before

we’re searching for dry matches and none of us smoke. rental texts for the barrel sauna described the guard geese, the apple trees, the fences, and those were true. said all
necessities were in the tiny changeroom-cabin. but the match tin, alluring as it is with a painted peacock lid, is empty.

rain began last week. sunlight has somehow patched through for minutes now and then, but the connection is erratic and the rain is gifted at wrestling back control. there’s no obvious dry firewood, wonder if we missed a detail in the text messages when we booked it. with no signal out here, there’s no way to check. one walks over to the small storage-or-grow-op RV nearby and finds a lighter in the glove box, hope! but – damn, not yes. no fluid.

the cabin gutters blithely channel rain into a waist-high wooden cask. it’s replete, can’t hold another sip. the lid, hinged in the middle, lets water seep. a soupbowl-sized dipper hangs from a hook on its side. I flip the half-circle open and place my palm on the surface. briefly. refrigerator temps, the water, the woods. I curse, we came for warmth!

and there, headlights. the arborist returned from town. he immediately brings an apology-laden full wheelbarrow of firewood and we light the fire while he goes for another.

during

a wooden bucket, smaller ladle.

acclimatize. rest. pour water on rocks. vapour so hot I feel my skin flush red all the way down my calves.

I put my head between my knees and let my back breathe. relax. do you know how wide your ribs can open? one of the others adds another splash of water. the air might be sizzling. I laugh, cover my face with my washcloth and step out before my lips begin to scorch. the other two carry on. over the hours we become three slick-skinned mammals,
alternating sweat with rain dripping down from the cedar branches behind. land seals making our own saltwater.

during

water bottle / swallow / def no ice cubes left

ladle / steam / conversation / silence / sip / some words some stretching some analysis and simplify and so

many things we’re letting-sweating go

guzzle / pour water over head

it’s all here or nothing is here or everything could but doesn’t have to be

after

serene. a half-hour drive ahead and still a drizzle so be careful, the deer love nibbling whatever grows in the ditches. gravel roads with good grip but no streetlights.

we’re all here out of our ordinary lives. two will return on the weekend for another steeping and one will cross off the island on a ferry, but that’s later. now, it’s rivulets on the windshield and all of us watching for the flash of white tails.

during

seems I heat-soak the quickest each steam, so here I am outside again. the sky and trees form monochrome. I reconsider the cask. choose an arm – yep, plunge it down, all
the way up to my shoulder, reach into the cool depths and my mind my arm my hand wrist no tension

skin wants colour, what colour is here? hey it must be green-blue tumble ocean robin egg sea glass what prickle shapes of whale gray? it’s impossible to tell in the dark, but my muscles are happy to tighten and push, we’re alive! against the rainwater’s fluid form.

now splash my other arm all the way down. luxury. my head can’t fit in but the dipper–slosh banners of fresh wet across my salty torso, front and back. nipples and neck, thighs and knees. cool-hot cool-hot cool, still core warm.

I stand under the cedars again. if it weren’t for the friendship of those two, I’d be sitting in tight calf-curl form with my stalled sketchbook and angry shoulders, it’s been a week
of doubts. the needles alternate prickly and smooth under my feet but nothing feels cold, just newly possible and calm.

-MW

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