National Parks: A Celebration of Beauty Pt. 2

By Jasmine Cummings on October 4, 2016

A continuation of my last article, found here.

My life continued this way for a good handful of years. I returned to school for eighth grade, much to my regret, and left again the following summer for the western part of the country. We visited the Grand Canyon, where a man dropped to one knee in the orange sand and proposed to his girlfriend. The late afternoon sun lit the canyons in a cacophony of fiery colors.

At Yellowstone, my father drove the RV along cliff-side roads edged in snow as Mom, pale-faced, refused to look out the window and over the edge. Old Faithful cast shimmering rainbows in the cold, cloudless sky, but as evening came the temperature fell to dangerous levels, and many of the roads were closed. We were forced to exit at the other side of the park, and it took half the night to make it back home.

Absolutely enormous.

After that, we took a number of smaller trips, which suited me just fine. The older I got, the less I liked living in such a confined space with my parents for months on end, no one else for company. I was a teenager now, and my priorities had shifted a bit. Already I hated being away from my computer for any length of time, and the nights we spent in parks without Internet bothered me. I began to withdraw into myself, still enjoying the places we went — the Great Basin was home to eerily beautiful trees, ancient, grasping things that made me break out in goose-flesh — but resented how long it took to get there. Some days we drove six, seven, eight hours that dragged on forever. I quickly ran out of books and turned to writing instead.

Bristlecone Pines. No, seriously. Look at these things.

With this in mind, I gave tenth grade a chance. It was a charter high school, one that allowed you to choose your classes as you would at college. Only one of my friends was accepted there. She never showed, and I lasted a week before giving up in frustration. Living in an RV with my parents was a far better option.

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Our next trip was the summer after my first semester of community college. I was 16 and dug my heels in, resisting the close quarters the RV offered, so we flew to Las Vegas instead of driving. Having flown to England every year since I was six months old, I wasn’t very fond of planes either. But it wasn’t an eight hour flight, and certainly a lot quicker than driving ever would be, so I put up with it.

We were finally going to Yosemite.

I thought four years of waiting might lessen the impact, and I was sick, apparently allergic to the desert. But when we arrived, even though I wasn’t feeling well, I was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty the park is famous for. The giant redwoods stood tall and proud and impossibly huge; despite my drowsiness, I stumbled out of the car and up to one of the bigger trees, tried to encircle it with my arms, which couldn’t even wrap them a fourth of the way around the trunk. The bark was soft, a little spongy, and I made sure to take one of the fragmented pieces that littered the ground, marveling at the way it gave slightly beneath my fingers.

Me, my old man, and some very large trees.

At Sequoia National Park, an enormous log that had fallen across a side road had been cut open, leaving space for a car; even though I wasn’t supposed to, I drove our rental through the opening as my mother took a picture. At the highest points of the park, there was still snow on the ground. I climbed a rocky hill and sat without a jacket, enjoying the warm sun and cool breeze.

Illegal, but pretty cool.

After that, I didn’t travel as much. My attention was soon consumed by college work and attempts to reconnect with the friends I’d been so distant from during our longer trips. If there’s one thing I know now, it’s this: friendships are difficult when you’re never around.

When I turned 18, things finally came to a head. Shortly before leaving on one more trip, I had wrist surgery that required me to wear a cast for six weeks. I spent that time learning to drive one-handed on the high, narrow roads of Mesa Verde National Park– where villages were carved into mountainsides, and to this day I still wonder at their design — and winding mountain passes still buried beneath snow in June, much to my parents’ distress. Utah was beautiful that time of year, and it made for a nice last trip.

When the six weeks were up, I flew home from San Francisco to have my cast removed — with a saw so close to my skin I squeezed my eyes shut, but couldn’t block out the sound of whirring blades — and spent the rest of that summer living alone. These long periods of solitude, with plenty of friends nearby to keep me from feeling too lonely, became my preference. They prepared me for the inevitable future move to Tallahassee, where I’d have an apartment to myself for a year.

A huge part of me regrets separating myself from traveling, something I once loved so much, and still crave now and again. My parents currently live in an RV full-time, spending their last able-bodied days doing what they love. I join them from time to time, just a few days here and there, but that part of my life is on hold. For now.

Just a temporary hiatus.

I hope this little glimpse into my life has shown that National Parks are places meant to be experienced.