The best memories I have from my childhood all involve the outdoors. And most of those also include my dad, because he was usually the one who took me out into the wilds.
Sure, as I got older, I ventured out into the woods by myself or with other friends, but the vast majority of my trips into the wilderness well into my college years were trips with my dad. It started out with short trips to fishing holes or tagging along with him on bird hunts, but as I got older, he’d take me on longer outings farther from home. To be honest, I don’t remember most of the early excursions, though some do come back to me from time to time. One of the earliest ones I can remember was a trip deep into the Hoback near Pinedale, when Dad took us over an enormous mountain, because it was a “shortcut.” It may well have been a shorter distance than where the trail led, but it was a tough slog for the horses.
I remember more about the later trips, and not just the ones where things went wrong – though I think some of the best trips involved some sort of mishap or catastrophe. It’s the excitement and adrenaline rush that make those stick in the memory. But the cool things that happened on routine outings are memorable, too. Like the time we were camping under the stars in a clearing high up a mountain, and as we were looking at the stars and identifying constellations, an enormous shooting star lit up our entire world for a good 30 seconds. That was one of the most amazing things I ever saw, and I was happy I got to share it with my dad.
Happy birthday, Dad. I saw another shooting star last night, though it wasn’t nearly as intense as that one many years ago. But I made a wish on it for you all the same.
