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Driving from Berkeley, CA to Yosemite national park, the city streets became long roads with nothing but fields. There was a single house every hour or so, and the odd gas station. At some point we passed through a town with some sign of civilisation, the sun was setting as we approached Fish Camp - the small town in which we were staying. Unimaginable shades of pink and yellow shone through the trees as we rose higher, eventually coming to a stop to collect the keys to the cabin we would call home for the week. The mornings were cold, we would stop for some breakfast - oatmeal or something equally energising - then drive to the national park. All the expectations I previously had for the beauty of the nature surrounding us, shrivelled in comparison to the real thing. Trekking through the trees, my dad pointing out different animals and plants, trying to educate me on what was edible, I felt like I was a child again. We were back in the woodland near my house, running around, playing Robin Hood, and searching for the faerie road. It was like nothing mattered, it was just my dad and I against the world. On the first day, we drove up to see the sun set over half dome. My dad took my hand in his, and we looked in awe - it was the kind of thing I’d only ever seen in paintings and photographs. I’d forgotten what it was like to escape from the city and just be at one with nature. Throughout our week in Yosemite, we spent every day exploring a new part of the vast park. There were entire days where the only people we saw were those in the communal breakfast building and the people working the gates of the park. It was one of those days that we saw a small herd of deer relaxing in the shade of trees. Two deer lay beside one another - one with magnificent antlers, awake, and vaguely aware of its surroundings, the other smaller, without antlers, was asleep, basking in the small window of sun breaking through the autumn leaves. Two or three members of the herd stood not too far from these two, grazing peacefully. I have never felt another moment of such connection to the natural world, I moved closer as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb them, but desperate for a photo. If they noticed me, they didn’t let on, simply continued about their business. On one of our final days at the park, we went to the grizzly giant, and found a small path that took us a quieter route around the huge trees. We paused occasionally to admire our surroundings, but mostly, we explored, my dad picked out more plants in a final desperate attempt to teach me what I could eat if I ever found myself stranded without food. On our way home, we stopped as a coyote crossed the road, pausing in front of us as if judging us, before trotting off and letting us pass. On that trip I rediscovered a part of myself that I didn’t realise was missing. The part of me that all through childhood, had loved getting up early to go on an adventure, where I would listen eagerly to the stories my dad would tell. The stories of the caves that once held magnificent dragons, and the tiny railway where if you knock, something knocks back. It granted me a newfound respect for the imagination my dad has held onto well into his fiftieth decade, and how much a child’s ability to believe in whatever they’re told is true can be a gift. I didn’t expect to find a piece of my childhood somewhere so far from home.