Another trip into the mountains with my son has come to an end, and once again, it was a quiet success.
We entered the rim of the world…where the air turns thin and the light feels older…winding our way through narrow roads, crossing bridges with water whispering below, and passing only a handful of other hunters along the way. When we reached our destination, the campground gates were already closed for the season, so we parked at the edge and hiked in, one mile each way, carrying what we needed and leaving behind what we didn’t.
The best part of these trips now is getting to relive my own childhood through him. I watch my boy climb over fallen logs, gather firewood from the brush, and play with our shepherd, the two of them chasing sticks like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. From my seat on a log, I see the boy I used to be…and the man I hope he becomes.
The cold hasn’t fully settled in yet, but at night it creeps close. When the sun drops behind the ridge, we find warmth in the small fire we’ve built and in the closeness of our sleeping bags inside the tent. Each morning brings another small adventure…collecting wood for the next night’s fire, walking the forest floor, breathing the clean air that makes you feel new again.
I’m grateful for every moment out here with him. These trips remind me what matters most…quiet mornings, hard work, laughter, and love…and they give me just enough peace to carry me through the rest of the year.