adventure – Tales of a Family

Daily writing prompt

Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.

I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.

The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.

Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.

Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.

Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.

Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.

Daily writing prompt

What makes you feel nostalgic?

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Driving along the country road, my anticipation grew. Soon, I would arrive at my mountain retreat – my sanctuary in the heart of the valley. Over the years, I spent countless days here, each visit offering a respite from the demands of daily life. In the past, my family and I would take weekend trips, hiking in the nearby mountain park or leisurely exploring the town and surrounding countryside. From my first visit, I recall the magic I felt as we turned onto Pine Drive, where towering trees created a natural tunnel, sunlight filtering through their branches in shimmering rays. The homes—old and new—peeked through the pines, and I often wondered about the lives of the settlers who had once built homesteads in this valley.

In recent years, I’ve made a point to return whenever I can steal a moment from the bustle of life. Long weekends spent here bring a deep sense of rest and rejuvenation. Despite the many beautiful spots in Colorado, it’s this quiet place that calls me back. It offers solitude and peace that I can’t find anywhere else.

Lost in these thoughts, the road suddenly dipped, and my heart lifted at the familiar sight ahead. The two-lane highway split before me: to the left, it wound upward into a forest of pines, eventually climbing into the rugged Wet Mountains; to the right, the road veered into a lush valley dotted with farmhouses and barns. We took the path on the right, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of longing to follow the familiar road that led to a cabin I had once visited often—until it was sold. I had spent many peaceful days there, immersed in the stillness of the mountains, enjoying the wildlife and the antics of my Muttley Crew—Max and Mitzi. It had been the perfect escape from the frenetic pace of my everyday life.

But today, the sight of the old farmhouse with its vivid red door drew me in. Nestled in the foothills, snow still blanketed the dormant alfalfa fields, and the weathered barns stood like quiet sentinels, storing the land’s offerings. In the distance, snow-covered peaks loomed, their soft blues and creamy whites blending into the cloudy sky. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as I gazed at the farmlands below, feeling as though I had stepped into an old postcard.

As I pulled into the gravel driveway, I spotted a lone buck standing still, his antlers silhouetted against the pale sky. I quickly snapped a photo of the regal creature, who seemed unfazed by my presence. But the moment passed as soon as I released Max and Mitzi from the car. The mini dachshunds bolted into the yard, barking loudly as they chased the deer, who bounded away at the sound of their shrill voices. I called the scoundrels back, apologizing to the startled buck.

Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the familiar scent of Ponderosa Pines, their rich pine and vanilla fragrance filling the air. I walked over to one of the trees, placing my hand on its rough bark, and closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was a scent I’d come to associate with peace and solitude, with memories of quiet days spent here in this special place.

As I surveyed the house and surrounding fields, my gaze lingered on the faded green outhouse beside the barn. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought that this 150-year-old home had been updated with a modern bathroom. I imagined what life must have been like on the farm a century ago. Though I grew up in the city, my mother often shared stories of her childhood on a ranch. From her tales, I knew it had been hard work, but I also knew that she cherished those days spent with her family.

It was funny how distant my city life now felt. The asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks had been replaced by dirt roads and open prairies. The hum of city traffic had been replaced by the raucous calls of quail, signaling to their young. And the acrid stench of car exhaust and burning oil had given way to the sweet, earthy scent of sagebrush and hummingbird mint. I had always known I was a country girl at heart.

Quickly, I unloaded the car, stowing the groceries inside and setting aside the rest of my things to unpack later. For now, all I wanted was to sit on the front porch and enjoy the sunset. As the pups explored the yard, I settled into the bench on the porch, pulling my gloves from my hoodie pocket to ward off the winter chill. The crisp air swirled around me, but the gloves warmed my hands as I gazed out over the valley.

The quiet was only broken by the occasional car winding down the road, and each time, the driver would wave. It warmed my heart that small towns still held on to such customs, offering a moment of connection even to strangers. As I relaxed on the bench, the distant sound of church bells rang through the valley, their chimes a reminder of the season. Breathing in the fresh, cold air, I smiled to myself. I had returned to the mountains, to the perfect place to spend my winter holiday.