The air in the mountains of Star Valley, Wyoming, tastes fresh with an aftertaste of pine. Every time I stepped out of the car and onto the gravel driveway, I knew exactly where I was by the way my lungs expanded more fully and by the tingling on my tongue. The smells were familiar, though we only visited a couple of times a year at most: earth newly turned over, dusty gravel pebbles, bark peeled back from the branches, and depending on the season, moisture from recent rain or snow. And among everything, weaving in and out of all other fragrances, was the scattering of pine needles above and below.
My grandparents built their dream cabin in the mountains when I was about eight years old. Every year since then (and a year before, too), my family and I have come to this quiet haven during the summer to spend a week, maybe even two weeks, with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins--especially cousins. There were seven of us whose ages went in order, and we were an inseperable gang of noisy, rowdy, inventive children. I was the oldest, then Mike, Nigel, Rachel, Eliot, Ethan, and Alexis. Grandma and Grandpa's cabin meant sleeping on air mattresses and giggling late into the night; card houses that covered half the living room; board games for hours; swimming and sunburning every day; fand adventures in the untamed outdoors. Each year, we begged Grandpa to take us for a ride in his 1967 Volkswagon Dune Buggy. Seated on the back of the car's frame and clinging to a safety bar in front of us, we screamed and shrieked as Grandpa tore around corners, up and down inclines, and occasionally drove straight up the mountainside along a rutted dirt road that seemed nearly vertical on the way back down. It was terrifying and exhilarating--our special treat. Star Valley became synonymous with family and with all the adventures and games and good food that came with being a member of a large and loving family.
In the early mornings, I would wake up in the upstairs loft and blearily pull myself over to one of the tall windows facing the front of the house. I watched as squirrels--our favorite one named Chester--chittered and squawked at each other, spilling birdseed from the feeders my Grandma tended. Birds flew in to peck at the seed, chirping their aubade to the morning. My favorite were the chickadees whose calls I soon learned to recognize: chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Every year, it seemed a new herd of deer had adopted the area and most mornings I watched a few of them quietly meander through the yard, ears pricking at the sounds of human life from within the cabin. One summer, we were on the alert to see the moose my grandparents claimed had wandered through several times. We caught glimpses of it through the shadowed trees and trumping through dense underbrush, but my mom was somehow always absent for these sightings and insisted that we had made it all up. It became a long-standing family joke that "faith precedes the moose." In the evenings, I sat with my mom and her parents on the porch, slathering mosquito spray over my bare arms and legs, while irridescent hummingbirds darted through the pine boughs to fight over one of the several feeders around the house. Nature, the natural world, wildness were all around us, taking away from the human worries and fears that I kept with me, allowing me just to be.
The first several years at the cabin were devoted to exploring all that the Star Valley Ranch and small surrounding towns had to offer. We hiked through the mountains, discovered small streams and quiet copses. We golfed, fished, and swam in all three of the public swimming pools. We went to the RV campground and rode the "bumper boats," boys declaring war against the girls, until we were too big to fit on the soaked rubber seats. We found favorite restaurants in Afton and Thayne and we visited the cheese factory that closed about ten years after we started going to Star Valley. We went horseback riding and several times made the hour-long trip to Jackson Hole. In the winters, we went sledding every day on the mountain roads leading to the cabin. Our favorite hill was a quarter of a mile long road that ran steep and straight and gave us hours of exhilaration and screaming as we occasionally crashed into the snowbanks lining the road. It didn't matter if we crashed or made it all the way to the end of the road--we always went back for more. It was a child's simple pleasure, the pure delight of freedom.
Once the novelty of exploration had worn off, we looked forward to the familiarity of activities, places, and people. Going to the cabin was comfortable, a retreat and respite. It had become a second home. We learned the rhythms of the house and recognized the sounds of where we were. It was quiet without traffic or busyness, but it was rarely silent. There were too many birds, squirrels, and above all, clacking insects to ever be completely silent. We loved to listen to the rain patter on the leaves and trees outside and plunk! on the tin roof above us. The wind was a gentle whooshing sound as it rushed past the tall pine trees surrounding the house and covering the mountain sides, usually bringing a much needed breeze to relieve the summer heat.
Only once did I ever hear complete stillness in the forest. It was late at night and the moon was full and bright, so bright that it looked like a muted spotlight had been pointed at the forest. I crept out of bed and went silently down the stairs and to the kitchen door. I let myself out, barefoot and in my pajamas, onto the front porch. I stood next to the stairs that led to the yard and driveway, leaning against the railing as I stared up in the silvery white moon. I could see the house, the trees, the mountains almost as clearly as I could during the day. It felt almost like I was looking at an undeveloped picture and at any moment the colors would start to appear before my eyes. I cupped my hands together and imagined the light was liquid, something I could drink and take inside me. It was then that I noticed the silence. The breeze had fallen away, the birds and animals and insects were asleep or burrowing where I could not hear them. The open space was too vast for sound to echo, and the slight scraping of my pajamas against the wooden railing or the padding of my feet on the porch were almost muted by the night. I rested, listening, breathing, drinking the light. I felt a presence beyond myself, something spiritual and sacred and very real. Aware of the mountains and pine trees stretching far above me, I silently greeted the world, unseen spirit to unseen spirit. Through the pine branches, I could see stars, glinting presences around me.
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