Ice Cold Swimming Hole
When my brother Ken
and I were in our preteen and early teen years we would walk with the neighbor
boys an eighth of a mile to a deep spot in the waters of Poplar Run. It was a
spot under the bridge between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania along Route
711. The waters that fed this stream emanated from underground springs and the
melt off of the winter’s snow and ice. The creek for the most part, flowed
through shaded wooded areas where sunlight only filtered through the leaves and
branches of huge trees and laurel bushes that lined its banks. The swift
flowing water stayed cold all year long.
Each year a basic
dare progressed into an annual challenge, we would make the trek to get
into the frigid water beneath the bridge before the end of April. We weren’t
quite the Polar Bear club, but it wasn’t a sunny day on the beach either.
Beneath the bridge
along one side of the stream was a sand and rock stretch of beach. Before we
would make our first timorous exploration into the water we would build a fire.
We already knew that the water would be cold. We gathered driftwood to keep the
fire going as we swam. It would be the difference between salvation and hypothermia.
It would be needed.
Under the bridge the
stream made a turn where the current created the deep swimming hole. The
deepest part of the hole was in the shade of the bridge, so there was no
heating of the water on the trip from the melted snow to our pool.
Once the fire was
built and going well, we stripped down to our white briefs and crept to the
water’s edge. We knew what awaited us. There was always the test of toes,
praying that a miracle would have happened and the water had been somehow
transformed to become warm. We hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be as
cold as it invariably was.
Each of us had our own
way of getting into the water to finally immerse ourselves in the icy flow.
Some of eased in; toes, ankles, calves, mid thighs, and then the part that took
your breath away: the family jewels. It was no use going slow any longer and we’d
dive in. No use prolonging the agony. Others were more daring and took the
plunge, popping out of the water with a savage scream that echoed from the high
arched walls of the concrete bridge.
One thing that was the
same for all of the swimmers after we had taken the plunge and the few
strokes back to shore we raced for the fire to get warm. Huddled and shivering
we crouched close to the red hot coals, squatting on our haunches and holding
our quivering arms to our chest as we sought more body heat. We added more wood
to dry ourselves and to try to get warm before hypothermia could set in.
Once we warmed a
bit, we would open a sleeve of saltines and toast them one at a time on a
forked stick by holding the cracker over the hot coals. Retrieving the plastic
knife we had hidden, we would smear some of the oleo from the stick “butter” onto
the toasted cracker and have a feast until the last crumb was devoured.
It was a time of male bravado and bonding. About this time, we were dry and warm. Climbing back into our clothes we would head for home. All through the summer we would return to swim. When the dog days of summer and its hot sweltering temperatures engulfed our world, the swimming hole would become an oasis and refuge with its cool, refreshing water and not the springtime place that tested our manhood.
