The Littlest Hiker Learns Lessons from Dad

This photo, or a very similar one at the start of a different hike, was on display in my father’s and stepmother’s house for decades. It was on top of the grand piano among many photos of my dad’s second family, some that included me and my sister, some with our grandmother, and others showing the other sides of their family and friends less familiar to me. Whatever confusion I felt as a young child wondering how or if any of those other smiling faces fit in with me, as an adult I always liked looking at the hiking photo. We took many summer hiking trips as a blended family, and the memory of them gives me a generally happy childhood feeling of enjoying outdoor adventures with my dad. He was a city kid from Queens but for some reason the great outdoors was in his blood. No matter the season, he took us out – hiking, skiing, swimming. Later there were a few long bike rides. He taught me how to ice skate, something that I grew to love, becoming a “rink rat” and competitive ice skater for a good number of my early adolescent years. He taught me lots of things I still love to do today.

Sometimes the things he taught me seemed to come in “tough love” packages. Looking back, they don’t really seem very tough at all; they are more like universal life lessons. But as a kid I always felt pressure to live up to my dad’s expectations, despite not really knowing what those were (although he loved to chat with many in a cocktail party crowd, in more intimate environments he was a man of few words, at least to me). One lesson was learning to carry all of my ski equipment from the parking lot to the base of Whiteface Mountain or Jiminy Peak on many a bitter cold morning. I wanted so badly for him to take my small but somehow extra-heavy skis and put them in his stronger arms. It felt like it took me 20 minutes to get to that base lodge, but I always made it without giving in to my hidden desire to plea for help. I think I wished my mom was there welcoming me with a cup of hot chocolate. And I hadn’t even skied yet!

In a different season, less weighed down with bulky winter layers and hard to handle equipment, he taught me what it feels like to be violently toppled by a wave. I fell backward off of his shoulders, just when I thought that even an amusement park couldn’t be as fun as jumping in the waves with my dad when my head stays safely above the water. “Why didn’t he hold on to me?” I wondered, having no idea if that were even possible. We were at a beach club in Atlantic Beach, New York where we would spend magical summer days visiting my grandmother. I never wanted those days to end. Sometimes they ended with my sister and me, and maybe our cousins too, learning to dance the “Ally Cat” led by someone who clearly knew how to keep the children and grandchildren entertained as the sun faded and cocktail hour began. If the stylish cabanas with their plastic covered, floral-print couches and the huge pool were not magic enough, those dances made me wish I lived at that beach club. Except for that one moment when my dad somehow allowed me to be overtaken by a wave, causing me to cough up salty water, clogging both ears and filling my bathing suit with sand, the place was pure bliss. I’m pretty sure I cried for a while sitting on the beach trying to recover. And he did comfort me, in his never over-reacting way. I wished his hug lasted a little longer. He was a good dad and a gentle soul, but there was always a distance I felt. Perhaps the distance of not remembering when his house was also my house. Not sharing the same sense of place.

I was scared of waves for a long time after that. Eventually I could see that he taught me that there will be times in life when you find yourself tumbling underwater with no sense of what is up or down or how you will land, but usually you come out OK. Years later, I sometimes had a hard time watching my own little children jumping in the waves, worrying they will get tossed and tangled and I would have to come to their rescue. There would be no distance between their tears and my loving, empathetic embrace.

The hiking photo brings me back to the complicated, mixed emotions I felt not knowing exactly what might happen when our dad arrived every other Friday evening to take me and my sister for the weekend. We must have known which of a few places we were headed to, but I was often caught between a sense of excitement and feelings of anxiety for the unknown. I may not have known exactly which bed I would sleep in that night, but I would most likely find a comfortable pillow. And I always had my big sister. The consistency of our presence together, no matter the parent we were with or the destination, and no matter our different experiences, was a complex and emotionally tethered sibling love connection that only grew stronger with age.

Starting from either the house in upstate New York that we shared with my dad’s best friend and family, or sometimes from a friend’s house in Vermont, we took enough hiking trips over the years to climb the tallest mountain in every state in New England. At least I think we achieved that stated goal. Usually it was the whole bunch pictured above — my dad and my step-mother and five kids. Me, the youngest, my sister 3 years my senior, step-brother closest to my age, step-sister and her best friend, a near permanent fun fixture in my every-other-weekend family. I remember loving the folded bandana fashion that tied back our hair – it made me feel like a real “outdoor” kid, one that could climb mountains and sleep in the woods and maybe even not be afraid if a bear came along (a girl can pretend).

On the trip I remember most, because of it’s hardest moment, I recall that my backpack, with its sturdy metal frame, reached at least six inches above my head. Clearly this is not what is depicted in the picture above, which leads me to believe that either there is a photo somewhere that more accurately depicts the proportions between me and my backpack, or that my memory is indeed not only selective but sometimes outright wrong.

The height of the backpack aside, I remember feeling its weight pushing my little body down. My dad told me that the first day would be a little harder for me than the next, because he would have me carry the first night’s meal – a couple of pounds of hamburger meat.  Seemed like a reasonable ask of the smallest child, everyone else’s bigger packs filled to capacity.

I followed the older kids up the trail as we sang silly songs, such as one that took up a lot of time involving counting down bottles of beer on the wall. The backpack got heavier. We walked on. My shoulders started aching. We walked on. We took breaks for water and to nibble on the GORP (good old-fashioned raisins and peanuts) – a snack that tastes best when consumed in the woods.

I wonder how old we are when we realize we don’t want to disappoint our parents? I tried so hard to keep walking and not tell my dad my legs were wobbling beneath the weight of my pack. I think it was after lunch, after several hours of walking, that my head succumbed to my legs and aching shoulders. Or maybe it was long before lunch. In my memory it was at a steep point that I sat right down in the middle of the trail and sobbed. My dad understood. He was still young and strong then. He gently, undramatically, gave me a sense of calm as he opened my pack and took out the meat. Probably took a few other things out as well. I wonder how he found room for them in his own backpack somehow. He put the lighter pack back on my shoulders and we walked on.

So many years later (about 43 in fact), I think back to this moment on the trail when I felt I let my father down, and realize that it is much more likely that I disappointed myself most of all. I often did not know how to ask my dad for the comfort or support I sometimes needed, a personality trait that carried on to other relationships in my life (these are the connections we discover in therapy). Despite my need to learn to ask, in many instances my dad did exactly what every parent is meant to do — he carried my weight when I couldn’t. Having raised two kids of my own, in an unfamiliar position side-by-side with my husband, I know now that parenting is really about making sure your kids can carry their own weight. And it is a process; we need to have the awareness and selflessness to recognize the moments when they are not ready to.

My dad passed away when I was 37. I still miss his physical presence most, especially when I glide gracefully down a ski mountain. That emotional distance transforms into a warmer grip as I feel his memory. He helped me become a good skier, and I think he also helped me be a good mom, doing my best to carry at least a few pounds of my kids’ weight when they need it most. This comes a little late for Father’s Day, but thank you Dad.