Love and Salamanders

My favorite thing about camping is waking up in the tent. When I open my eyes in the morning, I feel as though I’m staring up at the sun-kissed underside of the forest canopy; the softly glowing green of the tent’s tarp stretching around me, dancing with the shadows of leaves and welcoming in the rays of the sun to trap their warmth.

“Babe!”

I sit up, trying to untangle myself from the unneeded sleeping bag I’d kicked off sometime in the night. Of course, my adventure is momentarily put on hold as I rummage around for the morning necessities: bra, water, chapstick, favorite pink-and-flower dress. By the time I’m unzipping the tent flap, Ryan’s wandering over to see what’s taking me so long.

“Careful.” He catches my hand and steadies me as I trip over the bottom lip of the tent.

“Thanks.”

I clutch his arm for balance as I struggle to put on my sandals without stepping into the dirt. When I was younger, my parents always scolded me for going barefoot. What if there’s broken glass? Or a nail? They’d ask. In the twenty years I’ve been camping, I’ve never stepped on either. But snapped twigs and the occasional rock aren’t any more comfortable to walk on.

“Whoever decided a single square foot of tarp makes for a sufficient door mat was very wrong,” I say with a sigh.

“We can bring our own next time.”

I grin. Ever practical, my Ryan.

Straightening, I reach out and run my hand through his perfect curls. They’re a beautiful brown, glinting in the morning sun, and they wind tightly just above his shoulders. When we’d met, I’d thought they were a bit at odds with his cowboy boots and broad muscles. But they fit the part of him that’s always kind to me.

“Good morning,” he mumbles as he pulls me against him for a kiss. I giggle.

“Good morning,” I mumble back.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” He pulls away, stepping over to the picknick table to pour me some cereal. The campsites here are decently sized, each with their own table and firepit. I pass over the prickly wood of the table bench for one of the oversized camp chairs beside the metal pit and stare up at the real canopy as I consider.

“Well, we could take one of the trails. I bet we’ll find a salamander.”

“I don’t think there are any salamanders out right now. It’s too hot.”

“You always say that, and I always find one,” I tease.

“True.” He hands me the bowl with another kiss. We eat in silence, enjoying each other’s company and the light breeze frolicking around us.

Another pause in our adventure to pack lunch: too much water, one mostly PB and some J, one mostly J and some PB, and Subway cookies. I’ll eat lukewarm cereal milk and toast marshmallows over a fire until my stomach hurts, but nothing says summer like half-melted double chocolate Subway cookies. When everything’s packed, Ryan swings my hiking backpack onto his shoulder and takes my hand.

We stroll down the narrow, shoulderless lane of the campsite. There are more RVs than tents, and more dogs than people this early. An adorable little puggle snorts his way up to us. He gets as many pets from Ryan as from me (though I give him more compliments) before we say goodbye and head on past the next site. This one has a big husky. His mom has him on a short leash and we just wave and smile at him as we pass.

The campground has three loops of campsites. The first is closest to the big lake. It mixes sand with dirt, and is easiest to get to. The second is almost entirely flat, like someone only told them it was for camping after they’d taken out all the trees and bushes. There’s a cabin at the back of that second loop that sits before a steep hill. Whenever we come, we walk back to that cabin and politely keep to the outskirts of the site as we head to the hill. We use the abruptly forested landscape to pull ourselves up and up, stopping at the top in a patch of moss to talk to mom. That was her favorite place, and we always say hi to her when we come. But we don’t camp in the second loop anymore.

The third loop, that’s the best one anyways – the one we always stay in. It’s appropriately shaded by trees and carpeted in moss and an ever-present layer of leaves. And it’s right next to the crystal waters of Hamlin Lake.

Ryan and I come to the end of the third loop and stop. We look both ways as though there might be a car that wouldn’t stop for us. We turn left and step up onto the Island Trail Boardwalk.

For a moment, we walk single file as young leaves dip down to pat the tops of our heads. Ryan’s boots make a heavy clunk with every step, but I’ve already given up on teaching him to step quietly. Then the trees give way to grass and reeds and the sun falls onto us.

“See any turtles?” Ryan asks. I look down to my right where the plants are more sparse and try to peer into the water past the sun’s reflection.

“Not yet.”

We make it across the stretch of boardwalk onto the first island. It’s maybe a block wide, two blocks long, with ground that sweeps up and down in root-laced dirt. Here the trees stand a couple yards apart. I hop from one tree-covered mound to another, running my palm over the bark and keeping an eye out for caterpillars. Ryan takes a more practical approach. He steps over the roots crossing the trail and heads right for the next boardwalk.

“Come on.” He reaches a hand out to me and I take it, falling back onto the path beside him. “Look!” With his other hand, he points to the edge of a peninsula where a great blue heron struts undisturbed in the water.

“Lookin’ for a fish,” I say. He nods.

We make it to the second boardwalk. Well, really it’s just a bridge. Six stairs up, maybe two yards over, and five stairs down. I stop in the middle and pull him against the railing with me. We look down at the shallow water, shaded enough here that we can see perfectly to the darting minnows and rippled sand.

“Remember when we went kayaking here last time?” I ask.

“I don’t know how to kayak,” he answers. “I’d probably be terrible at it and capsize.”

I roll my eyes. “You did hit the bridge twice before you managed to get through it.”

“But I was faster than you, especially going backwards.” His eyes twinkle with a laugh. I roll my eyes again and lean forward for a kiss, into the feeling of warm skin and strong muscle.

Down the other side of the bridge, we make it to the second island. This one is much larger; I’m not even sure it’s technically an island. There are small ponds dotting it and a staircase leading up as the ground rises far above the lake. We both groan when we reach the first step.

“Carry me,” I say.

He snorts and starts up. We take it slow, since a car accident before we met damaged the nerves in Ryan’s back.

Most of the year he won’t go on nature walks with me. Zoo? Yes. Metroparks? Sometimes, especially if we bring the girls. Shopping? Normally. But not nature walks. Aside from the pain, I think he just doesn’t get the point of them. But when we come here, we walk. And walk. And walk. And Ryan doesn’t complain. He even takes the lead over the sand dunes, infuriatingly able to keep his balance while I huff and struggle and he slaps his torso and tells me it’s because of all the ab muscles he has. I’m still waiting for the day he climbs the tallest one and declares himself King of the Sand Dunes.

On the stairs, though, we’re evenly matched. Step by step we make it to the first platform. Then the second. Then the third. Finally, we crest the last slab of wood and set our feet back on dirt.

“I need a bench,” I declare. I know he’s thinking the same thing, so we find one and sit. It looks over the side of the hill that somehow, between the dense trees, is pure sand all the way down to the lake. “What if I push you down?” I tease.

“You can’t. I’m stronger than you.”

I rest my head on his shoulder, and we watch the sun on the water for a few moments.

“Come on,” he says finally as he stands. “Aren’t we only like halfway around still?”

I find myself being pulled to my feet. “But it’s mostly downhill from here.”

We set off again. Now, I’m on the lookout for the perfect salamander log.

“What about that one?” Ryan asks, pointing at one.

“Hmm. Too thin, I think. It wouldn’t sit deep enough in the leaves.”

We keep on and I find a few to push over.

“Worms,” I sigh.

On to the next. “Worms and ants under this one.”

On to the next. “No worms.”

“They’re hiding from you,” He teases me. I give him a fierce glare and he chuckles. “So cute.” He wraps his arms around me there. We stand in the comfort and safety of the trees, of the wilderness and the sun. He presses kisses along my neck.

“Are you having fun on our trip?” I ask. He nods and kisses me more.

“I always do.” His mustache and beard tickle my skin, but I don’t dare move an inch.

“A kiss for luck,” I say. He pulls back and presses his lips to mine. Then keep on, trying this log then the next. We come to the bottom of the hill and the end of the trail. “One more,” I say.

“Okay.” Ryan keeps on walking. He leaves the shade of the forest for the even pavement of the parking lot that marks the end of our walk.

I turn away and walk over to a log covered in moss. My hiking boots crunch the leaves before it My fingers grip the broken wood as I try to avoid touching the toadstools and bright fungus. I lift it gently and peer underneath.

Set atop a smooth head of black, two tiny eyes stare up at me. The salamander’s sides are dark skin spotted with bright blue, and they wrinkle as he takes a step forward. I squat down and grip him gently, putting the log back down as he tickles my palm with his tiny toes.

“Did you find one?” Ryan asks.

I grin up at him. “Told you I would. He’s so smooth.” Cupping my new friend, I pick a careful path back to the trail. “See?”

Ryan motions me over and I hold up my cupped hands, stepping out into the sun.