I step out into the chilly November air. It’s damp and everything smells like mud, manure, and horses. To my right, there is a flock of about seven guinea fowl scurrying into small paddock with two ponies, one dark brown and one dapple grey. Just about fifty feet in front of me, a horse hitched to a small buggy and cats are appearing out of nowhere. A sense of peace and serenity washes over me as I take all of it in. The absence of animals on campus is very stressful and being in such  a haven is almost overwhelming. We are only just outside of Apple Creek, Ohio, the next town over from Wooster, but I feel as if I’ve been transported much much further.

We step into the dairy barn and are greeted by more and more cats, mewing and weaving through our legs. Dusk was gathering and the barn is cool and dark. I can see dairy cows through the open doorway at the back, milling about, ready for their evening milking. Cats of all ages scamper around our feet as our host, David, tells us about Amish farming. Frankly, I was very distracted by the cats and the cows, and I was devising a way to take the smallest kitten home with me. David mentions buttery mashed potatoes, and suddenly my mouth is watering and my stomach is growling. I can almost taste the creamy Amish butter and smell warm potatoes. When is dinner, again?

We exit the dairy barn the way we came in and head up the path to the open storage barn. There is an old rusted basketball hoop on the left hand wall and another leaning against a post in the middle of the floor. It smells strongly of sweet hay with undertones of horses and manure. It’s colder in this barn and the wind cuts through the holes in my loose-knit sweater. I hear children and turn around to see a boy, about five-years-old running up the path, an older girl, probably around seven,  in a dress and rain boots chasing behind him. I watch them play hide-and-seek, chasing each other around the barn. I look up and see another boy, hiding in the stacks of hay bails on the wall. I stifle a giggle. Once again, I am distracted by friendly beasts.

 

I finally find a spot I deem to be worth spending more than a second at. I sit down on my heels and just watch the forest. I’m far enough away that I can barely hear my classmates and can no longer smell the intense manure of the nearby farmland, my intention. I sit there for a good amount of time, trying my hardest to see what I could not. I have always had difficulty seeing the forest through the trees. I focus too much on the details and forget or neglect to see the big picture. As I was sitting there, I was focusing on how green the leaves of the beech trees and tall oaks were, observing how old and gnarly the roots of the fallen trees are, how dense the moss is on that branch, isn’t that moss growing on the north side of the trunk? The sun is casting dappled golden light on the leaf litter. I don’t even know what I’m looking for at this point. Cognitively, I know that there is a giant ecosystem in this place, but I’m not if I’m just being dense or if I’m just focusing too much on the trees to see it.

                 

I stand there on the dock. The morning is cool, cool enough to necessitate a sweatshirt but not cold enough to see your breath. It’s silent. The water is smooth and motionless, mist gently rising from it in dancing clouds. Beyond the lake there is a hill lush with the deep green foliage of well-established trees. The golden morning sun just beginning to touch it. The park seems to be breathing with me, sleepily starting the day, not in a hurry. Tar Hollow is not untouched by man and commercialism, but to those who know no other way, it can seem that way. One can enjoy falling asleep to the sounds of crickets, and smell the rotting leaves under a canopy of bright green while also enjoying the luxury of running water and electric lights. Every year since I was fifteen, I have spent one week escaping reality here. Time seems to stop when I enter the park, but, somehow, I always leave a different person, rejuvenated and recharged even after working harder in a week than I do all year. I can get lost in this timelessness. I long for this respite, but all things end, and I must leave this place tomorrow. I must leave this haven and return to the real world, to the noise, to the traffic, to the frustration of staying in one place, to unfulfilling tasks. I wish that I will find something that brings me as much peace as this place. Until then, I must wait another year.