The Places That Remember Us

Lessons From the Trail

In just a few days America will celebrate her 250th birthday.

Like most families, we’ll celebrate too. There will be grandchildren running through the yard, an eighteen-foot water slide that somehow seems bigger every year, Coleman canopies scattered across the lawn, more food than we need, and enough lawn chairs that people will keep dragging them into little circles as one conversation ends and another begins. By the end of the day there will be wet towels hanging over the deck railing, kids who are exhausted but don’t want to leave, and grandparents sitting quietly for a few minutes after everyone has gone home, already talking about doing it all again next year.

I’ve been looking forward to that, but I’ve also found myself thinking about something else.

For the past week I’ve been in Island Park, Idaho, where my family has been coming for generations. I came home with a camera full of pictures and a mind full of thoughts that I honestly didn’t expect. When I first started looking through the photos, I thought I had several different stories to write. There was a walk through the forest, time along the Henry’s Fork, an old gate I’ve been driving past for more than fifty years, two cabins sitting along our little road, a cow moose with her newborn twins, and an unexpected knock on the cabin door.

At first they didn’t seem to have much to do with one another.

The more I thought about them, the more I realized they all happened in places that have quietly been shaping my life for a very long time.

One afternoon I wandered into the trees with no particular destination in mind. I’ve learned over the years that those are usually my favorite walks. When I’m not trying to get somewhere, I tend to notice more. The smell of pine needles warming in the afternoon sun. The sound of the wind moving through the tops of the trees. The way the light filters through the branches. None of those things were new. They’ve been there every summer I’ve come here. The difference was that this time I slowed down long enough to pay attention.

I’ve walked those same trails as a little boy, a teenager, a young father, and now as a grandfather. As a boy I wondered what was around the next bend. Today I find myself wondering who walked this same trail before I did. My great-grandfather helped settle this area. My grandfather walked through these woods. My dad did too. Somewhere along the way I stopped thinking of this as just a beautiful place to spend a week every summer. It became part of our family’s story.

The next day I found myself standing in front of an old gate that has been there for as long as I can remember. It belongs to a private club, and if I’m being honest, they were never exactly known for welcoming the rest of us. As kids, it was simply “the gate.” Every trip into Macks Inn we’d drive past it wondering what was on the other side. I even jumped over it once. Not because I wanted to belong. I was just being a smart-ass teenager, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The North Fork Club gate — fifty years of driving past it.

Looking at it now makes me smile, but not because I remember climbing over it. I realized I don’t even think about what’s behind the gate anymore. What I notice now is that it has quietly watched my entire life unfold. It was there when my parents drove past it with a car full of kids. It was there when I learned to drive. It was there when I brought my own children to the cabin for the first time, and now it stands in exactly the same place while my grandchildren ride past it without giving it a second thought.

I suppose that’s what time does.

The things we thought were important somehow become less important, and the things we hardly noticed at all quietly become part of us.

Ours is the older one.

A little farther down the road is a newer cabin. I don’t know the family who owns it, but every time I walk by I find myself wondering what their grandchildren will remember fifty years from now. Right now they’re probably just making summer memories, the same way we did all those years ago. Someday those memories will become stories, and those stories will become reasons to come back.

I don’t think any of us realize we’re building traditions while we’re living them.

Later that morning I happened to look out the window and saw my oldest grandson sitting by the fire pit. He wasn't doing anything in particular. He was just sitting on one of the logs, looking out into the trees, completely comfortable with the quiet.

I stood there for a minute and watched him. As I did, it occurred to me that I'd been looking at that same scene my whole life. Years ago it was me sitting out there. Before that, it was probably my dad. Maybe even my grandfather. The faces have changed. The fire pit hasn't.

I don't know what he was thinking about that morning, and I never asked. Some thoughts belong to the person thinking them. I simply stood there for another minute before quietly walking away.

Most of the time we’re just showing up.

Later that week I stood along the Henry’s Fork watching my granddaughters throw rocks toward the island across the river. I smiled because I remembered doing exactly the same thing. I spent years trying to throw a rock that far, and I still remember the day I finally did. My grandfather was standing beside me. He didn’t make a big deal out of it. He didn’t have to. He was simply there.

A little while later I watched the girls head out onto the footbridge, and without really thinking about it I followed several steps behind them. Close enough to be there if they needed me. Far enough away to let them think they were on their own.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that’s exactly how my grandfather followed me.

One afternoon we spotted a cow moose across the road near my brother’s cabin. She had twin calves with her, still young enough that they looked just a little awkward trying to keep up with their mom. My grandkids stood beside me watching quietly. After a while we left her alone.

The next afternoon she came back.

This time she crossed into our yard with those same two little ones trailing behind her.

The twins, still a little awkward keeping up with her.

I figured that was probably the last we’d see of her. A little while later she came back, but this time she was alone. She wandered around our yard for a few minutes, browsed a little more, stopped a couple of times to look around, and then disappeared back into the timber. I have no idea where she had left those little ones. Somewhere she knew they would be safe, I suppose. She wasn’t worried. She knew exactly where they were.

She knew exactly where they were.

My grandkids will probably remember the twins.

I’ll remember that she came back.

Before the week was over there was one more surprise. Someone knocked on the cabin door.

That probably doesn’t sound unusual, but cabin doors don’t get many unexpected visitors. Most of the time, if someone is standing there, they’re family. When I opened the door, that’s exactly who it was.

If I’m being honest, I didn’t expect that knock.

We spent the next little while catching up on life, laughing about old memories and talking about where life has taken all of us. While we were standing there, I sent a quick text across the road to my oldest brother and Mom and asked if they’d come over. A few minutes later they walked across the street, and before long I suggested we take a picture.

Later that evening I found myself looking through those pictures. I smiled for a while. Not because everything suddenly became perfect. Families don't work that way. I smiled because, for one afternoon, we were all simply together.

The drive home gave me plenty of time to think. Not in any particular order, just the way memories have a habit of coming back when you've got a few hours alone. I found myself thinking about a walk through the forest, my granddaughters throwing rocks into the river, an old gate I've driven past for more than fifty years, two cabins sitting along our little road, a cow moose wandering through our yard with her twins, and an unexpected knock on the cabin door.

In a few days our family will celebrate the Fourth of July the way we always do. There will be too much food, kids flying down the water slide, stories that have been told so many times nobody remembers who told them first, and by the end of the day everyone will be tired in the best possible way.

Twenty years from now, I don't know what my grandkids will remember about this Fourth of July. They probably won't remember what we had to eat, and I doubt they'll remember how many canopies we had set up in the yard.

I hope they remember there was always a place to come back to.

For most of my life I thought I kept coming back because I remembered this place.

After this week, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe this place has been remembering me all along.

Until next time, I hope we meet on one of these trails.