Recently, a fellow writer suggested that I try to dig at the root of what has made me a traveler.

Where did I get my love of the outdoors? How did I become a wanderer? 

As I have explored these questions through scribbles in notebooks and looked for answers to why I mark the calendar months by where we are off to next, I began to acknowledge, not surprisingly, that my wandering feet are a gift from my dad.

Since I left home many years ago, my parents have wandered far and wide over this great big globe, but my childhood was made up shorter escapes, mostly in and around Arkansas. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, bound for the city limits, my cares started to fly quickly out the rolled down windows. Whether we were barreling down a curvy road to Newton County in the Ozarks or headed south to the shores of Lake Ouachita, the sweet relief of being away was a regular occurrence in our house.

Simple times of being outside for even just a night or two are some of my most treasured childhood memories.

Hey, Alison, can you miss school this Wednesday? There’s a full moon on Tuesday night.

Daddy and I regularly conspired to run over to the lake in the middle of the week. He would move meetings around and I would turn in assignments early. The empty parking lot at the boat dock was our reward for avoiding the weekend, and when we pulled out onto the water, Daddy would tell me to pick any island I wanted to camp on, because all our favorites would be available.

When the boat engine revved up loud to pick up speed after the no-wake zone of the docks, my heart would quiet.

I would breathe deeply of clean lake air, sitting in the front of the boat with my face to the sun and the wind in my hair.

On the island, Daddy would build a fire and set up camp. I’d chop whatever he had brought, onions and potatoes to be fried in a skillet or steak for fajitas. After dinner, Daddy would pull out his guitar and sing until the fire got low. I’d sing along or just sit and listen, letting the music fill my heart and sweep away the worries about school and life back home.

We would fall asleep in the boat, underneath the full moon.

I would wake to find Daddy in his lawn chair on the lakeshore, reading his Bible and whatever books he’d brought along. He would make illegible notes on little half sheets of paper for Sunday’s sermons.

There’s still hot coffee in the pot.

I’d crawl out of bed, and he would pause to have another cup with me. We’d eat eggs or maybe heat up whatever steak was leftover from the night before.

Then he would go back to his reading and praying and note-taking while I read a novel in the sun. Sometimes he would ask me a question that I would later recognize as I listened to him from my church pew. His stories and messages took shape in those hours of quiet and I am struck by the thought that his getting away was essential to the process of having something to say. Maybe in order to speak from the deeper places, we have to seek the stillness.

Before we packed up camp, we might fit in a quick slalom behind the boat.

There would be a stop for ice cream on the way home.

We’d get back in time for dinner.

I’d return to school on Thursday sun-kissed and ready to face the world again. As the following days pushed up against me, I would hold to the peace of my sweet escape to the lake. I could close my eyes and remember the water lapping the side of the boat as I slept, rocking me like a baby. Then the taunts of teenage boys and the ridiculous pressure to be perfect would remain a safe arm’s length away. High school faded into the background, eclipsed by a full moon and a perfect arc of spray off a water ski.

The post Learning the Art of Escape from My Daddy appeared first on Alison Chino.

This story about my daddy was previously published as guest post on Sarabeth Jones’ beautiful storytelling site, The Dramatic.

A Story about My Daddy

Some people take trips to the beach for their family vacations.

Others go to Disneyworld.

But me. In exchange for the beach or for Disney, I got mountains.

And even though the mountains sometimes mean misery, I wouldn’t trade a whole childhood full of beach trips for even one of my mountain adventures with Daddy.

My daddy started taking me with him to the mountains before I was even old enough to appreciate them.  Not just the hills we have in Arkansas, though he took me to those too, but the big mountains.

The Colorado Rockies.

Skiing in the winter.

Camping in the summer.

He has been leading backpacking trips in the summertime in Colorado for many, many years. He took a group out to Colorado for the first time when he was in his twenties. They went as part of a guided wilderness tour.

To say that Daddy struggles with not being the one in charge is a bit of an understatement. But he would tell you that he only takes charge to fill the vacuum of idiocy around him. This was the case on this wilderness tour.

When Daddy discovered that the leader was lost, he took the map away and told him to start heading west.

“How do you know which way is west?” the leader asked.

“Well, for as long as I’ve been alive, the sun has been setting in the west.”

He has a bit of a smart mouth, my dad.

After that week, Daddy lead all his own trips to Colorado.

I vividly remember the first time he took our whole family backpacking.  I was about 9, which would have made my siblings 8 and 4. He and my mom invited another family with three kids similar in ages to us to come along.

My mom, my sister, brother and I drove out with the other family in a van.  Let’s call them the Johnsons. We were to meet up with my dad in Aspen as he was already in the area and had just finished leading a trip for students.

“Where in Aspen is he going to meet us?” Mr. Johnson wanted to know.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry, Mr. Johnson,” my sister replied, though he was not speaking to her, “Daddy will find us.”

From the outset, it was clear to me even at the age of 9 that our family was different from the Johnsons.  Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were very organized, predictable people.  For starters, when we stopped at McDonald’s on the way out, Mr. Johnson made us all tell him what we wanted to eat before we ever got out of the van.  Then he proceeded to give the blessing for the meal, again, before we ever left the van.

How this poor man ever got hooked up with my father is baffling to me.  Lord, help him, I thought as he penned my cheeseburger and fries on his pad of paper. Meanwhile my sister, Anna, who is always up for a power struggle, demanded to actually VIEW THE MENU.

We pulled into Aspen after driving all night, and we had not been out of the van for long before I heard my daddy’s whistle.  Anna and I both turned our heads to see our dad’s week-in-the-woods unshaven face coming toward us across a grassy park.  We took off running.

“How did you find us?” Mr and Mrs. Johnson wanted to know.

Daddy smirked, “You’re not exactly inconspicuous.  A group with a mess of kids this loud is hard to miss!”

We jumped back into the van, this time with Daddy at the wheel, and he drove us to base camp.

Now Anna and I had both been on shorter backpacking trips with Daddy, but this was to be our first real Colorado Rocky Mountain Trip.  We were going to carry stuff on our backs for a week, even our food!  And we were going to climb a for real mountain, a fourteener!

We went through the agonizing process of loading our packs, determining who was going to carry what.  And what was being left behind.  Each child had a pack full of our clothes, a sleeping bag and a sleeping pad, so the adults had to carry everything else.

My dad looked like a pack animal.  It was insane.  It was gear piled on top of gear, layers and layers of junk roped together.  On the very back of the huge pile of stuff was a large cooking pot he called the Mega Pot. You had to be careful on the trail next to Daddy because his pack was so deep that he could easily whack you unknowingly with the Mega Pot when he turned sideways.

The first day on the trail is always a rough one.  A combination of the long drive to Colorado and the adjustment to the altitude generally equals a lot of whining.  We all began to complain about the hike and our heavy packs.

“What!  What is that whining?  You have to hike an hour with a good attitude to get the surprise!”  called Daddy’s voice from the back of the group.  (Daddy almost always puts the slowest person in the front and brings up the rear when hiking.)

“What surprise!?!” six voices yelled in unison.

“Well, if I told ya, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

Everything is a game to Daddy.  I remember when Anna and one of the Johnson boys both got down on their knees to drink from a creek, he said, “There’s a legend in Colorado that if a boy and a girl drink from this creek at the same time, they will fall in love and get married one day.”

Of course, I teased Anna mercilessly about that drink all week.  “Hey Anna! Your boyfriend is kinda lagging behind!  Maybe you should offer to carry some of his stuff.”

Even with treats and games and promises up his sleeves, Daddy had trouble coaxing us all up the mountain.  We finally stopped and set up camp and all the Johnsons fell into their tent and went to sleep in broad daylight.

Daddy made dinner and woke Mr. and Mrs. Johnson up to eat.  He told them they had to get their kids up to eat or they were going to get altitude sickness, but they refused.  I can hardly blame them.  No one wants to wake up sleeping children.  But then, of course, they were up later in the night, throwing up from altitude sickness.

With the Johnsons still not feeling great, it took us a while to get moving the next morning, but that did not stop Daddy from pressing us forward, “If you start hiking, you’ll warm up and feel better.”

We didn’t hike up as far as he had hoped on Day 1, which would set us back significantly, and then on Day 2, it began to rain.

Now it’s not unusual for a mountain storm to blow up out of nowhere in Colorado, especially in the afternoon.  These days my husband is quick to get us off of peaks and passes by noon because of the dangers of being exposed up high in wind and lightning.  But those storms usually roll by quickly.  They are wild and crazy, but over in a flash.

But this rain we had on Day 2 of our hike was no fast and furious mountain storm.

This rain was settled in to stay for a while. It was mud-making, bone-drenching rain.  We hiked for a while in it before everyone’s misery won out and Daddy covered us like a pile of shivering, wet puppies with a tarp while he set up the tents.  In the rain.

Then we all piled into our tents and he made us sweet skillet biscuits and hot chocolate.  In the rain.

It tasted like heaven.

We gobbled it all down while Daddy cleaned everything up. In the rain.

The next day we woke up to more rain, and while the Johnsons were saying that perhaps we had hiked quite enough, Daddy started moving parts of camp further up the trail on his own. Quietly making several trips back and forth, he would slowly move us along.  He didn’t really communicate his intentions.  We would emerge from our tent to see that the rest of camp had moved and so we would have to move with it.

I really have no idea how many days this went on before he announced to us that tomorrow was the big day.

The Peak Climb.

It was the day we would climb to the top of the mountain.  We could leave our packs at camp, so no packing up in the morning. We could just get up and hike.  He would carry lunch and all the water we would need.

He was going to have to wake us up fairly early though, because it was going to be a long hike.

I wish I could have overheard the conversation that was happening in the Johnsons’ tent that night.  I remember thinking of them as sort of lightweights, but honestly, the fact that Mr. Johnson had not taken a tent stake to my father’s head at this point shows an amazing amount of restraint.

Every morning before we hiked we would pray for the day and Mr. Johnson would try hard to smile and he would say, “Let’s pray that it won’t rain today, ok kids?”

And then Daddy, God bless him, he would say,

“Actually, why don’t we pray that the good Lord will help us to have a good attitude no matter what the weather is today.”

On the day of our Peak Climb, we got up while it was still dark and started hiking to get warm.  Daddy fed us bites of breakfast and gave us treats from his bottomless pockets.

And we tried.  We really did.  But the rain came and drenched us again. And we were all so very tired.

Never one to admit defeat, Daddy seized the opportunity to point out some Really Great Rocks. He had us all come over and sit down on the rocks.  He made a speech about how we had made it all the way to THIS ROCK!

“I’m so proud of you all!  Here are your prizes.”

More treats from his pockets.

“And I’m especially proud of what great attitudes you’ve all had today!”

And then.

“You know what, I think we can probably get all the way back to the van today if I make a couple of trips with all the stuff.  What do you think? Should we head for home?”

Relief like you’ve never seen in your life washed over the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.  My mother smiled.

On the way home, when we stopped at McDonald’s for dinner, we all just went in willy nilly and ordered our happy meals.

We never did go anywhere again with the Johnsons.  They went to Disneyworld for their next family vacation.

The post A Story about My Daddy appeared first on Alison Chino.

Today’s my dad’s birthday, in honor of which, I’ve made a list of 10 Life Lessons I’ve Learned From My Dad.

And really, the list could be titled 10 Life Lessons Anyone Could Learn From My Dad. I’ve left off ones that are snarky, but true, such as How To Be Sarcastic or How To Make My Mother Crazy.

Here they are! Enjoy!

10 Life Lessons I’ve Learned From My Dad

1. Rise early.

Daddy’s always been an early riser.  He gets a jump on the day and seems to have accomplished more by 8am than most of us do by noon.

2. Read your Bible every day.

You can find Daddy in the morning reading his Bible. You might take this for granted because my father is a pastor, but I’ve served under many church leaders who neglect this practice.  As I get older, I am amazed to discover that I need the time in my Bible more and not less.  Perhaps it’s my memory failing me, but I am usually hanging on specifically to what I have read today.

3. Exercise.

Almost every day, Daddy goes for a run.  Many years on his birthday, he goes to his high school alma mater and runs a lap for every year that the Lord has given him.  Most days he runs around his neighborhood, listening to music.

4. Work hard.

Recently, my brother had a pile of rocks delivered to his house that he was using to landscape his backyard.  Because the rocks had been dumped in the front of the house, they all had to be moved.  My dad came down and moved all the rocks while my brother placed them where they needed to go.  My brother said he would still be there working if Dad hadn’t come along to help.  Daddy is a machine when it comes to this sort of work.  He doesn’t shy away from the hard things.

5. Make time for the things that feed your soul. (Play hard.)

There has always been time for getting away, no matter how busy life gets.  Daddy is unapologetic about making time for camping, hiking, climbing and building something new.  These are the activities that breathe life into him and keep him from burning out, so he almost always manages to fit them into his schedule.

6. Get outside.

It’s hard to choose, but a great love for sleeping under the stars might be the most precious gift I have from my father.  Both of us are wide-eyed in the mountains and before waterfalls, we never get tired of seeing the world God has made with childlike eyes.

7. Hold tightly to neither praise nor criticism.

In other words, try not to care what others think.  When he receives an email or phone call, whether it is a compliment or a complaint, Daddy says he takes it, tries to learn from it and then dismisses it.  Of course, this is easier said than done, but it’s hard to move forward in life if you are constantly weighed down by others’ opinions.

8. Stay faithful to your first love.

I’ve talked about this before, but my parents’ marriage has been a strong foundation for our family.  Things have not always been rosy and perfect, but they have both persevered to make it work.  I truly believe my dad loves my mother today as much or more than he has ever loved her.

9. Have love at the ready. (Be merciful.)

Maybe it’s because he’s always been a bit of a rough character himself, but Daddy has this uncanny ability to show love without hesitation to someone who has found themselves in a dark place.  It was not until I myself reached a place in life that I needed to be on the receiving end of such love that I truly appreciated his merciful heart.  It was a game changer for our relationship.  And for my relationship with God, as I grew to see Him as the kind and merciful Father that He is.

10. Hang on to Jesus.

Daddy found Jesus when he was 19 years old, and he’s never looked back.  When he gathers us up and prays over us in Jesus’ name, his sincerity makes my heart hurt in a good way.  Come what may, Jesus loves us.  And nothing else matters.  Those aren’t just words to Daddy.  They are the rocks on which he has built his life and our family.  And they stand firm.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

Tell me, what are the life lessons you’ve learned from your parents?  Are they similar?  I would love to hear.

The post 10 Life Lessons I’ve Learned From My Dad appeared first on Alison Chino.

My parents started dating at North Little Rock High during their senior year.  Daddy asked Mama to prom that spring and the rest is history.

She went off to California to college the next fall, while he attended the University of Texas.  At Christmas, he talked her (and her parents) into moving to Baylor.  He would hitchhike from Austin to Waco to see her.  Before long, he had her packing her bags again to move to Austin.

I remember one time my grandmother was warning my dad about a deal he was working with someone.  She told him, I’ve heard that man is kind of a horse trader.  He kept quiet while Grandmother was giving him her opinion, but later when I asked him what a horse trader was and why wasn’t he worried about this other man’s potentially being one, he said, Honey, it takes one to know one.

horse-trad·ing (hôrs tr d ng). n. Negotiation characterized by hard bargaining and shrewd exchange

Daddy’s fast talking worried my grandfather.  He could see that Mama was hooked, and he was not so sure about this young buck.  He paid for my daddy to go to Young Life camp in Colorado, hoping to God and Jesus that he might become a man worthy of marrying my mother.

My grandfather was a praying man.  And the Lord heard his prayers.  Daddy had a Come to Jesus meeting in Colorado, literally.  From that moment, he never looked back.  He came home a changed man, and he married my mom just a few years later.

After college, Mother and Daddy moved to Chicago so Daddy could go to seminary.  I was born two years later.

When Daddy finished school, they moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas to do ministry with Young Life.  My sister and brother were both born there.

Eventually they came full circle back to North Little Rock, where they have both been planting seeds for more than 30 years.

They are in love with the Word of God and have strong hearts for seeing the local church become the hands and feet of Jesus.  They have traveled together multiple times to Kenya to be an extension of that church.

They are hanging on to Jesus. And to each other.  For always and for good.

Happy Anniversary, Y’all!

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I bought this little storybook for my parents to keep at their house a long time ago because the Grandpa in it rides a motorcycle.  It’s called My Grandpa is Amazing by Nick Butterworth.

My kids LOVE for their grandparents to read stories to them, especially Grandpapa, because he often changes the words in a storybook to make them sillier.

Once when he was reading this story to Mary Polly, she asked him if he knew how to make Exotic Drinks like the Grandpa in the story.

Of course I do! he said, and then he proceeded to make the kids an Exotic Drink.

Little did he know that he was starting what is now a 10 year tradition of making Exotic Drinks for grandkids.

It’s a good thing that the recipe is fairly simple and that he almost always has the ingredients on hand!

Grandpapa’s Exotic Drinks

1 part orange juice

1 part fresca

2 grapes

Serve over ice.

It’s amazing how little it takes to impress a grandkid!  Even the older ones jump for Exotic Drinks whenever they are being served.

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This part 2 of my parents’ anniversary Boot Shoot with Whitney. Yesterday was Boots in the Rain, but we got rewarded for braving the rain with some amazing sunlight.  The kind that only comes after the rain.

My parents are looking at Mary Polly who had wandered up the riverbank a little bit to play.  While these pictures were being taken I was standing somewhere behind Whitney just soaking in the beauty of this moment.  LOVE!

More magic!  So lovely.  And a rainbow!

While they were sitting on the dock in the sun, the rain was still falling on them.  Little happy raindrops on their clothes.  This is sweet to me.

My mama does not have hardly a gray hair on her red head, but it’s not from a lack of worrying, I can tell you that for sure.  (She and her sister both have beautiful red hair.  It keeps them looking young for sure.) Mama is a Southern woman through and through, though she might not think of herself as such.  She could stop hollering at us mid-sentence to answer the phone in a voice as sweet as honey.  She could listen to someone for an hour on the phone with soft Mmm-hmms and Oh dears and then pick right back up where she left off with us when she hung up.  This used to infuriate me to no end.  Thankfully, these days I am usually on the receiving end of her sweeter side.

Daddy is as strong as an ox, with a will to match.  He is currently spending any spare moment he can find building an adult guest lodge at Castle Bluff, a camp that has primarily served students for the last 30 years.  We’ll be heading up there soon for our youth camps, where we’ll be able to hear the sound of Daddy’s hammer swinging in the background.  If you talk to him for more than 10 minutes, you can bet he’ll have you packing your power tools and coming up to help him sometime real soon.

Graceful, Steel Magnolia + Bull in a China shop.  Mama and Daddy are about as different as two people can be, but they’ve learned to laugh about it.  I’m glad they still have a lot of years ahead to appreciate each others differences.

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In August, my parents went to their 45th high school reunion and celebrated their 42nd anniversary.

To mark these special events in their lives, I asked Whitney to take pictures of them.  We used to take a family picture every year growing up, but once we all flew the coop, my parents stopped having their picture made.  This makes me kind of sad.

Whitney and I set a date way in advance, because it’s hard to get everyone’s calendars to align.

A few days before the shoot, we made sure Daddy had some clothes that weren’t ripped and Whitney put outfits together out of Mama’s closet so we would be ready.  Country Outfitter even let me have these great Ariat Ramblers for Daddy to wear for the pictures.  He has worn down his old riding boots and was thrilled to have new kicks.

Mary Polly and I both decided to go along to help, so we got dinner ready and then just as we were heading out the door, it started raining.

We deliberated about what to do for just a minute before Whitney decided to throw some umbrellas in her car and go for it.  My parents were leaving town the next day and we were not sure when we would get another chance.

I am SO GLAD we went for it!  This was one of those evenings where Whitney’s instinct as a photographer turned out magical results.

We all decided we LOVED the rainy light.  It made everything so bright and beautiful.

We changed locations because of the rain.  We went down by the Arkansas River in Burns Park.

The rain just made the whole evening fun.  Who doesn’t want to squeeze under an umbrella with someone you love?  So sweet!

Be still my heart!  This picture is my favorite.

I’ve talked a little about my Mama and her health over the last year, but this picture reminds me how much joy she feels right now.  I am so grateful for how delighted she is with life at this season.

I’m also so thankful for my parents’ marriage. They have proved both that marriage is not an easy road and also that staying married is worth the work it takes.

This is such a gift to me.

After the rain, the sky cleared up for us and we got some sunshine.

Boots in the Sun tomorrow!

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In honor of my daddy’s birthday today, I thought I would share this sweet little picture that Simon brought home from school.  It’s his favorite summer memory.

Riding a motorcycle with Grandpapa.

My dad has this off-roading motorcycle that he rides when we are camping.  He can be gone for hours on it and you never have any idea when he’ll be back.  There have been many years that we’ve driven home at the end of a trip and left just him and his bike out in some wilderness.

He always finds a way back home eventually.

For the last few years he has lead a trip for men in the Rockies, camping and riding four-wheelers and motorcycles.  While we were there he was riding around doing “research” for that camp.

The kids love going for rides with him.  I just have to close my eyes as they drive away.  I love that they enjoy adventures with Grandpapa, and I love that they are not afraid, but it makes me a little nervous.

I’ve had enough experiences in motorized vehicles with my dad that I am generally just fine to wander the woods on my own two feet.  (Even on foot, he can lead you somewhere you might not want to go.)

These are the kinds of signs you can expect to encounter when riding around with my dad.

Daddy has braved a lot of narrow steep roads, literally and figuratively.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

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This week, Simon and I got to escape to Missouri for a couple of nights camping with my dad, my sister and her kids.

Anna’s kids were out of school Monday and Tuesday, so we all left on Sunday and met about halfway between here and Chicago at St. Francois State Park.

We’ve only camped in the Mark Twain National Forest before, so I was amazed by the very well kept Missouri State Parks.  We loved our campsite at St. Francois.

We chose a site that was across from a natural rock wall that the kids loved playing on.  They spent hours on these rocks, which served as playground, house, fort and who knows what other imaginative settings.

We stayed camped at St. Francois, but we explored a couple other state parks on Monday.

Elephant Rocks State Park was a huge rock playground that all the kids loved.

There was a rock to fit every child’s age and climbing ability.

We hiked this beautiful loop trail through Elephant Rocks, wrapping up just in time for a picnic lunch.

After lunch, we headed to one more state park, probably my favorite, Johnson’s Shut-Ins State Park.

The walk to the “shut-ins,” which are apparently places where rock formations have shut in water, was absolutely breath-taking.

These are the shut-ins.  I can’t imagine what it is like here when the water is higher, but I’m certain it is a fun spot for swimming all summer long.

The sun had warmed us up enough that our crew was all game for making the trek down to the rocks.

I took pictures from a lookout up above.

It’s hard to tell from the pictures how crazy it is, but I was definitely holding my breath a little watching Anna and Daddy navigate the rocks with Simon and Phineas.

Emily, who is more fearless than most, was leading the pack and she accidentally slid into one of the pools from a slippery rock.

It scared her at first, but once she was wet, she was all in for swimming and climbing from pool to pool.

And Grace soon followed suit.

Simon and Phin preferred to just climb on the rocks, throwing stones in the water and getting down to the swimming hole where they could do a little safe wading.

It was so fun to get away for a few days, even if it was painfully quick.

Of course Simon and I missed all the rest of our family loads and loads!

Fall is my favorite time of year to go camping.  I’m so grateful that I got to soak in a little fall color since we seem to be getting mostly brown leaves in Little Rock.

 I’ll be looking for more leaves this weekend as we head to Castle Bluff for camp.

However, I’ll be sharing the scenery there with about 170 other folks, so I’m also grateful for a few days of blessed quiet in Missouri.

There was plenty of time around the campfire, sitting in chairs and listening to kids play and owls hoot.

Thanks Daddy and Anna for making time for being outside together.

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Every year at d camp we do a hike and swim day.

It’s nice to get out of camp for a day and hang around the Buffalo River, famous for drop dead gorgeous cliffs jutting up out of the snaking river.

It became apparent early in the week that we were MUCH too big a group to hike all together in one spot, so our fearless leaders divided us into groups according to grade.

Taido would take the sixth graders to the usual hike, Lost Valley, since they were new to camp and had not been there before.

Bobby and Rhonda would take the seventh grade to Hemmed-In Hollow, a new, but still relatively tame hike.

That left the eighth grade.

As an eighth grade counselor, I can personally attest to the attitude among our older middle school students that lead our leaders to decide that what the eighth grade really needed was to be challenged.

They needed to be stretched, to have a bonding experience, to come back from their hike just a little bit humbled, but still with having the feeling of accomplishment.

So.

The hiking guide assigned to the eighth grade was my father.

Craig Loibner.

As soon as I found out I was going hiking with my dad, I tried to get mentally prepared.

I was trying to get my mind and body wrapped around this one single certainty,

that the one thing you can absolutely count on with Daddy is that you will never know what to expect.

So I tried to gear up,

but really,

how much can one gear up for the unknown?

We loaded up and barreled out of camp in 2 vans and 2 SUVs.  I say barreled, because that is what I mean.

We took a dirt road I’d never before been on, even though I’ve spent half my life in Newton County, and I held on for dear life.

I was driving just a little faster than I felt comfortable trying to keep up, when I realized that ahem, I was driving,

and so I slowed a little, just keeping them in my view.

I figured that since he IS my dad, he’d be checking to make sure I was back there.

My friend Carol was driving the car behind me and I partly slowed down for her because I had already tried to warn her about what we were getting ourselves into, but without much success.

Because well,

How does one explain an entire lifetime of, Well you just had to be there.

We finally pulled into the trailhead for Indian Creek, my cheeks vibrating from the bumpy roads, ate a quick lunch, and headed for the woods.

Daddy gave us a few Arkansas history lessons as we hiked the first quarter mile or so along an overgrown, heavily forested trail.

Daddy is great with folklore, especially since he doesn’t mind making up what he can’t remember.  He’s a born storyteller.  Bending the story to his purpose is just part of the territory.

So after a while of what felt a little like bushwhacking, we reached Indian Creek, where the trail turned and you hiked along and often right through the creek bed.

It had been very hot so parts of the creek were low and you could maneuver easily from rock to rock, but it was also wet enough in spots that we were a group divided between sloshing through the creek and having wet feet or trying to find trails (and I use the word trails VERY loosely here) around the wetter places.

I mostly opted to go around and now all that effort to keep my feet dry will forever remain downright comical to me because, I, like everyone else, eventually miscalculated a step, slipped and fell all the way down, flat on my chest against wet rock.

I lasted a long time though, especially since I was wearing trail runners instead of sandals, Converse, or dear Lord, help them, Sperry’s.

(Note to Parents: It is a rare middle school student that can be trusted to choose footwear for camp that is more suited for being in the woods than for impressing their friends with their cool factor.  Your choice: Make them wear heavy duty tennis shoes or fiercely warn of severe natural consequences.)

Due to equal parts my effort to stay dry, my being grossly out of shape and my wanting to be a good camp counselor, I was bringing up the rear with several other good counselors, including my friend Carol.

We would get to a place where the rest of the group was waiting for us and my dad would be giving a speech about complaining, which would finish up with a look in my direction and a remark like,

You guys in the rear need to keep up!  If someone is going too slow, send them to the front!

To which I gave him a look that clearly meant,

Watch it buddy.  I ain’t sixteen anymore!

But of course, he would already be off and running, not catching my look.

But if he had he might have reminded me that he is 60, so what’s my excuse?

From the front as he started up a mudslide, he yelled back,

Watch your step.  The next 50 feet are slicker than snot!

And the hike continued along that way, Daddy in front, yelling back now and then.  Positive attitude, fearless and unfatigued.

Me in the back groaning, trying to encourage the stragglers and lifting kids and adults out of the mud.

I could say this pretty much went on FOR. EVER.  But I guess that would be an exaggeration since here I am at home, typing away on my computer.

But really, it felt like it would never. end.

Onward.

Upward.

I began to wonder if we would miss dinner.

Finally we reached a place where the cliffs rose up in front of us and on both sides, the creek pooled up at the base.  We were all exhausted.  Kids and adults alike were covered in dirt, mud, sweat, scratches and bug bites.  Carol had twisted her ankle and was limping the last quarter mile or so.

But we had made it. We were here.

Wait.  We’re not here.  There’s…more.  On one side the cliff was more like an insanely steep staircase with ropes hanging down from past hikers.  I listened as Daddy explained that you put one foot here and one foot here and then grab the rope and then this tree stump over here and so on and so on until you climb up to this very exciting rock amphitheater.

Then he proceeded to climb up first and one by one kids followed him.  He turned around and pulled every single one of them up the last part of the steep rock.  Almost 50 people he pulled up, without even breaking a sweat.

After the kids got past him they would continue scrambling up the only slightly less steep rocks (as in still steep but you don’t have to have a rope to get up them) and disappeared from my view.

As I watched kids going up a small voice inside of me said that maybe I should just stay where I was.  They were going to have to come back down anyway.  And also I was suffering from a little problem called Fear of Heights.

But I didn’t want to be a quitter, and I already felt a little guilty for all the complaining I’d done earlier, so when it was my turn, up I went.

After I passed him, I kind of bear crawled the rest of the way up, grabbing brush along the way to pull myself up.  I was shaky and tired, and a little scared.

On reaching the amphitheater, I found a place to sit in the outcropping of rocks and tried to just breathe for a minute.  I was already dreading the descent. Not to mention the long, hot hike back to the vans.  I closed my eyes because 50 kids on the semi-circle of rock ledge, many of them as fearless as Daddy, were making me nervous.

Daddy was the last one up to us since he was helping others up.

Isn’t this cool? he says to me, a look of sheer joy in his eyes. This is his way of handing me the moon.

Then he began to explain to the group that we were going to skirt around the far left end of the edge of the amphitheater through what was called the Eye of the Needle to see…

Well, I don’t really remember what it was we were going to see.

I don’t remember because I never made it there.

It’s not as scary as it looks from over there.

Daddy went first.  He walked the ledge to the end of the rock outcropping, ducked down  and disappeared through the wall.  At least that is what it seemed like from my view.

I watched all the kids go through as I had watched them climb the rope.  By this point, I felt like I was running on fumes, and again, I am very afraid of heights, so I was kind of wondering if I could just wait on everyone to come back through and maybe no one would ever even notice that I had never moved from my semi-safe spot on the rocks.

But then Carol started to make her way over and so I was just beginning to think I should start moving when when her foot slipped from the narrow ledge and she fell.  In seemingly slow motion, she banged first into the rock ledge she had just swung down from and then slammed chest down below me on the steep cliff we’d just come up, sliding down with the momentum from hitting the earth and grasping at the gravel with her hands.

I managed to get up and get down to her in time to grab her hands before she realized what was happening.  I really think she about had herself stopped from falling further, but the gravity of what had just happened was hitting her quickly and it was beginning to show in her eyes…panic.

I held her until another stronger leader (Thank you, Chris Shelton) could get over to us and actually lift her back up to where she could collapse onto the ground.

Then we just held onto each other and cried.

The handful of kids and counselors that had not yet gone through the Eye of the Needle sat stunned around us.

Chris said a prayer of thanksgiving for protection from greater harm.

After a while, Carol and I were both shaking still, so I prayed that God would give us strength to make it back to our cars.  Then I looked at her and said that maybe she and I ought to start making our way back down before all the other kids came back.

I felt like we could use the head start.

So, very slowly, we began to slide on our rear ends down the gravel.  Neither of of us really trusted our own legs, so we slid all the way to the rope and then slowly, carefully, shimmied down.

Once we were actually off the cliff, we both stopped clenching our jaws and let relief just kind of wash over us in its own way.

You know how when something scary happens, your body kind of takes over and carries you until you get to some kind of safe haven and it’s only after you are on that solid ground that you can begin to process what has just happened.

Well, that is definitely what happened to Carol.  Once she was off the cliff, she began to see her life flashing before her eyes.

And I knew that as tired as I was, when I tried to go to sleep that night, I would close my eyes and watch Carol fall over and over again, catching my breath each time.

At this point, I think I had enough adrenalin to keep us in the lead for a while.  We hiked, slipped and crawled down the creek bed, crying some, laughing some and just being quiet.

Eventually the group caught up with us, for which I was grateful, because I had begun to be afraid I had missed the spot where we turned away from the creek into the bush.

I was dragging big time by the time we caught site of the vans, but I was also overjoyed.  Carol’s ankle had held up the whole way, and the internal bruising from her fall had not yet taken over (as it would in the coming weeks).

Now who’s ready to swim!

Daddy asked the tired crowd, energy still in his voice.

Most everyone just wanted to crawl back to camp and shower.  I stayed back with my girls who wanted to stay, which was good, because I did not think I could get in the car yet and drive without falling asleep.

Carol and the other drivers went on back.  I said a little prayer as she drove away, hoping she would have energy to make it back to camp.

Then the handful of us that were left headed down to the river, and the river felt amazing.

It was cool and quiet.  We decompressed as we floated on our backs and let the river just wash it all away.

Several of the kids used their renewed energy to climb cliffs along the river and jump off, which would have made me more nervous if I’d had any energy left to spare for worry.

I vaguely remember a prayer of thanks that one of our senior counselors that was with us was a lifeguard.

That was some hike, Daddy.

I said when he got down to where I was in the river.  He was last because he had been looking for a cave he remembered that was nearby.

He just smiled.

Trying to explain to him how scary Carol’s fall had been was reminiscent of many times I’ve tried to let Daddy know the weight of my feelings about something.  How frustrated I was when my car broke down every other day at school, how my heart was in my throat riding switchbacks in the back of a random farmer’s truck in Colorado, how steep the rocks were on the place I had to climb to get to where he told me to meet him, how cold I was, how much my body ached, how…you fill in the blank.

How many times have I been grasping for words to ignite the sympathetic bone in his body, the heart that breaks for the poor, the oppressed, the broken.  I know it’s in there somewhere, but he just keeps looking at me with that look in his eyes that is saying,

But man, what a ride!

Don’t get me wrong.  He grimaced at me and said, I’m real sorry, honey.

And he was.

But.

Daddy loves life.  He lives it to the very fullest.  His enthusiasm and optimism made my entire childhood an adventure.  Also, he has a will of iron to match his quest for the next natural high, so he was undaunted by frequently having to drag his less than enthusiastic wife and kids along for the ride.  And came we did.  Despite whining and complaining, I don’t think any one of us regret the wild ride that life with Daddy turned out to be.

And because he is completely unafraid of a hiccup now and then, even though we often found ourselves in what would sometimes feel like a hopeless situation (broken down van, no money, lost in the dark, etc.), he would always take care of us.

He would handle it.  Whatever IT was.  Often Daddy’s solutions would come in the most unexpected way possible and always with unflinching faith that God would provide a way. But until He did, we might as well enjoy being together.

I stop to say all of that because Daddy and I definitely have enough friendly banter going on between us that you might mistake my tone for dislike, or at the very least, disapproval.

But you would be wrong.

I only realized that I falsely give this impression when we finally reached camp that night and I was telling crazy Daddy stories at dinner.  Someone said to me, There’s not a lot of love lost between you and your dad right now, is there?

I was a little dumbfounded.  And I’m not sure how I responded.  I probably just laughed nervously.

But what is unseen is that I actually chose to go with Daddy.  I have enough pull with the youth pastor that in truth, I could have gone on any of the hikes I had wanted to that day.

I knew where I wanted to be, and where I needed to be.

I have enough shared history with Daddy that I would follow him to the moon and back.  I send my children off with him because I know they will grow up and pull those experiences from their hearts like trophies.

If you’ve ever been somewhere with Daddy, maybe you can relate to this sentiment,

You may emerge from the experience hopping mad at him for the hell he put you through, but honestly, you wouldn’t trade the memory of that same experience for anything, because deep down inside you, you know that somehow, you are the richer for having lived through it.

That pretty much sums up my entire childhood.

PS

Happy Birthday Daddy!

In the words of Maya Angelou,

Wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.

I waited patiently for the LORD;
he turned to me and heard my cry.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.

Psalm 40:1-2

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