June, July, August. They run together in my head: traversing mountaintops, skipping towards a yawning sunset, the electric shock to my system stepping into the snowmelt creek. Dry air and heavy head against my pillow. For eleven weeks, I worked at a summer camp in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range in Colorado.
It was the last night of my O-trip where I found myself on Merritt Island’s shore, gazing at the sky and absentmindedly tracing jewels of land and pine out of the horizon. The ocean in front of me certainly felt my presence; the galloping horse within my chest and the breath of ice at the small of my back.