9 years later, as I organize his closet on a grey winter weekend, I run across that beat up red Osprey backpack and it darn near brings a tear to my eye. Now I store it away with the old fuzzy Bindy and ask my son to proofread the list we’ve created and he talks like an old expert. I think we’ve done just fine surviving the blood sugar lows, tired feet, and bear encounters. As we plan the next adventure, I still follow the golden rules of hiking with kids and look now ask myself if I can keep up with him on the trail as I become the member of the party that dictates the slower pace.
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