I went sailing in a canoe rig on Friday and hiked up to a waterfall with Priscilla and Elnat after we made it across the lake. And then rowed/sailed back.
Afterwards I wrote out the waterfall so I would remember it when life gets hot and sticky in BT.
Water falls, exploding on the rough ridges of the stone in a fury of sparkling white froth. Droplets dancing in the air form transparent rainbows hovering over the foaming surface of the pool, shimmering mid-space in delicate bands of color and appearing or disappearing in a wavering glance. Like a voice, wind amplifies the crash or tumble of the liquid in this amphitheater of the falls, constantly pushing the heavy murmur against our ears, our legs, shaking the ground. Moisture rolls down my face, and into my socks, beading from the spray in icy coolness though the sun beats down around us. The cupped ground catches the light; the verdant mass of greenery rising high on the rocky cliffs in shocking brilliancy. Where the rock appears is a rich earthy color, baked pale and bright or carved by the rushing water into deep wet tones, shining darkly. Trees climb the slope of thick grasses and moss, stretching high above us to tower grandly some eighty feet, taller even than the fall. Yet the pouring length of water reaches to the blue sky, tempestuously flinging itself from an immense height only to break in to a million motes in downward flight. Among the wet rocks surrounding the pool, sticks lie caught in a thick pattern of lines, and beside the white flurry of the fall, a lone monarch butterfly flutters serenely, a spot of orange against the darker stone.