It was Valentine’s Day and I was five years old, excitedly heading to kindergarten with a sack full of cards for everyone to be dropped into the gaily decorated Valentine’s box. I was an extremely shy little girl but I knew everyone in the classroom, just by watching them from a distance, sometimes from under the table so I could be hidden. I watched with big brown, expectant eyes as Valentine cards were pulled and names were called. I waited and waited for my name to be mentioned but not until the very end did I finally receive one card from my teacher, who had given one to every child. I could hardly wait for the day to end because I was so disappointed. I realized that I knew everybody but they didn’t know me! My personality was so cloaked with bashfulness that it was as if I was invisible.

Invisible child

Girl virtually unseen

Hidden from vision

Bewildered they can’t see her

Timidity shrouds her face.

The anticipation was always palpable while I packed my things into the backseat of our pickup truck. There was nothing in the world like the feeling of gathering your sleeping bag, your metal cookware, and about twenty jackets; ready to hit the road. Camping in winter was pure joy for eleven year old me. We never traveled far enough to reach the snow, but instead chose to hunker down at a lower elevation, setting up our tent near a quiet stream. 

The first night was always magical; nestling into a cotton and nylon cocoon, feeling the cold lumps of earth press into your back ever so slightly through the tent floor. Listening to the nighttime wildlife croon their respective melodies. Secretly feeling equal parts terror and excitement at the possibility of some curious bear wandering through the campsite. Hoping to hear it's giant paws padding along, then sticking my face through the open tent zipper and seeing it warming up by the dying fire. 

Just childish wonders. 

But there was one trip, an early dark morning in late October, that I don't think I'll ever forget. 

It had to be no later than three in the morning, and I can't even recall what woke me. The way the brook was gurgling louder than usual. The wind seeping in through the tent windows, blowing across my face. Or maybe it was the sound of light giggling coming from the water. Either way, it was the laughter that drew me out. 

I slipped on my mother's snow boots; there was no snow, but they were water proof, and that mattered while stomping along the mossy forest ground in autumn. I knew she wouldn't mind, so I pulled on her denim jacket for safe measure. Pocketing a flashlight and a granola bar, I made my way down the small embankment to the stream. 

I remember scanning the rocks with my light, mainly to make sure I knew where the water's edge began. But another part of me was searching; looking for the source of that bell like tittering. 

Fifteen minutes I spent sitting on the wet earth, flicking the flashlight on and off. I ate about half of my snack, took the rest out of the paper and threw it to the leaves. 

It was then, the sixteenth pass of my light along the ferns, that I saw it. 

Tiptoeing it's way through tall grass, making it's way towards the freshly discarded nut bar, was something. A creature. A small animal. At least, I at first thought it was an animal. But the longer I looked, the more wildly human it looked. It glowed a magnificent green, with only the vague shape of a lady creeping along the plants. It, she, whatever it may have been, snatched the granola before I could think, and it was gone. 

I must have sat there on that tree stump for two hours, possibly three. But the next thing I remember was the smell of coffee being brewed from my camp, and the light of the morning sun peeking through the tree tops. 

Smoky autumn nights

Untamed imagination

Mountain dreams rampant

Daybreak nature adventure 

Sparkling treetop myths, lush

Fishing was a great bonding time for my father and myself. Sometimes it was catch and release and sometimes it was clean and eat.

Getting cold and wet was part of the charm, it seemed to balance itself out. Over time the trips dried up and stopped. I don't fish anymore.

fishing hole

two lines float

side by side

father and son bond

broken by the bottle