The six of us - my neighbors, sister, and I - practically grew up outside. We were the queens and king of Glencoe Drive, parading our Razor scooters up and down the street and howling at all the dogs in the front yards so we’d have a fanfare as we passed. We lived and played in a world all of our own; the only thing that could draw us out of our joint fantasy was the promise that dinner was ready. 

Though we spent plenty of time dancing on the sidewalk, the woods behind my house consumed the majority of our hours. It was our playground and it had everything we could ever need: the biggest kudzu-choked tree became a Hunger Games Cornucopia that we hid our twig swords and arrows in; we brought beach shovels to excavate the dinosaur bones we were convinced we’d found; lifted by tulip leaf wings, we flew through the pine trees and imagined what it would be like to sit at their tops and precariously sway in the wind.

And when we weren’t acting out our dreams of becoming fairies or pirates, we played in the creek. It wasn’t very deep or wide and most of the time it was dry, but when there was a heavy downpour, the creek bed filled up faster than a bathtub. We would run down the pine straw-slick back yard (barefoot, of course) and stand at its edge, just watching the red-brown water rush by. We’d sit on the bridge my dad built and dangle our feet over the edge, dropping sticks and watching them participate in an impromptu race.

When the creek dried back up, we would take excursions upstream, trying to find some mysterious land that exceeded our own, or maybe just the Cahaba River. But we never made it. Often we would get bored of walking through spiders’ webs or getting scratched by saplings or hearing our stomachs growling for lunch and turn back toward the familiar bridge. 

The woods and creek bed were our stomping grounds. They were familiar, and ever changing, with everything resting on the direction of the wind. As we grew older and taller, the call of the trees and mud grew softer. The allure faded and I understood why adults could no longer see fairies. 

When I had the chance to move from my local public school to Indian Springs, I couldn’t turn down the adventure that was sure to follow. During the first week, when I wasn’t completely overwhelmed by the expansive campus and towering seniors, I noticed the woods that encircled the school and merged with Oak Mountain State Park. They whispered louder to me than any trees had in many years, and resisting them became impossible. My new friends and I wandered through them whenever we had the chance. 

High school was my new adventure. It had all the ups and downs and hairpin turns that a good one should have, too. Though, as classes got harder and I grew taller still, I quit hiking through the woods as often as my 13 year old self had, the trees still invite me to join them for just a few moments. And when I have the time, I indulge myself, and them, by sliding along the pine straw paths and breathing in the humid air. 

I long for adventure and exploring the Great Outdoors™. I always have and always will. It’s etched on my soul. And because of this, I know that wherever I end up and whatever I do with my life, I’ll be listening for that faint whisper. I want to see all the corners of the world, and I know that if only I chase the call of the woods, they’ll lead me exactly to where I’m meant to be.