When we lived in California, we had a yearly tradition of going camping. Same spot, same people, every year right after school let out for the summer. It was the highlight of my summer, and something I looked forward to throughout the year.
About a week after the beginning of summer vacation, my two brothers, my dad, and I would load up in the truck, along with more supplies than I could ever imagine anyone being able to use. Occasionally, my mom would come with us, but it wasn’t very often that she felt up to the drive.

I can remember being in the car for hours on end, listening to the same CD over and over again, wedged in between my two little brothers intent on landing a punch on the other. They got me instead.
Our car was so full of stuff, from pots and pans to bathing suits and shampoo. As soon as we arrived at our same campsite we had every year, we would unload and wait for everyone else. With three or four different families going, it was first come first served on the places for our tents, so we all tried to get to French Meadows as soon as possible.
Much to the disappointment of myself, and all the other kids, we were not allowed to go down to the beautiful lake until everything was set up and in order. But once that was done, we made a bee line for it.





The Ghosts of these memories stay even though I am now in Ojai.