When my son Drew and I hiked the John Muir Trail in 2003, I worried about the worst and hoped for the best. I got both, but from directions I didn’t expect.
Drew came reluctantly, and I worried that he would have a miserable time and lobby hard to bail out early. He was eighteen years old and faced “issues” far beyond the normal teenage difficulties. How would he handle twenty-one days in the wilderness with, of all people, Dad?
My hopes – I should say my expectations – were for the usual summer Sierra weather and all that comes with it: sunny days, perhaps an occasional afternoon thundershower, and sleeping under the stars.
Drew was a fabulous companion. We were perfectly aligned in our simple daily activities, not at odds like at home where parents enforce boundaries and children test them. We both wanted food, comfort, and to get further down the trail. All our efforts were toward those common ends. We were a team. My worry was groundless.
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But where was the great Sierra summer weather? It was lousy!! It rained or hailed on all but six of our twenty-one days on the trail. We waited out torrential hail and rain that was not just passing through. We rarely spent a night under the stars. Every night, we squeezed into a snug two-person tent, read to each other, and listened to the tapping.
The foul weather put me in a sour mood, and it was Drew who was there with a hopeful word. That’s supposed to be my job, but he proved to have the only sensible attitude about something over which we had no control. I pouted, he comforted. I was impressed.
So, bad weather gave me some great gifts. Behind all of Drew’s crazy behavior at home, I saw that there was a rock solid person. And once or twice, the drenching clouds would slide apart, let some light in and dazzle.
We completed the trail fit, thinner, and still friends – maybe better friends.