Not all mountain streams race in a cascade of rushing water down a boulder strewn crevasse, diving over abrupt embankments in white water veils worthy of any bride. Some twist and turn leisurely like sun baked snakes slithering through high, flat plateaus, meandering toward the cool shade of willows.

Other times, mountain streams burrow underground to disappear into hidden caverns of shivering night, then leap unexpectedly into merrily laughing springs, rippling over small stones and pebbles.

One such stream appeared at the top of a forty-foot rise. Large moss-covered stones, smoothed by centuries of rushing water, created a rolling slide that could entice the child out of the most dignified adult.

I sat in the cold stream on the upper most flat stone and then pushed off. For eight thrilling, squealing seconds of fun I felt the heat from the searing summer sun simultaneously with the chill of the icy spring water.

Then the long climb to the top of the hill drew out rivulets of sweat before another delightful ride down.