The American Dream
Every year we arrive at the same time, or at least it seems like that. The incandescence of the sun is slowly starting to fade out of the clear sky. I don’t let any time slip away. As I step out of the truck I can faintly hear the river roaring. The smell of cows and sagebrush overwhelms me. The sound of my siblings frolicking in their freedom of the outdoors slowly diminishes, and the sound of the river taunts me more than before. As I journey down to the river, ground squirrels scurry to there holes because of an unknown fear. The waters refreshing touch is pleasing as it swims around my fingers. The river is high, which means the fishing will be good this year, but it is every year. As I cross the decaying logs my grandpa once placed many years ago I reminisce about the stories he shares around the campfire. As I ascend the mountain the smell begins to transform into the sharp but sweet and refreshing smell of pine trees. The climb becomes almost vertical as I dig my fingers into the moist dirt, not caring that my hands are turning darker with every step I take. I stop and fill my lungs with the sweet smooth air as I attempt to reclaim my breath. As I look down at camp, the once massive animals that were grazing in the fields are now specs. Only a taste of the sun remains on the horizon, but it has left a trail of different hues. Yellow, red, and purple now rain across the sky. It was worth the climb