We trudge along the grassy trail, a path that most of us know by heart. When we reach the fast flowing stream, we stand around on the grass and the boys throw rocks into the water, trying to sink the logs floating like ships that we thrust into the river. Like always, this game takes way too long. Soon we are walking along the side of the river, trying to decide where to cross. Those of us that are taller and not so easily swayed by the fast current take off our shoes and wade across, waiting on the other side as our feet dry off in the sun. Then we watch as our dads carry the younger kids across on their shoulders. When it is my sister’s turn, she holds cautiously onto my dad’s back, just like I did that very first year we came.
I was eight or nine. It was late afternoon, and clouds decorated the warm blue sky. “Let’s go on a hike!” the dads decided, so we wandered through the campsites, reaching a wide open field with a small hill in the distance. We crossed a narrow road and then became immersed in the adventure of it; wading through waist high grass, cautiously searching for a dry path across a shallow stream. The plants scratched our half-bare legs as we maneuvered around rocks and puddles on the ground. "There was a treasure buried here," one of the dads began, like all the other stories he has spun over the years around the blazing fire. Our faces would be lit with warmth, the fire burning our eyes, leaving our backs vulnerable to the bitter mountain air. Most of the time I didn't make it through the whole story, retiring to my snug sleeping bag in the tent, but not that day as we walked along the narrow trail. This time the story was mine.
The journey to the stream seemed hours long. When we reached it, like a treasure buried in the grass, the depth of the water and the speed of the current overwhelmed us as the river rushed by like uncharted waters from history books. I wanted to cross it right there, thinking it would add to the epicness of it all, but we had to walk farther downstream where rocks and sand stretched halfway across. There we paused to throw stones into the water; skipping stones or attempting to, and trying to "sink the ships": pieces of wood carefully selected and tossed into the river. Finally we began trying to cross the stream. We removed our shoes and long wool socks, taking our first brave steps into the piercingly cold water. As the current rushed past our ankles our small feet almost lost their balance, and we quickly stepped back onto land, sacrificing our dignity as we took turns being carried across the icy river.
From there the destination became clear. The stumpy hill in front of our eyes would be the conclusion of our journey; little did we know that the greatest part of the adventure was yet to come. "See those pointed rocks? They're arrows, directing a pirate to his buried treasure." And with that, we were running, our damp, bunched up socks squishing against our wet feet as we took off up the hill. Following the direction of the arrow rocks, we came to a tall old tree, its roots unearthed and twisting to the sides like the legs of a dancer. And to the surprise of fathers and kids alike, piled between these roots was a collection of stones that had clearly been deliberately placed there. We stood aside as rock after rock was removed from the pile, unburying a wooden box with a tree intricately carved on it.
Tensions were high as we removed the lid of the box. To our disappointment, what spilled out was not gold and jewels, but dried flowers. Disheartened but curious, we searched on the ground for rocks, acorns, and plants to add to the pile. Then we carefully put the box back together and delicately replaced the large stones one by one. As the sun began to set, we started back down the hill, crossed the river again, and reached our campsite as darkness finally filled the cool mountain air.
It was the beginning of a tradition that would last for over eight years. The next year we recreated that first hike. Imperceptibly, the field had grown a little smaller, the river a little shallower, the hill a little shorter. I don't know what we expected to find, but when we uncovered and opened the box, a small white piece of paper with a carefully scribbled note fell out. It was slowly read aloud: "We're sorry we disturbed your shrine. This is a holy place for us too. We call it the Dancing Tree. My grandmother's ashes are buried here, and my great grandparents' ashes are nearby. Blessings on you." Our discovery had taken an unexpected turn. Embarrassed and amazed, we came up with a concise, respectful reply and added it precisely to the paper. Again we added small items we had found and some we had brought from home. A stick with a name carved into it. An origami bird. With the utmost respect, we slowly positioned everything in its original place.
We returned the next year, and the next, excitedly awaiting a letter back from the mysterious note writer. Too young to understand the delicacy of death, we searched eagerly for places around the hill where the great grandparents' ashes could be found: a gap in the rocks, a gigantic fallen tree... Nothing. And year after year, although we continued to add our own notes to the box, there was no response from the original writer. Until last year.
It had been six or seven years since we had started coming to the campground and most of us were solidly teenagers. "Let's not go to Dancing Tree Hill this year", some argued, wanting to try a harder hike instead. However, most insisted on going, for the sake of tradition, and so we set out the last morning of our visit and walked the now short distance to Dancing Tree Hill. We uncovered the rocks and opened the box, taking many pictures and laughing at all the old notes we had brought the previous years. When we took out the very first note and flipped it over, we recognized the original messy handwriting that had started this tradition, this discovery that kept bringing us back year after year. The mystery note writer had written back.
The message was an account of the writer's grandparents, when they had died and where there ashes had been scattered. It was impossible to tell if he or she was angry that we had taken over her sacred space. The intricate wooden box that had once only contained a few dried flowers was now a time capsule, a collection of memories and adventures recalling a few families and their children's journey from childhood to adolescence. Personally, I don't think we abused the original purpose of the tree. To one person it was a holy space, a place to come and remember a loved one. To the many others who had been there and had the privilege of exploring its contents, it was a place where memories could be shared and created and remembered for years to come. We will never know who the mystery writer is. But whoever they are, they will always have a unique place in the hearts and memories of the families whose childhood they helped shape. As we begin to walk down the hill for the last time, I glance back at the tree, its twisted branches stretching into the brilliant blue sky.
