Mountain Air

    The smell of nothing but fresh Adirondack air, and the sounds of many happy children, doing things that they can only do here.  Once in a while, you'll hear someone crying because in her excitement, she forgot to look down at the root sticking up in the path, as she ran over it.  The steady flow of the stream over the rocks, block out any sound man-made, as it heads to its final destination.  All these memories that flood back to me, help me remember that at one point, there was more to life than television, movies, essays, the hectic mess we've all come to need.
    When I look out my window now, it makes me long to be back in my large tent, with my 3 tent mates during Q.T. (Quiet Time); and looking out past the tent flaps and seeing nothing, but nature at work.  The trees slightly bending in the breeze, the gentle ripples on the lake which lead to the towering mountains that were looking down on making sure I respected them letting me stay on their land.  The world I was living inwasn't of my own, but of something better - something that has no grief,, for it has nothing to grieve.  It's something with no guilt, for it had done nothing to feel guilty for.  These were the times when I realized how completely out of control of everything I really was, but how much control I could exert over myself.  I had nothing to do with this world, but I had everything to do with me.
    I lie in my bed at nights, thinking about these things - thinking about why, when feeling the most unnecessary, I felt the most alive.  Then I hear the loons that used to slide me asleep with their gentle, harmonious songs.  I always felt as if they were singing to me, as their soft voices echoed down the lake.  Right then, I run to the window, to see these beautiful loons, but when I get there, all I see and hear is the rattling tune of an old Volkswagon Beetle, as it rumbles down the street under those bright burning lights.  And my heart sinkds when I once again realize I'm no longer part of the world, that I was never really a part of, more of a tourist amazed by the beauty of that place.  But what I've come to realized is I'd rather be tourist to that world, than a citizen to mine.  I need to go back.  I need to be a tourist once again.
    I stand here on these same dusty paths, covered in saw dust, as the children walk and run past me, all with joy and happiness eminating from their small bodies, that haven't yet comprehended the amount of peace that they're in.  We head to the cafeteria, where everybody sits and talks about their day.  I can't help but see myself in their smiles and their glowing eyes.  Some of them are talking about their coming overnight canoe trip, and I start to float back to the slowly moving canoe over the calm lake and the steady camp fires that blaze and crackle through the night.  And when they talk about the large storm they had last night, my mind can't help but wander to those loud, booming nights, when the world tested our will.  The scrambling to close the tent flaps, and those steady beams from flashlights, as we stayed up all night reminisced, for it was much too loud to sleep.
    But even after all this, my mind kept drifting back.  As much as I remembered of the past, I always came back to the present, which brings the questions of the future.  I keep straining to gain more memories, to lose myself again, or to, at least, lose those troublesome questions of the future.  But the more I try to hear those loons, the farther they get.  The smile leaves my face, my eyes have lost their glow.  My eyelids start to slowly go down to cover my tear-stained eyes.  I'll never be a kid again.