Outdoor writing contest runner-up: Somewhere only you know
It’s been 11, painstakingly long years since I last went camping. Outside in a tent –“roughing it” was what I told my mom when we were “camping” in a cabin years later. It was nearly a sour memory. We had arrived at the campground late at night and had brought no toilet paper. The early morning cold and bumpy rocks beneath me had woken me up, and my friends who had joined the trip with their families were so intertwined with each other that they left me alone in the shady sandbox. But at least that meant I could use the kids sized excavator that came with the sandbox all for myself, which was fun. I also remember the charred, smoky hotdogs and marshmallows that my dad and his friends barbecued on the cheap public grill. And the box of Cheerios we bought with a Minion keychain inside. So the trip wasn’t all bad.
But most of all, I often reminisce about what the water was like. I remember the glitter of sunlight reflecting off the cool, jade-colored lake. I remember how effortlessly I was able to float through the waves without needing to grace the floor. I remember the giant rocky mountains that nearly touched the large, fluffy clouds across the sky. And each cloud had its own unique ensemble and shape, not a strand was left alone in the blue ether. The scent of the air was new and fresh, opening up my mind just so I could capture as much of the moment as possible.
As fluttered above the sand, I gazed across the sea with awe. Everything was so peaceful, and in that moment I couldn’t have had a care in the world
And that’s all I remember about it.
Where is this campsite that chooses to remain hidden in the mountains and the forest? What is the name of the lake that had sailed me to my own Neverland? These questions haunt me even a decade later. These nostalgic memories usually return in the early spring, when the weather is warmer but the cool breeze allows us to continue wearing a suitable sweater, and when the cherry blossoms and flowers bloom, giving the earth back its color from a gray winter. It’s funny how apparent these memories are in the spring, but I want to be certain the camping trip was in the summer. It’s just another thing I’m unsure about.
They say that when you’re younger, your senses are heightened – that’s why spicy food is spicier to you. If that’s the case, then I don’t have a reason not to believe that the colors of the middle seasons were more vibrant when I was younger. The grass was always green, and the flowers always popped through in lively hues. The blue waters reflected the sky perfectly, glimmering in the sun. I never got the time to truly appreciate it since I was too young and naive to understand. And it doesn’t seem the same anymore. Something seems to be missing. Maybe my eyes aren’t as keen as they used to be. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve grown older and grown used to it all.
But I know that no matter how old I grow, I will never grow bored of the fresh colors, breathtaking sights of mountains looming beside a shiny lake, and the clouds that I can only imagine feeling like heaven.
So please, God, Dad, or whoever else is above those clouds – where is my “Garden of Eden” you brought me to all those years ago? I haven’t grown bored of its beauty, so why keep it from me? Where is this place where I not only found inner peace at when I was 6 years old, but when I was able to spend time with my dad one last time?
I’m too desperate. The days pass and I fear I’ll never find my answers.
Two years ago I came across this particular song. I had never heard it before, but it wasn’t a few weeks before I became addicted to all of the memories I relived through it. I think it’s ridiculous; the song never once mentions any sort of lagoon or cloud or mountain, or anything remotely related to that camping trip.
It’s the melody that’s the culprit. The twinkles remind me of the glistening sun that reflected on the lake. It brings back that familiar scent that I first discovered there – opening up my mind and capturing the simple moment of me outside while listening to that song. And with my open mind, I never fear that I’ll forget my time at that campsite and the beautiful tragedy that came from it.
Nowadays, when the sun seeps white beams through my blinds and encourages me to take a walk outside, you’ll almost always catch me strolling down the sidewalk and listening to this song. Whenever the clouds are most painted and the air is refreshing in the warm sun. When the leaves turn back green and compliments the grassy ground underneath them. When I’m at the beach or the lake, sitting in the hot sand as the cool wind from the water blows through my hair. When the scent that opens up my mind comes back, and not only reminds me of the last time I went camping, but of all the times I spent with my dad in the open air.
I’ll be outside; one ear dedicated to the melody, the other dedicated to making new memories.
It seems that I’ll never find the answer of where “My Garden of Eden” lies; even if I did, something would still be missing. But that won’t stop me from reminiscing and finding a new tranquil place to create memories.
And I’ll be writing down the name of this place so I’ll never forget.