We set out early with a plan.  I had rendezvoused with our boy and his son to stay at a trailhead campground.  The plan was fit for a boys first backpacking trip to be a comfortable adventure.  I did not want to repeat the type of debacle that my daughters had dubbed a helltrip.  It had put them off hiking for a decade.  Daniel’s pack was light; the terrain and distance were moderate.  We picked a waterside spot to make camp and scrambled cross-country to hunt fish in nearby lakes.  Returning for dinner we observed of all the customs and traditions of the campfire.  We slept well under a crescent moon and brilliant stars.

When the sun crested the Dardanelles it touched our chilly upturned faces.  Daniel finished his oatmeal and hopped lightly atop a boulder.  As if it were an afterthought he turned and asked, “Uncle Scott, you want to go with me?”  “Sure, I smiled, “where are we going?”  “Traveling” was his singular reply.

 The granite landscape was littered with boulders that served as castles, crows’ nests, and cowboy hideouts.  I followed as he scaled ‘peaks’ and explored crevasses for elusive blue bellies.  We spent a goodly time in a competition that carried dire consequences for touching a foot to the ground.  This required covering vast distances by circuitous routes accomplished by leaping from rock to log to limb.  Failure met with sudden and excruciating death accompanied by conspiratorial laughter. We swam in the snowmelt lake that threatened to turn us blue.  Then we revenged our discomfort by throwing rocks at the icy tarn.  The ammunition ran out before we tired of the battle.

 I travel life with a plan, and I do not anticipate changing this habit.  Daniel has reminded me, however, that there is joy to be found in ‘traveling’. My agenda must be laid aside for a time so that senses may be tuned to attend, to hear a still small voice and an inkling of what adventure may be next.