“Best memory” is a misnomer. It implies that all other memories fall short of this particular one. I believe memories can’t be ranked. Each one is special in a different way. But a memory that stands out to me occurred when I was 12. The events and feelings were so powerful that I drew upon them for comfort for many years. It was special because it caused an awakening in my soul for the appreciation of beauty in nature.
It was the summer of 1945. The war had ended, gas rationing was over and families were planning trips again. Mom and Dad, Bobby Webb (my nephew), and I, all piled into our ‘41 Ford, pulling a tiny teardrop trailer and headed for Yosemite National Park for a week.
The drive was hot and long but when we reached the look-out at the entrance of Yosemite Valley, I was awe-struck. I had no idea massive walls of rock with waterfalls cascading down and thick pine forests even existed. I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
We drove on into the valley and found a lovely camping spot next to the Merced River. There was a picnic table and fire pit to cook on. Our tiny trailer was only large enough for a mattress inside where Mom and Dad slept. Bobby and I had a little tent with two cots and sleeping bags. We thought it was perfect and it was! I felt such a freedom there. The towering rock walls reminded me of a fortress and I felt safe and protected. It was as if I was in another world and time.
After setting up camp, Bobby and I explored the campground. A few campsites away I noticed a family with a girl who was 12, just like me. Her name was Gerry and she had blonde hair like mine. We could have been sisters. From that moment on we were inseparable for the entire week.
Gerry, Bobby and I rented bikes to explore the valley. In those days there weren’t that many visitors so the roads were open and clear for riding. I remember riding to the beautiful Ahwahnee Lodge. You could see Upper and Lower Yosemite Falls from that vantage point. Dad enjoyed staying at the campground talking with people but Mom hiked with us up to Vernal Falls and Bridal Veil Falls. It was the first time I had ever gone on a hike and I loved it. Around every bend in the trail was more beauty. When we finally arrived at the falls, it took my breath away. I could feel the power of the water and it awoke a love of nature inside of me.
But the best magic was yet to come.
We heard people talking about the Fire Fall at Camp Curry. We had no idea what it was, but like all the other campers, we headed to the camp at dusk. There was a feeling of anticipation in the air. As the blackness settled in over the valley, everyone hushed and looked up hundreds of feet to the very top of the rock wall where we could see red and gold coals flickering.
A park ranger stepped up and complete silence fell on the crowd. He cupped his hands to his mouth and with a booming voice, yelled up to the person at the top of the cliff, “Let the fire fall!” And at that very moment, to our surprise, a woman’s clear voice began singing “Indian Love Call” as the coals were slowly pushed over the edge and fell as a water fall would but with a blaze of color. It took my breath away. I experienced the most profound feeling of peace and beauty. I didn’t want it to ever end. Even after it was over, I stood very still lost in another world.
Each night we returned to Camp Curry to watch the fire fall and hear the lovely Indian Love Call. It was as magical as the first time, and I felt the presence of the Indians who had inhabited Yosemite Valley many years before.
I took that memory home with me and for years afterwards I would relive the memory. At night before falling asleep, I often visualized the beauty and peacefulness of the fire fall. When I had my tonsils out I remember replaying the scene in my mind to calm my fears. Even to this day, if things are bothering me, I can dig deep into my memories and pull up this touching scene. It is then that God is with me.
