Station Delta

I wish my family had normal Thanksgiving traditions, like going to grandma's house and arguing over whose turn it is to carve the turkey. But I didn't luck out like that, unfortunately. Instead, every Thanksgiving, my mom and dad take me cold camping. Cold camping is just like regular camping, only instead of going to where it's a bearable temperature outside, or waiting until the ground starts to heat up again, we bundle up and head to the Rockies in the middle of Fall. I hate cold camping.

I stare out the car window at the steely gray sky. The trees are dead, and their bare limbs stretch out over the road. They sway in the icy mountain breeze. Whispers of an old country song pour from the radio, and I sigh. My mom is the first to break the long silence.

"Penelope, I promise you don't have to come cold camping with us after this year, okay? Just let us have this one last time with you before you go off to college and never see us again."

I roll my eyes. She's always been protective, but since I turned 18 she's gone into overdrive.

The trees break to reveal a large gravel parking lot. Dad pulls in and parks in the far corner like he always does. I go through the familiar motions of slinging on my framed backpack and shifting the weight to sit properly on my shoulders. I begin looking for a walking stick while Mom helps Dad strap his on. She's always been a lot better at this camping stuff than him.

My parents really were made for one another. While my mom has a talent for identifying edible plants and fungi, my dad has a scary good talent for predicting the weather. Camping with them is like watching a nature documentary that never ends, but sometimes it's cute to watch them talk about the clouds and trees. My dad is a big burly guy with a beard that rivals the ones on Duck Dynasty. He has icy blue eyes and a bright white smile. He's played Santa Claus at my elementary school on more than one occasion, and I know that he loves it. My mom, however, is subtly curvy and has long, flowing locks of honey blonde hair. She's strong, capable, and radiant. She knows that my dad has a weak spot for her and will do whatever she asks, but she doesn't ask for much. They're like Yin and Yang, and I've never even seen them fight. I love them, no matter how annoying they get.

I find a walking stick and lead the way up a familiar trail. It's the same one we take every year, marked with a short stick spray painted canary yellow. My parents trail about a dozen feet behind me, and I take in my surroundings. We're in the Rockies, so one side of the trail is pitched up hundreds of feet, and the other side is a steep drop. The only thing stopping a hiker from taking a tumble is an old, fraying rope threaded through rotting wooden fence posts. I try not to think about the implications of a fall from this height, because I know that we're only going to get higher.

The hike to our camping spot takes about an hour, and the Autumn air nipping at our exposed noses and ears makes the tents in our backpacks sound more and more comfortable. I'm about to crest the last hill before our spot when I hear my dad's hiking boots stop moving. I turn around, and he's gazing up at the sky, eyebrows knitted together. My stomach drops. He's about to give one of the most accurate weather predictions I've ever heard, I'm sure.

"Looks like snow soon. Slow moving clouds means it might be in a couple days, but it also means that there will be a lot. We'll have to make the most out of the time we have."

I smiled to myself. To me, that means that I won't have to be out here for much longer.

We finally get to our place, and Dad and I start setting up the tents while Mom searches for firewood. I get my tent to myself, which is a blessing and a curse. I don't have to deal with Dad's thunderous snoring, but I also have to rely on my own body heat when the temperature drops. Dad finishes his tent in record time, which is nothing new. I, however, struggle to coordinate my stiff, cold hands enough to put the tent's poles in the right place. When he sees me drop one of the joints for probably the bajillionth time, he jumps in.