I would sleep in the woods every night if I could.
To the times when the morning sun's motherly warmth caressed my face, which peeked out from the top of my sleeping bag. My eyes opened slightly as my ears were entranced by the Mountain Chickadee’s singsong tune somersaulting through the forest, and I threw on my jacket to combat the crisp mountain air. Unzipping the tent, my lungs filled with the purity of pine and burning logs coming from the small fire my father was nursing to warm up frigid backpacking hands.
Later I spun around in a circle and pointed to the highest mountain peak I could see, stating that we must reach the top. Leaving the campsite we climbed higher and higher into the thick Evergreen forest; jumping through boulder fields and laughing our way to the summit where the sky was unlimited and all ours. We did snow angels in the July leftovers that we supposed stayed unmelted for the sole purpose of our moment above the clouds.
As the sun began to tire and drop from the middle of the sky, we found a lake fed by waterfalls, gurgling pools twirling down a snow melt stream. There was a rock near the center of the lake and we knew that we had to swim to it. My mother smiled as she took out her camera and 1, 2, 3, we grabbed each other's hands and jumped. Our bodies paralyzed with the shocking cold, we gulped for air as instinct and adrenaline propelled us further and further away from the safety of dry land. We reached the rock and flopped down, soaking up the sunshine’s radiating warmth. Our hearts beat raw against our chests, our skin painted with goosebumps and mud.
We wondered if any other humans had stepped onto this rock island deep in the Rocky Mountains or if we were the first ones. Our own little palace. Our own little world. One where we could write the rules. All ours.
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She stood outside, her backpack coated with a layer of dirt and twigs that had decided that her pack was a much more sensible home than the mountain trail she had hiked alone earlier that day. Her head rested on the wall of the house behind her and she traced her fingers across the bricks, feeling the peaceful protection of where she had been break into leftover memories drowning in the corners of her mind. Her heart quickened in anticipation and she counted to ten before turning around, taking one final deep breath, and sliding open the side door of the house.
The screaming echoed off the panes of the windows and she felt her fists tighten until her knuckles turned white. She hesitated slightly, eyes glued to the floor, before forcing herself to go inside the house. Mom, Dad?
Go to your room.
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In elementary school, my class would go camping in the mountains twice a year. I would pack my sleeping bag, sleeping pad, extra clothes, and a backpack, a daypack as we would call it. It was filled to the brim with everything you would ever need for any kind of mountain weather: sunscreen, a rain jacket, a fleece, gloves, a camelback, a sun hat, a winter hat, rain pants, snacks, and sunglasses. I would wait by the door of my house jumping up and down in excitement until I was taken to school.
We went rafting down the Colorado River, biking through the red crushed arches of Moab, and backpacking in the Rocky Mountains. Returning with my face covered in mud and a head packed full of stories that would sooner than later turn into dreams.
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She got to her room and shut the door softly, hoping her parents would forget that she was there at all. Looking up at the ceiling, the lights appeared to twinkle through the tears flooding her eyes, though without the comfort of the stars that blanket the mountain’s night sky. The walls of her room reverberated with the growing terror in her heart as she shoved a pillow over her ears to muffle the repeated sounds of strikes echoing through the kitchen. She wanted nothing more than to go but was too scared to move, sickened with the hope that her mother’s rampage would end before it was turned towards her as it so often was. That one day, the yelling and pain and tears would stop and her house could become a home.
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Why are you in the woods? My friend texted me and I turned my phone away from my face, replaced instead with the dark sky and steadfast trees. I marveled at the fact that I somehow always ended up here. As if my feet carry me to safety if my mind starts to flood too deep into sinking swirls. Tears rolled down my face and I used the cuff of my shirt to wipe them away, softly accompanied by a lullaby conducted by the echoes of the trees. Because when you are in the woods, what does real life really mean anyways? Back to the primitive being of true humanity. Finding food and water and wood to stay alive. Telling stories you would never think to share if your mind wasn’t given the opportunity to wonder. Where the natures dance becomes your family and the trees your home.
Please let me come. You are not a burden.
Okay.
And so he ran down to the edge of the woods and together we lay side by side, the stillness between us holding more than words ever could, the smell of moist wood and falling leaves lulling us into a safe security that tomorrow could never bring.
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Sometimes she doesn't sleep in a tent but opts instead to sleep outside under the stars. The quiet surrounding her is a safe embrace as if nothing can hurt her as long as stay within the limits of the trees. Because no one is angry in the mountains.
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In the woods I am home.
Sole Magazine