the sunset reflect in the smooth surface of the water, try to empty my mind and let Walden do its magic. This is where I started and this is where I’d like to end, but better equipped this time. On a rock behind me sits a backpack containing my supplies for the night: A blue sleeping bag I borrowed from Thomas, breakfast food inside a plastic container to keep animals away, and extra layers of clothes in case it gets cold.
Just being here, ready for a campout, reminds me of the last camping trip I went on with my dad.
It was last summer in Hayward, Wisconsin, way up by the Minnesota border. We found this great campsite right on Lake Chippewa. I remember that day so clearly, kicking back in camp chairs, Dad cooking burgers over the campfire while I paged through one of my hiking magazines in the fading daylight. I remember everything we said and did, like it’s a movie in my head.
“Hey, Dad, I found this article with a list of potential hazards on the Appalachian Trail,” I said to him. “You want to hear it?”
“Of course.” He flipped the burgers with a spatula and sent grease sizzling into the fire. “We need to be prepared.”
“Okay, let’s see. ‘Mosquitoes, biting flies, poison ivy,’” I read out loud. “Are you kidding me? You call those hazards?”
“I don’t know. Poison ivy all over your face and body and nether regions? I’d call that a hazard,” Dad pointed out.
“Yeah, but come on. Just wear heavy duty bug repellent and stay away from shiny three-leafed plants. That’s like Hiking 101.”
“You’d be surprised how many boneheads think they can hike the trail and don’t know what they’re getting into.” Dad took off his Chicago Cubs cap, the one he wore all summer long because he thought it would give our team luck, although it seemed to have the opposite effect. He scratched his head and smashed the cap back down. Black hair stuck out in tufts over his ears.
I scanned the rest of the list. “‘Severe weather,’ duh. ‘Steep grades,’ also duh. Ah, now we’re talking. ‘American black bear’ and ‘venomous snakes.’ Those are hazards I can respect. Oh, and here’s the last one: ‘Diarrhea from drinking water.’” I glanced up at my dad. “Seriously?”
“Hm. Black bears and diarrhea. I’m scared already. Maybe we better just pitch a tent in the backyard.”
Dad scooped the burgers onto buns I’d set out on metal camping plates and handed me mine.
“We should definitely do it.” Dad took a big bite of his burger. “Hike the Appalachian Trail.”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “We’ve been talking about it since I was twelve.”
“I know, but I think it’s time we actually made some plans.”
I stopped mid-chew to stare at my dad. “For real?” To tell the truth, I always figured the Appalachian Trail was a dream we liked to talk about, but that would never happen. After all, it’s over 2,000 miles long and crosses through fourteen states. To do that on foot would take an entire summer at least. There’s no way my dad would take that much time off work.
“For real.”
“When?” I popped the last bite of burger into my mouth.
“Next summer, after you graduate from high school. That would be a great way to celebrate, don’t you think?”
“Well, hell yeah. That would be amazing. Let’s do it.”
The Appalachian Trail meant hiking through the woods of Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and finishing up in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. The hike itself would be incredibly cool. Also, for the rest of my life, even when I was old, I could work into conversations, Now that reminds me of the time back in the day when I hiked the Appalachian Trail.
“It would be a great way for us to spend some quality time together before you head off to college.” Dad threw another log on the campfire. The embers crackled and jumped.
College. This was the last thing I wanted to think about. Contemplating my future was like peering into a black hole. But Dad had expectations. College is just what people did. Everyone should have it all worked out by age eighteen: a list of goals, a total life plan. Yeah, right. I was terrified to tell anybody this, but I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t even have a clue.
“So, have you started your applications?” He tried to sound casual, but I was losing him. He was switching from Dad, my camping buddy, to Dad, the parent