(Keywords: human interest, family hiking)
Length: <1000 words
Go Take a Hike
(first printed in GSAE magazine 2011)
One crisp, sunny weekend day, I
decided to tackle Nature Deficit Disorder
head on by piling the family into the mini-van and heading up to the north Georgia Appalachian Trail . I grew up hiking on the Trail with my dad, so
there’s no reason my kids shouldn’t enjoy the same adventure.
“You’re not wearing those socks,
are you, Dad?” came the critique from the almost teenage daughter, “I’m not
going if you’re wearing those socks.”
“What?” I said, “these are my best hiking socks. I paid good money for these socks.”
“Don’t debate it, just make her get
in the car,” came her mother’s coaching as we finally got in the car.
“My hiking shoes are way too
tight. Maybe they shrunk when they got
wet,” I heard a complaint coming from the normally agreeable, outdoor-loving
son.
“What?” I said, “they fit a few
weeks ago when you camping with the Scouts.”
“They do outgrow their stuff, you
know. They can’t just wear it until it
disintegrates like you do,” came more coaching.
We sent him back in for shoes of some type that might fit.
“Seems like we just went to REI,” I
had just said the wrong thing.
“Yes, you bought you stuff,” said the daughter, and instead
of coaching from the shotgun seat, I just heard a quiet um-hmmm.
“We’ve got water, a day pack with
snacks—which I’m happy to carry—and a camera.
I think we’ve got everything we need for an easy day hike,” I said with
confidence, and we were finally underway.
There soon followed dissention in
the back seat: “Noooo, we watched that
last time. It’s my turn to pick,” said
one sibling to the next. Apparently, the
movie selection for the car ride was not going smoothly.
“When I was a kid, we had to
cooperate in the car and count cows or play the license plate alphabet game or
even 20 questions,” I said, playing to an audience of sighs and rolling
eyes.
“Fine. I’ll just listen to something much better, if
you want to watch that,” said sister to brother as she exchanged her in-car
audio headsets for her personal ear buds hooked up to a different device. There
was then peace. At least until he
unplugged her ear buds for reasons known only to the species of annoying little
brother. My wife soon sorted it all out
with great alacrity as I drove blissfully along. It was quiet; all in the backseat ended up
watching something on the official in-car screen.
I didn’t leave well enough alone
and said, “hey, why don’t you all skip the movie and look at this beautiful
scenery?” Not even an acknowledgement
from the crew in TV land. Maybe kids spend so much time in the car these
days shuttling back and forth that this is the sedative we’ve created for them
to deal with it. Or maybe we parents
sedate them to sedate ourselves. Who
knows?
“OK, we’re here,” I announced,
after we’d traveled the time it takes for one movie and the two arguments which
go with it.
“We can get on the Trail not too
far from here,” I said, and we got the gear together and headed over to the
Trail. My wife took the daypack, fearing
I would smash the snacks, and I took the water.
“Which way?” asked my daughter when
we reached the Trail.
“Well, it starts in Georgia Maine Georgia
“How should I know what state we’re
in? I’ve been watching movies,” my
daughter said. And then a shock came
over her face, “We’re going all the way
to Maine
“No. That’s two thousand miles and takes several
months,” I said.
“Oooh, we’ll miss school,” said the
son. “Wait. That means baseball and swim practice
too. Nope, won’t work.”
“I guess we should go north,” said
my daughter, “which way is that?” Her brother,
the Scout, then pointed to the handy compass atop his aluminum telescoping
hiking stick. And off they went. We parents trailed behind. It soon turned steep, and my wife said the
burn sort of felt like aerobics class.
The daypack was passed to me.
We caught up to the kids who were
playing in a creek. Their shoes and
socks were stacked neatly on a rock.
There was great glee; they had cornered a crayfish. We let them play. I revised my secret plan of reaching
Plumorchard Gap shelter. I had only
wanted to make it to there just to see again the special camping place my late
father and I had shared.
“They’re sweet. Why don’t you take a picture of that?” my
wife asked as my son held a crayfish for his sister to name and pet. I would have, but the camera was apparently
still in the car instead of the daypack.
I then tried the camera on the cell phone, and it passed for a photo. We kept going on the Trail and took a break
for lunch at a scenic overlook.
“Is this what America
“Yes, I suppose this was exactly what
it looked like,” I said. About that time
another hiker passed by. She volunteered
to take a picture of the four of us with my cell phone. We continued hiking, but not much farther
realizing it was time to start heading back.
When we reached the car and started
the trip home, the kids were quiet. I tilted
the rearview mirror a little to see them:
one asleep and the other with heavy eyelids. My daughter caught me looking at her, and
said, “don’t worry, we’ll make it to Plumorchard Gap next time.” I didn’t know she even knew about that
place.
As we headed back down the road, I
glanced back and saw my daughter watching the wilderness out the window. Her grandfather and I had camped along that
Trail as had generations and generations before us. As a species and as a family, we suffer when
we leave it too far behind.
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