Fourth of July under cathedral redwoods. One massive group site, no neighbors for miles, just us and trees older than anyone's great-great-grandparents. This is what we came for.
The driveway became a track for our kids on bikes and scooters, riding loops for hours. An older teen drove the electric bike around giving younger kids rides, everyone taking turns and shrieking with joy. Someone brought chalk and suddenly the whole loop was covered in drawings, hopscotch, messages to each other.
Down at the Eel River, we grilled hot dogs, floated, swam, let the sun soak into our bones. Some kids touched river water for their very first time. Someone fished. Then someone else's van got stuck in loose gravel trying to leave and several of us ran over to push without even thinking about it. The kids cheered when we got it free, like we'd won something. Helping strangers—that's just what we do.
Three birthdays. Glow sticks. The older kids staged some elaborate make-believe tournament while the little ones set up chairs to watch and direct. S'mores. Cupcakes. Fallen logs wider than we are tall for our kids to climb on.
We came for community under ancient redwoods. We got our kids running barefoot and fearless, climbing trees that have seen centuries. Take up space.