We stumbled through the pine trees, through thickets and over fallen branches, until we reached a clearing, illuminated in silver by the light of the Strawberry moon. Though we were the only people for miles, we dared not to speak above a whisper, lest we disturb the natural stillness of the forest. I kept thinking of that saying, “if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, did it make a sound?” If you fall in love in the woods and nobody else is there to see it, did it happen at all?
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Summers of my early teens were always spent at camp–to me, summertime was synonymous with dense conifer forests, swimming lessons in ice-cold lakes, and long nights gossiping by the light of the campfire. Growing up in Canada, there was certainly no shortage of nature, but as if to signify the rite of passage from childhood into adulthood, the summer of my eighteenth year some friends and I traded the gentle slopes of the Laurentians for the white-capped, sky-piercing peaks of the Italian Alps.
I was immediately captivated by the crystal-clear waters of the lakes; the waters I was used to swimming in were dark and muddy. These lakes, cradled by mountains so tall I could barely take them in at once, felt like another planet. We set up our camp in the Parco Nazionale del Gran Paradiso, and while my friends were content with staying close to our base, I wanted to take in as much as I possibly could.
One evening, seduced by the way the setting sun was turning the whole lake gold, I decided to take a canoe out on the water, alone. With each stroke of the paddle, I felt the water tugging beneath me, each dip breaking the still surface as it rippled. Nearing the shore, my trance was broken by someone waving enthusiastically. I paddled closer. He greeted me with a “ciao” and an impish grin. It was my first lesson in Italian hospitality: he wanted to invite me for a bonfire.
Every ounce of common sense I had told me not to follow the complete stranger into the woods, especially not when you’re in an unknown place, alone, with dodgy-at-best-cell reception. Blame it on the invincibility of youth, or the meditative stupor I was in, but for whatever reason, I went (my mother would have killed me if she knew).
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We crammed all the stages of falling in love into the two weeks we had together; stolen glances and first kisses and sharing hurts and first fights and inside jokes and exploring this corner of the world that seemed to stretch out to infinity. We fell hard and fast–or at least, I did–and for the first time in my young life, I didn’t hold myself back.
He became my guide of Valle d’Aosta, showing me the places he had grown up exploring with this family. We hiked to Mont Avic, where the wildflowers carpeted the slopes in technicolor. He took me to the ancient castles of Fénis and Sarre, where the echoes of history whispered through the stone walls. He seemed to know everything about history and art and which plants were safe to pluck and toss over the coals with our food later. Every cell in my body vibrated in a way that I hadn’t known was possible; I felt drunk on beauty and the buzz of summer romance. It wasn’t just the altitude that left me breathless.
Though we knew each other for less than a month, our time together left an indelible mark, in the way that intimacy is forged so quickly and deeply when your heart is brand-new, when long summer days stretch into longer nights, when there are no expectations, and real life seems lightyears away.
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Lying on our backs that final night, we watched the moon, full and ripe, cast a spotlight onto the water. The lake was as inky and black as the night sky. We lay there, arms and legs interlocked, for hours. I don’t remember what we talked about but it doesn’t matter. We never said I love you, we never made plans to meet again, and we never did. But even now, ten years and several relationships later, I think of him on summer nights when I see the full moon.
