Lost Lake...

Every year my daughters look forward to our traditional camping trip in June. Prior to the divorce my girls had limited exposure to the great outdoors. And now...each summer we load up the car and head for the hills. I can't imagine a summer without a week on the shores of Lost Valley Reservoir.

I remember little precise details of my own childhood here. Unlike today when my family pulls in RVs and trailers I remember a veritable tent village. Late night campfires with grandma's only rule: no flinging flaming marshmallows. And the occasional ride in Uncle Gary's canoe.

But, of every memory, the one that has never faded is of my cousins and me speeding toward the lake on our bicycles and riding as far into the lake as we could go. Somewhere there are pictures of our daring feats. Probably the ironic thing for me now...is to look at the lake and laugh at how ridiculously simple our fun was.

In my mind, as with many other memories I'm sure, I had created this grandiose image of us flying through the air off of a dock or jump, crashing into water too deep to walk in, saving our bicycles from certain eternal sleep at the bottom of the lake with heroic flare and strength. And all I can do now is shake my head and laugh.

My daughters can touch out to about 20 yards. The floor is so muddy and mucky that my youngest lost a flip flop last year. There is no way that my romantic memories of the great bike adventures can be true. In fact I'm sure the challenge was to see how far into the muck we could peddle before the mud swallowed the tires and completely stopped our momentum.

Tradition was officially passed down from generation to generation this year. I’m sad that I missed it…wish I could say I wasn’t there…I was…sleeping off my cold. I got to see the videos of my daughters and my nephews riding through the camp—straight into the lake. My heart was warmed…

I can’t wait until next year…I just have to remember to load my bike…