Moon Lake

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The world was eerily washed in orange light that can only be described as primeval. A campfire crackled behind me. I could hear the hiss and pop of logs burning and smell the earthy, spicy aroma that only accompany a campfire. Only hushed voices could be heard. No one wanted to disturb the nearly sacred moment.

The full moon hung in the sky, making the world look like daylight. It looked larger than normal, big enough to be intimidating, like it was too heavy for the sky and had begun to sink toward the earth. The sky seemed smaller than usual, as if for once in my life I could pick it up and carry around in my backpack. A few illuminated clouds scuttled across the night, breaking up the monotony of the volcanic-orange sky. The light from the moon had nearly erased all stars from the sky; old man moon wasn't sharing the show that night.

The lake glistened, as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the sky and the forest that encroached on its edges. The trees could be seen upside down like jagged arrows boring into the lake’s reflection. Insects chirped. Bullfrogs sang their song in the night, earthy belches that provide a stark contrast to the lake’s gracefulness. Tall grasses and reeds marched before me to the lake’s edge like soldiers going to war.

My mind felt at peace. Anna stood beside me, staring at everything all at once just like I was. The people around us seemed to disappear and it was just us. Comrades. Together we soaked in the beauty. I committed every detail to memory, not wanting to forget a single detail; the smells, the sounds, the feel, the taste. I can still see it in my mind’s eye to this day.

I love moments like that when the entire glory of nature hits you full in the face. When you have no option but to stand in awe, breathless. Those are the moments that I am glad that I don’t often carry a camera. Sometimes it’s better to just experience moments than to capture them.

Swampy Beauty

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There is a small swamp in the woods about half a mile from my house. To me, it is one of the most beautiful and disgusting places in the world. The mud at the bottom is deep, and you don’t dare venture in for fear of losing your shoe in the muck of the bottom. I would never want to go in there. My legs and feet would feel trapped, suffocated even. You could never tell if the ground you are about to step on is solid or just a pile of muck waiting to suck you in. Untold creatures live in there: salamanders, snakes, and the worst of all, frogs and toads. I hate the frogs and toads that live there. (I hate toad and frogs in general.) If you think of all the debris, slime, and creepy-crawlies at the bottom of it, you just may find a bile forming in the back of your mouth. I know I do.

However, that swamp is one of the best indicators of the change in seasons. Every spring, little tree frogs that we call spring peepers come out, and every night they sing. They sound like little, other-worldly birds chirping all night long. (I like these frogs.) If you ever find yourself near a swamp or creek in central Pennsylvania in the summer, enjoy the lullaby they sing. In the spring daffodils and other flowers poke out from the wet ground, and green begins to appear on the trees and ground of the swamp. If the summer is particularly hot, the swamp will dry out so that only a thin layer of mud remains. In some places it dries and cracks forming a dusty layer. In the fall, thin ice crystals form in the mornings across the brown swamp water, a reminder of winter to come. In the winter, the ice locks down on that swamp and freezes it, allowing snow to lay across its surface.

I always look forward to driving past that little swamp. Maybe its because we don’t go past it often, or maybe because it always reminds me of spring no matter what time of year it is. It’s always a reminder of the fresh new life that can come from something ugly. It tells me that no matter how bad the circumstances look, something beautiful is bound to come from it.

Pine Fever

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When we arrived at the north rim of Grand Canyon National Park, we had already driven several hours with all six members of my family and all our gear and luggage shoved into our Chevy mini van. We finally spilled out of the car. I couldn't help but close my eyes and breathe in the tangy smell of pine trees all around me. So refreshing after so much time spent in the desert.

For the first time in weeks, there was something above my head other than the tent or van roof. Ponderosa pines with their fluffy green branches and stoic red trunks reached above me. Sunlight filtered through the branches and a few patches of blue and white sky could be seen far above. Kaibab squirrels with their tufted ears, black bodies, and grey tails scurried around the pine forest floor, up and down the trees. From where we parked, I could see the empty space in between the red trunks where the canyon dropped off. Tree trunks, then simply blue sky.

Looking down at my feet, I saw pine needles, brittle and soft, instead of sand and rocks. A smile spread across my face as I was reminded of the feel of the forest. It wasn't until then that I realized I was weary. Weary of travel, weary of dryness, weary of dust and dirt. My entire being longed for a touch of familiarity, something to remind me that this was still the same planet as that of my beloved Pennsylvania. These trees, although entirely different from the forests of my home, were close enough. Being under the canopy of those trees was a feeling that I cherished. At that moment in time, that grove of pines I found myself in was equal to paradise.

I extended my arms and stretched, relishing in the smell of mingled pine and dirt.

“Yeah,” said an older gentleman getting out of the car next to me as he looked at my display of joy. “Me too.” He stretched out his arms, moaning a little as his muscles experienced movement for the first time in hours. I smiled at his youthful exuberance. This was going to be the best campground yet.

~~~

Two summers after that trip, I started working at the camp I went to as a kid. It was spectacular to bring that experience of camping and the outdoors to an entirely new group of kids, experiences that I cherished from my childhood.

The camp is over three hundred acres, so there are several parts that are virtually unexplored except for a few hiking trails. One of them is a stand of hemlock pine trees. I would go back there to relax, detox from a long day with the kids. While I would wander that path, I would think of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The massive Ponderosa pines and the spunky Kiabab squirrels. It’s funny how something that consoled me as a fourteen-year-old kid away from home was pulling me back to itself. 

It may have been at that point that I realized I was infected with pine fever.

When Do You Feel the Most Alive?

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I’m standing on top of something high. A rolling hill in the middle of a field of grass maybe. Or maybe I’m on the top of a mountain looking over a valley and then on to the ocean and the horizon beyond where a few ships speckle the expanse. Perhaps I’m standing in the middle of a bridge looking down on cars driving under me, their roars filling my ears

I can feel the wind pulling at my hair and clothes. I have my hair down, letting the wind comb through and tangle, comb and tangle. The tips of my hair whip into my face, and the wind turns my cheeks pink. I’m wearing a skirt that billow up only to be pressed back against my legs. My shirt ripples around my body. I feel the air tickle every hair on my arms.

I feel the blood rushing through my veins.

I inhale as deeply as possible, relishing in every detail I can find. Maybe the wind smells of fresh grown grass and tilled earth like it is spring. Or maybe it’s summer with a waft of sea air and fish nets drying in the sun teasing my nostrils. I can taste the salt in the air. It may smell like snow packed high in the mountains, the sun trying to convince it to let go and run through the ground.

I listen as hard as I can, shifting the focus from the things that are close to the things that are far away. I want to capture every single detail. Birds sing in the trees, calling to their lovers. A plane soars above, taking people to wondrous places I hope to visit some day. Families laugh, a collective song lifted up higher and higher, the happiest sound in the world.

My eyes are closed, allowing my other senses to take a turn. This is where I feel the most alive: somewhere high with my eyes closed and all my other senses assaulting me with detail.

Do you see it?