
Sunday I drove home from checking on my folks' house, in nothing more than sandals, shorts and a T-shirt, and passed by Holbrook Canyon (above), home of Barton Creek, looking fall-worthy as a place could be. Of course, anyone who knows anything understands that it is really Bailey canyon and Brett's creek. I literally grew up here. We lived in a small house that my parents rented for $75 a month. It was the highest house on the hill near this canyon, and you could only access the house via a dirt road and an old stone bridge that crossed this creek. There were no neighbors, just my brothers and me. Mom was courageous enough to let us roam absolutely free, so from the time I was 4 until junior high, almost every waking day found me in this canyon, building dams or forts, throwing rocks, hiking, chasing lizards, fishing, dodging rattle snakes (we never told mom) -- you name it.
Given all that, I couldn't resist an impromptu late-afternoon hike, lack of shoes notwithstanding. Within minutes, magical colors surrounded me and drew me on. I ended up hiking for several hours, higher in the canyon than I had ever been.


The second time we went camping alone (probably the next year) we stayed here. It is a perfect camp spot, with overhanging, protective trees and a soft grass bed. (That fire ring also has at least 35 years of use.)
The technicolor trails were everything you could ask for: quiet but for the sound of the babbling creek; cool, crisp air flowing down the canyon; and a damp earthy smell that I swear exists nowhere else. I smiled ear-to-ear the whole time I was there, and walked with a bounce and exuberance not altogether familiar to these aging legs. As I snapped away, I realized that more than any other place in the world, this was home for me. I was finally home, after a long time away. That is a really good feeling.



