The air smells like the Sierra Nevadas: of pollen, leaves, and dirt all baking under the sun. If I close my eyes and breathe deeply, momentarily I feel eleven again, awkward and sweaty, sitting at a picnic table watching some boys play hacky-sack, wondering how on earth they can stand the heat.
I was ten when we first went to Wolf Mountain Camp, in the foothills of the mountains, near Grass Valley, California. It was our end of the year class trip. It promised to be fun. We'd meet new friends, play great games - what child doesn't like summer camp? What they didn't tell us was how hot it would be. What I didn't know was how difficult the heat would be for me to stand. Especially with such long hair.
We went two years in a row - 5th and 6th grade - and, all things considered, I enjoyed the trips. I discovered things about myself I hadn't known, and my friends learned things they hadn't suspected. And even though I was introverted, and reserved, and uncomfortable with new people, I was able to make friends during those short weeks. I also twisted, rolled, and pulled at least one ankle, each year. And learned to keep going, limping, even though my ankle hurt. (For some reason, after 6th grade, my perpetual ankle-twisting problem disappeared. Maybe I learned to walk better. Hrm.)
That first year introduced me to the wonders of zip-lines. They had both a land zip-line and a pond zip-line. At first, I only went on the land one. It was the first night there, and they drove us up windy roads into a small clearing. Above our heads, the thin line stretched from a tree into... darkness. We were promised nothing was in the way of that start tree and the end. But could we see? Nope. I almost didn't go. It looked freaky. But I figured I might as well, and I didn't want to seem chicken on the first night. So I went, and slid through the darkness, leaves whipping past, more felt than seen. It was exhilarating.
But I refused the pond zip-line. It dropped from a hill down into the water, and I didn't know how to swim, and we went during broad daylight. Girls screamed as they zoomed down. I didn't want to take off my glasses, and didn't want to get wet, and looked for critters at pond's edge instead. The next year my friends talked me into it. Mind you, they spent days on the persuasion. I agreed not because I really wanted to go, but to silence their nagging. The ride down was wonderful. It turns out I love positive acceleration. But the climb up the hill? Miserable. I had to leave my glasses at the bottom, and my depth perception was so bad I practically had to climb on hands and knees to avoid falling off the edge. I declined a second trip to avoid the climb. But I held the memory of the zip-line thrill closely the rest of that summer.
Wolf Mountain was where I first discovered how strong my affinity for snakes is. They had a reptile & amphibian house, and one afternoon they pulled out the toad, turtle, and giant boa, then sat us in a circle and passed around two smaller snakes. Some of the kids hated it. Some were afraid. Some were cruel. I remember boys squeezing the snakes, yelling at them, trying to scare them and succeeding. When the first snake came to me, freaking out because of its treatment, I held it quietly, twisting my body away from the boy next to me, trying to calm it down. Whatever I did worked, because that snake rested quietly until I was told to pass it along. When the second snake got to me, I was last in line, so I didn't have to give it up. I held it as the camp instructor talked, and when it was time to go, we discovered the snake had fallen asleep. I kid you not. They let me stay to help put it away, and I got to carry it into the back room (no one else was allowed in the back room!) and peel it off my hands into its glass home. And that incident made me happier than almost anything else. It trusted me so much that it fell asleep. Perhaps, I figured, I'm not doomed to make everything uncomfortable; perhaps some things (and people?) don't think I'm weird and can be themselves around me. Epiphany! To this day, I love snakes. They make me feel good about myself.
My other favorite activity was the night walk. They showed us how to walk quietly, and we followed trails through the woods, sans flashlight, supposedly to look for wildlife. A dozen pre-teens walk far from quietly, no matter how much care they give to their feet. And they would not stop whispering. But my night-vision was good (I already knew this), and I was unafraid of the dark, and it turned out I walked nearly noiselessly. So I dawdled to the end of the line, and imagined no one else was there, and trod silently, listening, looking, breathing deeply in the cooling pine-spiced mountain air. It was sanctuary. That silent, empty, tree-lined darkness held me, refreshed me, helped me be still, be myself, be glad.
When the very air around you touches you gently, and the darkness shushes your doubts, and the trees whisper, what else can one be but at peace? Just you, wandering through the resting world, with nothing to interrupt. There is the sacred space, there the sacred time. There, I felt alive.
I was ten when we first went to Wolf Mountain Camp, in the foothills of the mountains, near Grass Valley, California. It was our end of the year class trip. It promised to be fun. We'd meet new friends, play great games - what child doesn't like summer camp? What they didn't tell us was how hot it would be. What I didn't know was how difficult the heat would be for me to stand. Especially with such long hair.
We went two years in a row - 5th and 6th grade - and, all things considered, I enjoyed the trips. I discovered things about myself I hadn't known, and my friends learned things they hadn't suspected. And even though I was introverted, and reserved, and uncomfortable with new people, I was able to make friends during those short weeks. I also twisted, rolled, and pulled at least one ankle, each year. And learned to keep going, limping, even though my ankle hurt. (For some reason, after 6th grade, my perpetual ankle-twisting problem disappeared. Maybe I learned to walk better. Hrm.)
That first year introduced me to the wonders of zip-lines. They had both a land zip-line and a pond zip-line. At first, I only went on the land one. It was the first night there, and they drove us up windy roads into a small clearing. Above our heads, the thin line stretched from a tree into... darkness. We were promised nothing was in the way of that start tree and the end. But could we see? Nope. I almost didn't go. It looked freaky. But I figured I might as well, and I didn't want to seem chicken on the first night. So I went, and slid through the darkness, leaves whipping past, more felt than seen. It was exhilarating.
But I refused the pond zip-line. It dropped from a hill down into the water, and I didn't know how to swim, and we went during broad daylight. Girls screamed as they zoomed down. I didn't want to take off my glasses, and didn't want to get wet, and looked for critters at pond's edge instead. The next year my friends talked me into it. Mind you, they spent days on the persuasion. I agreed not because I really wanted to go, but to silence their nagging. The ride down was wonderful. It turns out I love positive acceleration. But the climb up the hill? Miserable. I had to leave my glasses at the bottom, and my depth perception was so bad I practically had to climb on hands and knees to avoid falling off the edge. I declined a second trip to avoid the climb. But I held the memory of the zip-line thrill closely the rest of that summer.
Wolf Mountain was where I first discovered how strong my affinity for snakes is. They had a reptile & amphibian house, and one afternoon they pulled out the toad, turtle, and giant boa, then sat us in a circle and passed around two smaller snakes. Some of the kids hated it. Some were afraid. Some were cruel. I remember boys squeezing the snakes, yelling at them, trying to scare them and succeeding. When the first snake came to me, freaking out because of its treatment, I held it quietly, twisting my body away from the boy next to me, trying to calm it down. Whatever I did worked, because that snake rested quietly until I was told to pass it along. When the second snake got to me, I was last in line, so I didn't have to give it up. I held it as the camp instructor talked, and when it was time to go, we discovered the snake had fallen asleep. I kid you not. They let me stay to help put it away, and I got to carry it into the back room (no one else was allowed in the back room!) and peel it off my hands into its glass home. And that incident made me happier than almost anything else. It trusted me so much that it fell asleep. Perhaps, I figured, I'm not doomed to make everything uncomfortable; perhaps some things (and people?) don't think I'm weird and can be themselves around me. Epiphany! To this day, I love snakes. They make me feel good about myself.
My other favorite activity was the night walk. They showed us how to walk quietly, and we followed trails through the woods, sans flashlight, supposedly to look for wildlife. A dozen pre-teens walk far from quietly, no matter how much care they give to their feet. And they would not stop whispering. But my night-vision was good (I already knew this), and I was unafraid of the dark, and it turned out I walked nearly noiselessly. So I dawdled to the end of the line, and imagined no one else was there, and trod silently, listening, looking, breathing deeply in the cooling pine-spiced mountain air. It was sanctuary. That silent, empty, tree-lined darkness held me, refreshed me, helped me be still, be myself, be glad.
When the very air around you touches you gently, and the darkness shushes your doubts, and the trees whisper, what else can one be but at peace? Just you, wandering through the resting world, with nothing to interrupt. There is the sacred space, there the sacred time. There, I felt alive.
