As a kid, my dad would always take us on hikes in the hills of northern California.
I can remember coming home with rust-red socks covered in that silt-y, robust sediment.
Evidence of an adventure.
Photos by my dad.
We'd spend hours exploring isolated trail heads: clambering over rocks, picking up walking sticks, running our fingers over the mossy bark of trees. Dad would tell us stories as we marched through the woods, our shoulders tanning in the mountain sun.
I always got goosebumps and a little thrill thinking about a bear or a cougar waiting around the next corner, or (once we were a little older), the thought of a concealed pot farm somewhere beyond the horizon. "You don't want to stumble upon those guys," my dad would say. "They'll just shoot you. Won't ask any questions."
My head would be swimming with images of rough-looking men guarding the land, machine guns in hand. I half-wondered where he came up with this stuff, and half-loved the excitement of such a dangerous possibility.
Looking back I sometimes wonder, who tells their kids stories like that? But now I see how my dad's not exactly average when it comes to storytelling, or hiking, for that matter -- I mean, how else would we have found ourselves wandering down to an abandoned mine in the woods, checking out the vistas in Yosemite National Park, walking through sinuous curves in Death Valley's Mosaic Canyon, or driving back roads in the Sierra Nevadas in "the van that thought it was a 4x4?"
I know one thing: if it weren't for my dad, I'd never have visited the towns of Volcanoville and Last Chance, or Furnace Creek and Badwater.
From him I've learned the value of adventure: how else can you expect to show your kids the natural beauty of a desert landscape, the walls of marble stone cut by water hundreds of years ago, alluvial fans in the red, pink, and yellow hue that's made only by iron salts and volcanic eruption?
Photos via Flickr.
Thinking back on it now, I desperately want the photographs from those trips sitting on my desk at work. Little reminders of what it means to truly live.
My dad knows the worth of a good exploration -- whether it's in the natural world, or inside the imagination.
Not to mention, we had normal conversations, too. The kind every daughter should be allowed to have with her father: if he wasn't making up stories about secret drug operations, we'd throw around reviews of our favorite novels at the time. Dad always reading a James W. Hall or a Robert Ludlum or a Dean R. Koontz novel. He'd tell me about this wily character Thorn, or the scoundrel detective Travis McGee.
A character that sounds sort of like my dad in a way: willing to take the daring route or bend a few rules in the pursuit of getting the bad guy, fiercely loyal to those he loves, and constantly seeking new adventures. My dad's a hero - don't get me wrong - but he's not your average superman.
He's the father who wasn't scared to paint my face as Dracula for my first Halloween (bloody fangs and all), and then make my twin sister the innocent-looking bunny (I mean, come on, how many parents cracked up at that sight when they opened the door to hand out candy?!).
He's the dad who buys a new car to fix up every year, including a big green pickup truck that he hauls up the mountain when he wants to go for a hike.
The dad who spent Christmas day with my brother in Death Valley this year (the first year neither of them had opened any presents, he says). The dad who takes me sailing and on long car trips and on walks down by our neighborhood creek.
Definitely the kind of dad you'd want in your corner when the chips are down, and you better believe he's been there for me.
My dad's no character from the chapter of a book, but he knows how to keep things interesting. And, for as dramatic as I make my stories about our hiking trips to be in my head, the wonder and delight of those California landscapes was nothing like an exaggerated novel plot.
We never did discover the imagined, far-off plot of land with drugs growing like weeds, or the mountain lion with its claws outstretched. We may have seen a few brown bears and deer and foxes along the way, but we never brought home any scars -- only memories of those traveled paths. Plus, of course, the red dirt covering our hiking boots.
Dad made us shake it off before we got back in the car for the long ride home. But when I was home in the comfort and safety of our house, I'd find the dirt again as I peeled off my dirty socks. Home, and with traces of the day, traces of my own bravery to show for it. That perfect color all over my socks, staining them a lovely shade of crimson.
