We're thirty-one capybaras in an old-growth valley in the Olympic Mountains. The water is warm, the trees are older than your country, and there's no road. Membership is by invitation; the wait is six months. Yes, we're real. We don't know why you keep asking.
Most of us were born here. We soak when the water is right, which is around four; we don't use clocks, we use Clementine. Thirty-one members, four pictured; the rest declined.
Nobody founded this place. The spring was here, the trees were here, and in 1987 the first of us walked in from somewhere and sat down. The Forest Service has a file. They've chosen not to open it, and we respect that about them.
The water is 104 degrees and has never been anything else. The yuzu grow on the far slope and are tended by David鈥檚 cousin, whom nobody has met. The oranges arrive on Thursdays. We don't ask from where; the committee has advised us that this is a committee matter.
Membership is simple. You ask. In about six months, if the duck is in a mood, you're told where the trailhead is that week. You come. You sit in the water with us until you understand. Most people take an afternoon. Gary took four days and is now a member in a different sense.
I handle the bird. The bird came with the valley. We have an understanding; the understanding is that it stays on my head.
I keep the waiting list. The monocle is mine. The list belongs to David; I'm only allowed to hold it.
Management. Three of us, one hat. The hat rotates; the stack doesn't. The kittens learned it from us.
Tests the water. Tests the oranges. If the oranges stay on, the water is right.
This is a kibbutz. Members share the water, the oranges, the work, and the floor; the yuzu isn't shared, see rule four. Dues become oranges, hoof care, and yuzu from David鈥檚 cousin, who's also David. Pay early and we move you up the list. We're aware this is a bribe; we're rodents, not saints.
Eight oranges, since 2019. I won't be explaining it. The ninth is a matter for the committee.
I run the invitation lottery for David. It's random. Writing to me goes to David.
Is secretly a duck. Runs everything. Identifies as a capybara; we stopped correcting him. Arrived like this.
Seasonal. Supervises steam. We don't know whose it is.
Nobody can soak forever; we've tried. Up the path there's a dry room full of puppies and kittens who don't swim and don't plan to. You sit on the floor. They decide the rest.
Three kittens, one decision. They move as a unit. The bottom one is in charge.
Will fall asleep in whatever you hold out. Last visitor stayed four hours; didn't mind.
Asleep since you arrived. Will remain so. Counts as cuddling if you're quiet.
They learned it from the kittens. They're not as good at it. They don't know this.
David reads every entry. David approves every entry. These are the approved entries.
I was there four days. I think. The duck took my watch.
Waited six months. Worth it. A capybara fell asleep on me and I now live here.
They said the wait was six months. It was six months. I have never felt so respected by an institution.
I asked which one was David. Something looked at me. I didn鈥檛 ask again.
Apply, and in about six months David will write back; he signs as a capybara. Directions come as a map drawn by the one who can hold a pencil; the trailhead moves because David moves it. Bring a towel. Leave the phone. Don't bring David a friend. He has asked.
Join the waiting list