, he freezes the bridge for memory of that luscious scene.
The promise of a chocolate dipped ice cream cone on the way home, offers solace for the closure of a few precious moments now passed.
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