Writing using the prompt from WordPress’s dashboard today, because the prompt cards I pulled require a little more thought – I have the feeling that there is something that can be quite cleverly funny, and I will completely miss my target even when I do write something, but we’ll see next Tuesday.
We used to camp a lot when I was a child. Between the ages of 4 and 13, my family lived in Oregon. We spent nearly every weekend out in the national forests, camping, fishing, or just driving through the mountains and stopping for cans and mushrooms near the road. We’d find a place near a creek or a river that was out in the middle of nowhere and pitch a tent and build a fire, and spend our time exploring the surrounding area. I remember three spots in particular:
The first was a semi-regular place for us to visit, sometimes just on daytrips to go fishing, though we did camp there a few times. It was less private, being known to other people – a stretch of sandy beach past the Painted Hills near the John Day River. The Painted Hills were so named because the dirt of the hill mounds were multi-colored, reds and pale tans and blacks, all running in striated streaks. I believe, though do not know for sure, that it was also an area where students in nearby universities would dig for fossils. The river was popular for rafting, and the small beach was a nice swimming spot, with a cliff on the other side that people liked to dive into. They used to mine for gold in the river, and gold flakes flecked the sands there – I’d spend time trying to separate out the tiny, glittery flakes from the rest of the sand. The beach wasn’t far from the road, but still a little troublesome to reach because of how steep the incline down to it was. There were a few trees at the edge that provided good shade, and a place to chase blue-bellied lizards while my parents fished for bass.
I don’t know the name of the second place. I don’t think it was unknown to people, but we rarely saw anyone there when we visited. It was a small reservoir, and not very deep so you could also fish for bass there. There was no gentle incline to it – straight at the edge of the water, it was immediately at least 4 feet deep. Once we took our cousins camping with us there, and my youngest cousin leaned too far over and fell into the water, and was shocked enough at the depth that she got very upset and was crying. There was a path that looped around it, and it could easily be walked around. Along one side of the dam, there was a small, shallow, stream that ran down an incline and into a valley below. Once, my brother and I caught a bass by hand because it happened to be stuck in that stream. I’m not sure how it had gotten there in the first place, the water was shallow enough that it’s top side was halfway out and exposed to the air, and it had been there long enough that the exposed bit was discolored, though it still had a lot of fight to it.
The third spot I remember was one we only visited once, but it was fairly similar to most of the others except for the stream. There was a mountain stream running through, a thin enough trickle of water to be able to step across in spots, but still a good home for trout. Most other spots maybe didn’t stand out because the creeks or rivers were wider, more typical fishing and camping spots. I’m not even sure if Dad knew it was there, or if we just happened to run into it while driving around and decided it was a good spot to camp. But I do remember it was a wonderful sunny day, and there was a green grassy meadow filled with wildflowers through the whole area.
I think camping then always stands out in my memory because it involved getting out and away from people and signs of people. Dad has mused before that these days he wouldn’t want to risk it again – being in a small tent overnight in land that belongs more to the bears and mountain lions and far from any help if something were to happen. But I always enjoyed it. There were other times when I went camping with grandparents, but those were at campsites near lakes, with cordoned off spots that you had to pay to stay at and public restrooms and showers and RV hookups. Fun, but in a different way.
After we moved, we didn’t go camping anymore. In part because my brother and I were teenagers, and also because of my parents’ new work schedules; we rarely had weekends together as a family anymore. But I also think in part because Dad had been born and raised in Oregon and knew where to get comfortably lost there. I’m sure there are places to go in Oklahoma, but the lands seem mostly private and fenced off, and the few places you can go are kind of known, so it’s not unusual to see other people once you get there.
mehryment 