We used to go to Yosemite every summer when I was a kid. We always stayed in the campgrounds. At night, my little brother and I—and my older brother too, if he had come with us—would take out our flashlights and pretend they were light sabers. We made campfires at night and told ghost stories. There was one story about a kid named Elmer who got lost in the woods on one of his visits. Many of the other visitors also knew this story, and according to the legend, people were supposed to call out for Elmer to help him find his way back, so we did.

We looked at stars. I never could figure out how so many people seemed to be able to find constellations. The stars were bright and beautiful to me, but I found myself frustrated when I couldn't see what other people seemed to see with little difficulty. When we got tired, we climbed into our sleeping bags.

We always put a bowl of ammonia out at night to keep bears away. My mother told me that someone she had known years ago once put cold cream on before she went to sleep, but she forgot the bowl of ammonia. She woke up to discover that a bear was licking the cold cream off her face. I wondered why anyone would sleep with cold cream on her face—wouldn't it get all over the pillow, I wanted to know?—but I was sufficiently scared by the anecdote, and I never forgot about the bowl.

We usually had hot chocolate and cereal in the morning. My brother, mimicking the old Cheerios commercials, once said, "Cheerioooos, up your nooose." My mom had to extract the Cheerio from his nose with tweezers. Most of the time, we didn't have anything at all in our noses. We explored and we hiked. There was a big, square rock that my brother and I liked to climb. We bought little rocks and souvenirs from the gift shops. We hiked up one of the waterfalls—I wish I could remember which one—and got excited when we got close enough for the spray to hit our faces.

People told us about John Muir; I thought it was amazing that anyone could walk so very far, and I wondered if he ever got scared at night. When I was old enough to venture out by myself, I sometimes got on a tourbus and went through two or three cycles of the driver's route. I liked having some time alone, and the views were awe-inspiring. I wanted to stick my hand out the window, but the guides constantly reminded us not to, and I didn't want to be kicked off the bus.

There was a swimming pool we used to visit. It had an official name, but I don't know it, because to us, it was "Blue Pool." We used to buy frozen Three Musketeers bars and eat them on the deck. We never, ever waited to go back in the pool after we had eaten. I stayed in the pool for hours at a time, floating and seeing how long I could stay under water. When it was time to go, I used to duck my head back under the surface and pretend I hadn't heard my mom say we had to leave.

I've been thinking that I want to go back. It's been a very long time. The last time I was there was not long after the huge fire that hit there—I suppose it was in the early '90s? It shocked me to see so many charred trees. And now, I want to drive up there, sleeping bag in my trunk. I want to make a fire and call for Elmer, and I want to feel spray on my face as I walk near the waterfall.