The last morning of our camping trip at Kettletown State
Park, my son woke up early shouting, “Good Morning,” in a crisp voice, void of
sleepiness. My spouse, exhausted from a long summer, slept through this
pronouncement as well as his declaration that he desperately needed to visit
the restroom. Before leaving the tent, I dressed us both in hiking clothes,
figuring a short hike would be a fantastic way to begin our day. I knew better
than to hope for anything more than a short hike, since my son had dug his
heels in and refused to walk more than a mile or two the last several times we
attempted to hike. When I told him of my plan, he groaned so loudly I was
surprised my spouse did not stir.
After a
stop in at the restroom, we headed to the closest trail. Along we way, my son
spotted several worms which had lost their way, getting washed out of the dirt
and onto the road. My son, of course, had to stop and say hello to each of
them, wishing them all a good day. When he finally said goodbye to the worms, he
walked maybe another two hundred meters before sighing heavily and complaining
that his feet hurt. I may have agreed to turn around and return to the
campsite, if I wasn’t already very familiar with this excuse which translated
actually means, “I don’t want to walk. If you make me walk I will complain.
Since you don’t want me to complain you must give in to my demands.” I didn’t
want him to complain, but nor did I want to spend the morning doing absolutely
nothing. So, with promises of a juice box and trail mix (yes, chocolate for
breakfast – I was desperate to do some sort of physical activity before the
long drive home) I convinced him to walk for ten minutes – ten minutes which I
ultimately managed to stretched out to nearly and hour.
Every rock
had to be climbed and every tree inspected, so it was at a snails pace that we
inched our way through the forest. When we reached a cross roads, I allowed my
son to choose our direction, hoping that if I granted him a say in where we
went he might have a little more enthusiasm. He did not. Every three minutes he
asked, “Can we turn around yet?” And I answered, “Just a little longer.” And
just a little longer managed to carry us uphill to a cliff that overlooked the
lake. The view was pretty, the silence and serenity spectacular. My son sat
down, thrilled by opportunity to rest. Together we watched boats pass on the
lake below, and my son made up stories about the dinosaurs who once walked
across what is now Connecticut.
We sat until my son declared that he was bored – roughly twelve minutes – and
then we retraced our footsteps back to camp.
When we
arrived back at the tent, my spouse was showered and ready to begin the day.
Together we started to break camp. As we started to take down the tent, my son
frantically ran around trying to save the spiders that had congregated on the
outside. He didn’t want them to get squashed. When we finally packed up the car
he said, “I’m going to miss my nature friends.”
“Your
nature friends?” I asked.
“Yes,” his
voice was laced with sadness. “The worms and spiders are my nature friends.”
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