Since it is now officially Autumn, and Annette and I have plans to camp in Yosemite again on Halloween weekend, I thought it would be appropriate to share a short article I wrote a number of years ago for FamilyFun magazine. The subject was Fun Fall Outings. I was asked to share our favorite family fun memory. It wasn't hard. I hope the article communicates the joy and fun we've had over the years.
Our Autumn in Yosemite
By Dan Schaeffer
I plant my beach chair firmly in the clean white river sand, shoulders aching from carrying approximately 3,000 pounds of necessary supplies along dirt and pine needle trails. We are half a mile from our campsite in Yosemite Valley and a world away from our home in the Southern California suburbs.
Each fall we pilgrimage to this one special spot in the valley. We come for decompression. The millions of people who visit Yosemite Valley leave it nearly deserted in fall, and the Merced River is part of our prescription. An emerald colored body of rushing river in the spring, it is now quiet, tired, and content to flow gently by.
Christi, our oldest, dashes to the icy clear water. Putting her foot in, she shrieks in mock horror. Andrew, her brother, and Katie soon join her and before long they are laughing and splashing about in the shallow water near shore, skipping rocks across the surface, and making sand angels. Mom and Dad watch the whole scene from our beach chairs, doing precisely what we came to do, exactly nothing.
Every year we return, because we want our kids to know that somewhere there is a place where every square foot is not covered by asphalt, houses, crowds, or shopping malls. Here they create memories and learn important lessons of childhood. Everything that is really fun to do doesn’t have to cost a fortune. Living in America is an incredible blessing. Life doesn’t have to be lived at warp speed, and Dad will catch whoever splashes cold water on him in the middle of his nap and tickle them until next Tuesday.
As the hours drift slowly by, they frolic in the raft, splashing each other with paddles as wild Mallard Ducks fly by so close to the water that they touch it with their wings. As the sunlight fades we trudge back to camp.
After dinner, and much pleading, I allow Andrew, under very careful surveillance, to start a fire—in the fire pit. Nearby, Mom assembles the makings for S’mores as the kids race for the coat hangers. Soon three children are sitting in front of a crackling campfire roasting marshmallows. Roasting is perhaps too mild a term. Many become flaming torches, melting into gooey black muck.
The fire blazes warm, comforting, and serene. But the smoke, controlled by an erratic mild breeze, appears magnetically attracted to wherever mom chooses to sit. At least that’s what she claims. As Andrew searches for twigs to toss in the fire, Katie, sitting on my lap, gazes up with me into a veritable sea of stars, stars not visible in the light polluted town where we live.
“Look at them all,” she murmurs. “I never knew there were so many.”
“Why can’t we see them at home?” Andrew asks, and I explain the problem of light pollution. We turn off the lantern so that the only light visible is the soft glow from our campfire. While mom makes hot chocolate, Christi points her flashlight up one of the many nearby trees so tall that the beam of her flashlight cannot reach its topmost branches. Suddenly, Katie announces that she has dropped her gooey S’more on my sweatshirt, eliciting giggles all around.
As the night grows still, our kids stare sleepily into the fire. Somewhere it may get better than this, but I can’t imagine how.
