Rain pelted my bare legs and arms, along with my face as I walked down the dusty, gravel road. Doing my best to navigate the occasional holes of powdery, soft, sink-when-you-step-into-it dirt, I trudged forward. Forward toward home.

The rain speckled my face, making friends with the freckles that have been there for years. They were drops of moisture I knew wouldn’t amount to much, and I wanted to do all I could to soak them into my dry and weary body the best I could. I imagined the dusty road and summer fallow on either side of me were doing the same, wishing for each drop to multiply in abundance, to give life to what felt a bit dead.

Wind whipped my short, sun-kissed hair in every direction, with clouds of dirt swirling and beautiful memories from the short vacation I just returned from keeping my eyes focused on where I was going. Would the boys wonder what was keeping me, or would they know deep down that I needed the walk in the rain as much as anything else, to remember and reflect on where I had just been?

It had only been six days earlier when the road trip south had begun with the rising of the sun. The highway from Bend to Crater Lake is one that is well traveled, especially during the summer months, and we had found ourselves travelers on a path many have taken. RVs, SUVs, small cars and pickups with license plates from every corner of the U.S.A. filled the parking lots, the scenic pullouts and trailheads.

We had entered through the north entrance of the park, and made our first stop near Hillman Peak. The crater wasn’t in view without walking up the small sandy dune from the parking lot, and my youngest son and nieces ran ahead, wanting to be the first to get a glimpse of this magnificent lake we had been telling them about. They had listened intently and seemed interested, but I don’t think they understood the magnitude of the depth, nor greatness of size, until it was directly in front of them.

It was absolutely stunning that day, as if putting on a show just for us. The water was crystal clear, with every shade of blues and greens, cobalt, royal and teal, shimmering the entirety of the distance across, the reflection of the occasional cloud seeming to pull us into a dream. We hiked on a few trails, picnicked and marveled at how awesome every angle of the volcanic crater we were getting to experience and observe was just as breathtaking as the first.

The very next day, our feet carried us through Stout Grove to the Smith River in the Redwood Forest. It was quiet there that day, with only the slightest breeze. The trees were massive in size, up close and personal with each step we took. Having the opportunity to weave through the forest with humongous trees in every direction was fascinating.

Our pace was slow and steady, unhurried in every sort of way as we walked and gawked at their beauty, their size, and the stories they held. How many years have people been taking the same steps, balancing on the same stumps, and holding their arms out wide to measure the enormity and greatness of the world they’ve found themselves in? Standing in the grove of trees was breathtaking, and a memory I will hold deep within me for years to come.

I looked up and out, focusing not only on the height, but wondering about the depths of the roots that held the giants in place. Growing slow and steady is worth following their lead if we want to live a life that is quietly awesome and hugely graceful.

The wind changed direction and my foot caught the edge of soft, sinking dirt on the gravel road where not one tree can be found nor any large amount of crystal-clear water. Spits of rain continued to fall as I realized the 2 miles I had walked had brought me back to the intersection in front of our house.

The memories of Crater Lake and Stout Grove held me upright as I looked down. My shoes were covered with dust, the dogs were running circles around me, and the 60 calves we had just weaned were bawling uncontrollably in the pen next to me. I laughed out loud about the chaos erupting in spite of my daydreaming. How does one prepare their heart to leave one season and enter the next?

My best guess is this: By soaking up that which makes us stronger, letting our roots run deep every chance we get, looking forward at what’s to come, but also reflecting on where we have been, appreciating time, and stepping ahead to the edge of craters and around the largest of obstacles with trust in the unknown future. The two national parks I had found myself in this summer grew me and grounded me.

They slowed me down, and left me awestruck. I can only hope that some of what they gave me rubs off on others in the season to come.