The Forgotten Child

Last week, when we were visiting the Eastern Sierra, we spent the night at Sawmill Campground not far from Tioga Pass. It’s a walk-in campground in a lovely little valley where I camped with my family as a child.

When I visit Fresno, the town where I grew up, a lot has changed. In fact, some years ago I tried to show my children the high school I attended, and I couldn’t find it. Some of that has to do with my memory, of course, but it’s also that the familiar markers have disappeared.

But at Sawmill, hardly anything has changed. The campground is better developed (picnic tables no less) and the road access is gone. (I remember the car bottoming out as we scraped and jolted our way to a spot flat enough to thrown down our massive canvas tent.) But the valley is identical. The view of Mt. Dana that I cherished as a child has not changed an iota. I’m not sure they have even changed the mosquitoes.

I found, wandering and rediscovering the trails I followed as a child, an almost magical reawakening of memory. I was again that child, enchanted by the snow-patched ridges. Such is the joy of landscapes that do not change, but welcome like an old friend. The mountains bypass time–or seem to, for us changeful creatures. And so, for a brief sojourn, I catch a glimpse of my soul, which does not age like the rest of me but remains, at some depth, at least half a child.

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One Response to “The Forgotten Child”

  1. Holly Newman Says:

    Thank you Tim, I have similar experiences when I revisit the Smokies where I camped and backpacked as a child.

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