Daddy, Me, the Woods...Just Us

I can still smell the campfire. I can see the smoke in its silky, opaque grayness dissolving into the landscape. I can feel the early morning sunshine kissing my cheeks, the presence of Big Tree standing quietly; we are old friends. I still know the cold, cold water, clear as air running over my pale fingers. I can hear the wind telling secrets to the trees, whispering to me in a language known only by my soul. I can feel my father’s hand in mine, strong and sure, full of mutual understanding in the middle of the woods.
Frost Valley is many things. It is a place, memory, being. A knowing. A heart…my heart. I will always remember the time when our hearts beat as one. When I remember this wonderful place, I am reminded of how much I love my father. My father is not the outdoorsy type, but he took me there every spring, winter and fall because he wanted there to be someplace special for us to go, just the two of us. We went with a group of dads and daughters for two weekends every year and then again for New Year’s. Through his love for me, I think he discovered his own love and appreciation of nature in this special place. He would always pack too much, paint his face and hold a torch for the pow-wow, take nap under Big Tree in the late morning on Sunday, before the long drive home. He never slept well in the musty cabins; there was only a couple of springs sticking into your back if you were lucky.