I grew up in the city, but, unlike the weekend warriors, my mother would take my younger sister and me camping from the day after school let out for the summer until the day before school started in the fall. For almost three months out of the year, I lived in a tent at Old Man’s Cave, under the stars and away from the distractions of the television and radio. This time of my life, 20 years later, has left such a deep impression on me that even now, closing my eyes I am actually walking among the hills of Hocking County, Ohio.
It is early morning, my favorite time of the day, the birds are just starting their morning tunes while the embers of the previous night’s fire still smolder in the fire-ring, emitting small tendrils of sweet smelling smoke. The smell of bacon frying from the campsite next to us brings my little sister out of her sleep while mom is already in the cook tent, preparing to fix our breakfast. Off in the distance, faint sounds of life: pots clanging together, camper doors clicking shut, tent zippers and gossamer waves of unintelligible voices, fill the trees. The morning air is still moist from the morning dew, refreshing my senses, as the sun’s rays poke through the thick canopy of the pine forest. After breakfast, I collect my fishing poles and tackle box and head to Rose Lake to watch the fog lift off the water.
As afternoon rolls around, I am sitting on the banks over looking the crystal clear water of Rose Lake, fishing pole in hand, dreaming of catching that big bass and taking the long way back to the campsite, making sure to pass as many other campers as possible to show off my catch. As the sun gets hotter and hotter, the sound of the crickets is almost deafening as each try either to out chirp the other for bragging rights or to just to see how loud they can actually get. I spend most of the afternoon walking around the seven-acre lake, admiring the flora and fauna that make Hocking Hills one of the most unique areas in all the state. As I round the bend into a cove, I see my “pet” Whitetail Fawn and, as we have done every day for the last two weeks, we both freeze in our tracks, staring eye to eye at each other for a few seconds, before she snorts at me and gracefully hops off into the deep forest. As the day gets hotter, I hide my fishing poles under a huge spruce tree and head off for my afternoon hike through the cooler valleys and hollows.
Below the dam of Rose Lake is a place where most campers seldom venture. Many years of water erosion have carved the sandstone into a 100-foot deep cut in the earth creating Rose Hollow. There is not a regulated path or trail down to the bottom but with careful steps, I make it to the bottom in under a half an hour. The soft sandstone beneath the harder stone of the rim’s shell gave away many thousands of years ago forming a wide mouthed cave behind a thin waterfall. The air is generally 15 degrees cooler down here and the smell of the fresh earth and pine needles calms the soul and sends my spirit soaring, bringing me closer to the creator than any church, synagogue or temple could ever hope of achieving. After my 30 minutes or so of spiritual cleansing, I set off through the hollow for my daily five-mile hike, following the fast flowing creek that forms Old Mans Cave to end up at the swimming pool. I spend only a few minutes here cooling off because this is always the most crowded area of the campgrounds. This, naturally, is where all the weekend warriors congregate and I can only take so much of it. After I am refreshed, I complete my afternoon circle back at the lake, retrieve my fishing pole and fish my way back to the lower end of the camp grounds to our campsite to start my evening chores; chopping firewood and preparing the fire ring for the nights camp fire.
As evening rolls around and the other campers return form the pool, I can hear the ever-persistent sounds of children playing on the playground. The “squeak… squeak” of the old chain link swing is like the “tick tock” of an old clock, which slowly bores its way into my permanent memory bank. The smells of many different meals being whipped up assaults me and makes me hungrier and hungrier and, as the sun slowly sinks towards the horizon we sit down to our evening meal that, after a long summers day, never tasted better and give thanks for all that our creator has given us.
After dinner, I start the campfire and we all sit down to roast, or in the case of my sister burn, marshmallows make S’mores and spend some quality time with each other, telling stories about the adventures of the previous years camping trips. My mother starts by reminding us, on this warm clear evening, of the year it seemed like it rained the entire summer, forcing us to cut trenches around our leaky tent to try to keep our bedding dry. My sister, as usual, retells the story of the summer I accidentally stuck a red-hot skewer in her eye, which resulted in an evening spent in the emergency room where, thankfully however, no permanent damage occurred to her eye. Not wanting to be outdone, I tell the story of the summer that I got poison ivy so bad that I needed shots from the hospital, just to calm the swelling and itching.
As nighttime draws near, I take my final hike of the day up the road to the shower house. It is about a 30-minute walk, which I stretch out to about an hour as I pause for a few minutes, every now and again, to look up at the multitude of stars and try to imagine infinity. I continue walking pausing again as I hear laughter coming from a nearby camp and listen in on parts of conversations that have no meaning to anyone but the speaker and his listeners. After my shower, I slowly meander my way back to the tent, again pausing to admire the pinprick holes in the night sky and listening to the comforting sounds of tree frogs and the now hushed and more subdued voices from the nearest camp.
It has been nearly 20 years since I have been camping at Old Man’s Cave but, to this day, I can still hear the sounds of campfires popping and crackling, children laughing and that rhythmic swing. I can still smell the S’mores, the pine needles, the bacon frying and the logs… and marshmallows, burning. I still feel the chilled morning air on my skin or the hot sun beating down on me, forcing me to seek the coolness of the low valleys and the itch of poison ivy. Yes, it has been nearly 20 years, but closing my eyes now, I can still see my “pet” fawn, hopping off through the woods to her next grazing area, or see every single detail of Rose Hollow, from the outer rim to the boulders that have washed down the creek bed. When the hustle and bustle of life gets to me and I need to take a break, no matter where I am, all I have to do is close my eyes and instantly transport to a different time and place. |
