Looking at the far edge of the horizon stretching out directly in front of me, I held my breath. The small, purple hills I could see at the edge of the highway slowly gave way into increasingly larger blue, snow-capped mountains looming. Even at a tender young age of six, I could understand and appreciate the beauty of the wilderness. I felt so small, but so alive when those moments came, a paradox of feeling insignificant but at the same time feeling as invincible as those mountains that seemed to have withstood the end of time.
Every vacation, summer and winter, for as long as I can remember, my family and I would travel to the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains that embraced Lake Tahoe like an elderly grandma cuddling a cat in her lap, snuggled in the folds of her dress. The glorious land of sandy beaches, bright red lobsters that dwelled there, waiting to pinch your feet, the strange but enthralling pattern of miniscule rolling hills of sand that could be seen if you opened your eyes underwater, and also painfully felt on the balls of your feet when you first stepped in the cold but clear blue water. That was in the summer; during Christmas break, it was a winter wonderland with snow-covered mountains and banks of snow up to the waist of a small child (that small child was me).
The inevitable, impatient “Are we there yet?” coming from the mouth of a small child is what most parents probably hear on a road trip to somewhere exciting. I, however, do not remember ever saying these irritable words, but I do remember the anticipation of once again returning to what seemed like a special paradise for just the five of us, for brief moments in the summer and winter despite being crowded all year round. My siblings and I did not have much knowledge of the passage of time as children, but we knew we were getting close to our destination (and when we should stop fighting amongst ourselves and be on our best behavior) when those mountains unfurled before us. It seems a little bizarre to think about now, but every time I remember those mountains, the phrase of “purple mountain majesties” floats to the forefront of my mind – which in turn evokes a faraway memory of singing this beautifully patriotic song at an elementary (most likely third grade) school concert, a memory that seems to be in every American child’s vault of memories.
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I still do not know how my family and I traveled and had so much fun when I was younger. We were not rich, by any means. My father worked the night shift as a janitor at a large hospital. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, with the occasional housekeeper job. Dad, who was an immigrant to this country, did not having much growing up either; he and the majority of his siblings grew up in poverty. I have never asked him, but this is probably why he and Mom did their best to make our lives fun and interesting, while expanding our minds at the same time. If it was not instructive, then we would not waste our time on it. I thank them for this, because without this childhood, we would not have the love for exploring and learning new things we do.
On this particular occasion, we were heading back up to Lake Tahoe, in the same old green van, but this time with some kids from church who, though it has been more than a decade since I last saw them, I can still picture vividly in my mind’s eye: the eldest sister with her waist-length raven black hair and dark toffee skin contrasted by her pale cheeks; the middle sister with her shoulder-length espresso-colored hair and dark expressive eyes but fair skin; the cute younger brother with his dashing smile illuminated by twin dimples and chestnut hair always on edge as if recently gelled to look that way. We were good friends, sharing birthdays and car seats and hair ties and snacks. My family has always been an inclusive one; both my parents have loved and taken care of other children as well as their own.
My parents decided to include these siblings and I did not mind, as it meant playing with more kids my age. Some of us were sleeping, others chatting and playing games and singing songs the entire trip heading to the mountains; my voice was slowly silenced by the beautiful view once again. I do not remember much of the hustle and bustle of unloading about eight kids from a van, but I remember the snow. The freeing moment of jumping out of the van, hearing and feeling the soft crunch of snow underneath my pink boots, full of excitement for the day ahead.
The plastic green seesaw shaped like a crocodile – or alligator, I can never tell the difference – made the trip as well, as he always did, riding on top of the van, surely full of excitement and anticipation as well. We all took turns riding the makeshift sled, along with some other sleds that were strewn about, having snowball fights, finding an area with less snow to make snow angels, all the fun things children do in snow. I remember having a snowball fight with the big kids (I was the youngest there), but repeatedly getting slammed by the older kids’ better aim made me angry and sad. I was always trying to copy my older siblings, since I thought them so cool and wise, but I could not make a snowball to throw back at them to save my life. I decided to head off on my own, so I could pretend to be bigger than I was.
I made a small trail heading away from the group, struggling against the large drifts of snow decorated with pine needles. I could still hear the others’ laughter ringing, so I decided to push myself into getting even further away. I was far enough away (and apparently still close enough that my parents did not yell for me to come back), when I suddenly realized I was stuck. Panic immediately set in and I started flailing about, like a fish out of water, but I only succeeded in pushing myself deeper into the snow. In reality, I was probably no more than twenty yards away from the rest of the group, but to a small six-year-old child, it seemed like an eternity away. I cried for help for what still feels like hours, for anyone to come help me and rescue me. The older kids came running up to me, cheeks red from the cold mountain air and scarves flying, laughing and thinking I was joking, running around as if celebrating their freedom at the cost of my own.
I remember it was also getting dark, that lovely moment when the sun seems to be thinking if it really wants to go to sleep, or if it wants to stay awake and watch the world, but eventually it dips into the horizon. The thought crossed my mind: they are going to leave me here. But as soon as this devastating thought formed in my mind, it was dispelled when I heard Dad’s strong, baritone voice saying, “Hija, está bien. Está bien. Estoy aquí.” Daughter, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. A wave of relief flooded over me, so strong that I could do nothing else but burrow my head in my dad’s shoulder, encased in that black trucker jacket with the yellow insignia on the breast pocket, and sob as he pulled me out from that snow bank. Tears of relief, tears of gratitude, but more than anything tears of fear: what would have happened if Dad had not come to my rescue?
This memory, still vivid in my mind over fifteen years later, is the reason I am much closer to my father. I always come to him first to tell him about my day, always seek out his advice before others, and love to laugh with him at the corniest jokes. I always remember the magic show he would perform for my siblings and I, whenever we were out in our yard, picking grapes or peaches and sneaking samples until our mouths were blistered from the not-yet-ripe peaches and the juice dripped down our hands and onto our clothes. “Papá, do the magic trick!” He would tell us to close our eyes and count to ten slowly, but absolutely not peeking, or the magic would not work.
Those ten seconds always seemed the longest, but it never failed: my dad would always have a bird cupped in his sun-weathered hands when we opened our eyes. He never told us how he did it, always changing his story; regardless, that curiosity mixed with the eagerness to learn more about these tiny, intriguing creatures with heads so soft as if made of clouds made me the nature lover I am today.
The beautiful Blue Jays and Robins seemed so calm and at home in Dad’s hands, but their desire for freedom was evident as soon as my dad opened his hands. I learned to be curious and simply learn about those sharing this beautiful world with them, and I have my dad, my hero to thank for this. Perhaps one day soon I will ask him again how he caught those birds all those years ago.
