By Tiffany E. M. Clark
The navy blue Saturn Outlook came to a stop. Gray and tan stones poked through the sandy dirt, twigs scattered about. I freed myself from lingering scents of car sickness and chip breath as the rest of the passengers retreated from their confined quarters. We stood there taking in the sweet aroma of Pine trees.
The campsite was somewhere between roughing it and a motel. A mound of ashes was contained by the smoked bricks of the fire pit. A rusty grill rack was set on top of the pit. This would be our makeshift kitchen. The only seating area was a wooden picnic table and two benches. It didn’t look like an easy fit for a family of five. The furniture was a home in itself. Cobwebs had been spun within the arc of the table’s legs and furry green polka dots had already begun to feed off of the boards. My dad asked, “What should we do first?”
Paging Mars. Yea, another one of your civilians punctured Earth’s atmosphere again. Hello … Mars?
Just yesterday, I realized the authenticity of these words. Astronomy is the greatest scholar afar. Dad is pro infinity, never taking a glimpse at the words that plummet from his mouth and burrow into the wooden planks of our kitchen floor. Though he is unaware, my dad has taken up a niche in painting. Mom and I don’t perceive my father’s attempts at abstract art, “Leftovers” will never radiate among pioneers of any art gallery. Is enveloping the protagonist of Henrik Isben’s play “A Doll’s House” too much of a hyperbole?
We obviously didn’t account for the weather when beginning our trip to the Adirondacks. That night, rain crashed down on the tent’s somewhat waterproof cover. If it was ever possible to drown on an air mattress, this was one of those times. I felt vacuum packed as the sky bawled tears.
When a truce was reached and the aqua cannon balls ceased, the restroom began to call to me.
Carefully I tiptoed around the airbeds. If I tripped I was sure to land on one of my sleeping family members. At the volume of my father’s snoring I would probably be able to go unnoticed. I peeked over at my mother in her sound state. She was engrossed within monotonous grates of Pink’s song, “Just Give Me a Reason”. I bit my lip, creeping closer to the opening of our tent. Though I tried, it’s zipper couldn’t be silenced. I side stepped over the bottom edge and closed the door behind me. It felt good to breathe in fresh air and free myself from the gradually sinking air mattress.
When I emerged from the restrooms, the clouds had drifted away to reveal a galaxy of stars.
I stopped propelling the fragment of sandstone forward. My personal GPS acted up. Holding my only survival tool, I rotated the red flashlight back and forth. Light exposed the unfamiliar campsites. How lucky those people were, snoozing the night away.
“Recalculating your route,” echoed in my head. Go straight on the dirt path and take a right past the wheezing storage shed. Congratulations, you have now reached your destination.
I locked eyes with the entry gate. Tracing the red and white stripes of the lengthy rectangle, dread rooted in my unconscious. Feet grounded, the mind struggled to filter out a solution. In the cluster of swaying trees, owls chatted through the night. I must have been the first person to ever get this lost, coming out of the restroom. Secretly I hoped that the Black bears were too busy dumpster diving to care for a natural food source. This was one of those times that signing up for Girl Scouts in elementary school would have been beneficial. My father’s voice crept into the fizzling echoes of the GPS.
I ordered you to engulf sports but you sat on the ground ripping each blade from its base. A member of the student council, I thought you would be but you morphed into the current of non-speakers. Creativity doesn’t buy you livelihood, a degree in science will.
Talking to my father was like speaking to the planets. He was always light years away. That day when our trip to the Adirondacks clouded my conscious, I had found the key. I reopened the childhood that I had known with him, one that was happy and without judgment. The love we shared for a free nature was the only thing recognizable about him that didn’t make me feel guilt or resentment towards him. Now I remained chained to my father’s foot, striving to find a connection to him, through a broken system.
Shifting through the last layers of my unconscious, like a prospector searching for a piece of gold, the answer warmed my chilled body. I walked on piecing together the invisible map.
Tiffany E.M. Clark is a Natural Resources and Conservation Management major from Ransomville, N.Y. Aside from writing poetry and stories, she has worked with New York State Parks and Recreation and Historical Preservation during the past years. She believes that educating the public about nature and historical areas, produces a beneficial social medium, which welcomes individuals to a universal nature.