My husband often shares childhood memories of racing down the hillside with his brother and cousins and leaping off the dock into Warm Lake, Idaho, where his grandparents owned an A-frame log cabin. There were long, leisurely weeks spent trolling the lake in the "snoozer cruiser", a lawn chair pontoon boat built by hand, and a summer spent learning to water ski with his Granddad behind the wheel of the modified boat and Aunt Carolyn patiently coaching from the water.
I spent my first twelve summers boating at Roosevelt Lake and tent camping in the White Mountains of Arizona. My Granny and Granddad would haul their three youngest grandchildren in the cab of a 1977 pickup on Monday to set up the campsite before a myriad of relatives arrived for the weekend. Patiently enduring the demands of grandchildren who each needed to build their own campfire, they baited every hook for us, and fawned over each prized 3.5 inch catch. They taught us to fish, hunt, camp, and most of all, appreciate and respect the land over the consecutive summers of my youth.
In our family, these are the treasured memories that define a summer.
My husband and I couldn't wait to let our son, Levi, experience the natural beauty, thankfully, still protected within the boundaries of our National Park System.
A five family camping extravaganza was planned over July 4 th weekend. With friendships that spanned almost two decades, enriched by the addition of spouses and children, and set among the pines of the Rocky Mountains, the trip was shaping up to be an event worthy of a dozen pages in the modern mommy scrapbook.
 | Having recently discovered the fine art of upright mobility, our 13 month old Levi wobbled on the uneven,rocky slope. Within minutes of our arrival, crash! A cloud of dust billowed around his head like Charlie Brown's old pal, PigPen. Levi bounced back up without a scratch, but with a new layer of dirt that covered his entire 30 inch body, from his sandy blond hair down to his laces of his brand new Chuck Taylors. The stream of dirt that ran from his nose for two days was as steady as the babbling brook that beckoned several of us to wade into its chilly waters. A five event, round-robin style tournament of cards, horseshoes, badminton, ladder ball and sharp shooting played out over the weekend, with the strategy and skill of world record breaking Olympians. Bella Karolyi would have been proud to hoist the Trivial Pursuit champion above his head, and Michael Phelps has nothing on Michael Hawley, who earned a metal in the mens, womens and childrens watermelon eating contests. Look out Rachel Ray! A new S'more was created when one suburban dad turned culinary expert elected to cover his daughters' graham crackers with Reeces Peanut Butter Cups instead of plain old milk chocolate. Just one of these rich, gooey treats would have been enough to satisfy, had I consumed the Peanut Butter S'more before I roasted the first three regular S'mores. As exciting as our alpine adventures were, the true highlight of the trip was sharing the great outdoors with our son, Levi. For hours, I watched my son explore the forest, as only a child can. He examined every stick to discover what sound it made when tapped against the towering lodge pole pines. He was captivated by the golden colors of the fire, having never before seen an open flame. Fearless, he attempted to capture ants with his bare hands, using his recently developed pincher grasp. He reached a level of ecstasy that can only be achieved after your dad offers you your first taste of sugary, sticky, roasted marshmellow on a stick. |
My sweet son drifted off into a sugar coma that night, cozy under four layers of winter clothing, tucked in a sleeping bag and beneath two blankets (requirements for summer camping at 9000 feet). The forest sounds were barely audible over our laughter. The campfire crackled as another log was added, and a million stars twinkled brightly overhead.
I finally realized what John Denver meant when he sang the tale of a Rocky Mountain High.
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