Nature's Tapestry: Memories Woven into the Outdoors
By: Isabella Holmes, Communications and Community Engagement Intern at NVCT
With a fearless father who loves mountain biking and a strong mother with an affinity for waterfalls, many of the major events and celebrations of my childhood were marked by a hike. From Christmas Eve to birthdays and everything in between, the five of us would explore the breathtaking outdoors of Northern California.
When I look back now on the moments that formed my love for nature, those experiences are inexplicably tied to memories of my family, and of growing up.
I recently moved away from home. I live in the Pacific Northwest now, and everywhere I look, there are striking views of snow capped mountain peaks and bright blue water sparkling with fragmented sunshine.
Just this week, my roommate and I were able to go on a post-work hike, leaving the city at 5:30p and heading back down the mountain as dusk came in more than four hours later. We marveled at the late sunset, the bright moon, and the sea of hemlocks, so many it made us dizzy. In a few years I know I’ll look back on these summer days with a pang of nostalgia, but remember what it felt like to be 23-years-old in Seattle whenever I return to these mountains.
Memory works in interesting ways. I can write down an experience, but only end up remembering the written version of it, the way I told myself that story. Whenever I eat chips and salsa, it reminds me of watching Pushing Daisies with my roommate—the snack & show we always used to share two summers ago.
And when I return home and walk through the California redwoods or watch the dark waves of the Pacific crash against bluffs, I remember what it was like to be young and feel small but boundless. I remember what it was like to run as fast as I can or practice handstands or make up stories of fairies living in woods. And it encourages me to keep doing those things even though I’m an adult now.
The memories of my childhood are preserved in the outdoors where I spent my favorite moments with my family. Echoes of the past will be there for as long as those places remain, much longer than me.
When I think of these places where my
family memories lie, I think of the woods near my grandfather’s house—Papa Bill’s Woods, formally known as Baltimore Canyon. I think of placing petals and twigs and leaves in still water, “making soup” for the fairies. Looking up at the gentle vastness of the redwoods.
I think of our annual Christmas Eve waterfall hike up Cataract Falls, particularly the one year when an atmospheric river led a strong flow of water, droplets of water pooling on the needles of fir trees. That same year, my sisters and I all had the same song stuck in our heads the whole 5 miles. We added it to our family rotation of Christmas music, even though it’s not a holiday song.
My memories take me to Pirate’s Cove, a hike along the coast of the Pacific that begins at Muir Beach. The first time I went was with my mom and my sisters, and we were blown away by all the California poppies donning the hills. I’ve now taken just about everybody I know on this hike and it never gets old.
I think of snowboarding with my dad and stopping before each run to take in the view: the stark peaks, the blue lake, the snow on trees. I remember my first powder day, unable to stop laughing—or sinking—as my dad taught me to lean back and float over the snow.
When I consider my love for nature, I reflect on the importance of place in relation to memory. As I grow up and my sisters and I move away, I realize how precious those moments together enjoying the outdoors really are.
I have always loved documentation—writing, journaling, and maxing out my iPhone storage with photos. As a child, I would fill shoeboxes with treasures: old movie tickets, hotel room keys, an extensive rock collection. Part of this need to preserve my life in this way comes from a fear of losing the memories that matter most to me.
I want to hold on to the beauty of the nature I was lucky enough to grow up around—like sunsets on Bolinas Ridge, the way the water sparkles in the sun on Lake Tahoe, and the bright green of new growth on California Redwoods. I want to hold onto the memories that come with those experiences—laughing with my sisters, pointing out poppies to my mom, following my dad’s line through the snow.
If those places were gone, would I still remember?
As I grow up, I create new memories. My first time camping at Fort Bragg, a road trip to see an old-growth cedar on the Oregon coast, and now, a summer spent helping NVCT protect the beautiful land of Northern Virginia.
As I write about how important place is in relation to personal connection, writing for a wonderful nonprofit with the guiding maxim,"Saving Nearby Nature," it's important to note that I'm not-so nearby. I haven't had the opportunity to experience the diverse and remarkable beauty of the outdoors in Northern Virginia.
That said, I feel a desire to help preserve this land that is as strong as the desire I have to preserve the outdoors I grew up in. That is not because the personal relationship I have to both places are the same. It's because I know that there are millions of people who have the same love, the same wealth of memories for Northern Virginia as I do for Northern California. And while I haven't experienced it for myself, and I know what it's like to care for a place and want it to remain forever.
When I do one day come to Northern Virginia, I'll already be starting out with my own unique connection to it, one forged by drafting newsletters as opposed to scaling the Appalachian Mountains. A connection that is different, but centered on the same goal. But really, it's not about me. It's about you and your memories.
Every time we encounter nature and develop a connection with a particular place, we are not the first. I love thinking about how many other people, thousands over time, have been to the same mountain, stared up at the same redwoods. I like to think about the conversations that were had, the inspiration generated, and the relationships strengthened.
When protected, land can function as a vault for culture, an avenue to reconnection with and preservation of heritage. This is true in an especially sacred way for Indigenous peoples. Being able to come back and have a continuous relationship with native land is essential, not only stewarding that land, but preserving the culture and community of the people native to it. The places I reference throughout the article are part of Coast Miwok, Washoe, Pomo, Yuki, Patwin, Snoqualmie, and Duwamish land.
I could talk about all the reasons I love nearby nature forever: its beauty, the peace it brings, the way everything is connected. What I’ve learned lately about loving nature is that it allows places that are not-so nearby anymore to still feel close to me. I’m lucky in that I know these places will be there when I go home, and that when I’m there, my memories will be too.
Land holds memories. Preserving the beauty of nature also preserves the beauty of people and their emotional, cultural, and personal experiences with the land. And that’s important.
While people are not the only reason to protect our planet—and certainly not the most pressing—there is something precious in that every time I see a waterfall, I think of my mom. And I will for the rest of my life.
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