Our troop planned to tackle one 50-mile segment called the "Twin Lakes," named for two crystalline lakes along the trail, high above the tree line, surrounded by nothing but an impossibly blue sky, craggy rocks, and lichen. "Like a lake on the moon," I was told, which ignited my imagination. I was an avid space buff who had clipped every news article about the Mercury and Gemini space programs out of the newspaper, so I was excited to see the lakes, but I was also afraid. I was small for my age, and no other Tenderfoot scouts in my troop were attempting the trek. I begged Dad to go with me and he agreed, setting to work on what was, for him, the most exciting part: organizing our gear.

Of course, no store-bought pack would do for Dad—too expensive to begin with. Plus, they didn’t have enough features, and features were what Dad was all about.

He built the frames from slender aluminum tubing, purchased bright yellow non-tear nylon material, and Mom sewed the packs up according to Dad’s rigid specifications.

Finally, on a warm Saturday morning, we took a shakedown hike on nearby Black Mountain, a barren, rocky height whose pinnacle boasted a dozen radio antennas and a smoggy view of San Diego. At the summit, Dad pronounced our packs good and our blisters bad. He was interested in the former; I was concerned about the latter.

I have a picture of myself, most likely taken on one of the first days of the trek. I am standing on a dead fall near a river, the yellow backpack towering over my head, my thumbs hooked into my belt, looking tired. As I look closer, I see another, deeper emotion: fear. I was terrified I wouldn’t make it the whole way. I was small, inexperienced, cold, and homesick.

I remember the second day of the trek, a Sunday. Dad and I were straggling behind, due mostly to me. It was nearing dark and we still had a couple of miles to go. Everyone else had already made it to camp. I was beginning to feel the first twinges of fear that I might not be able to hike all 50 miles with a 40-pound pack on my back, but I was most afraid of telling Dad this. I knew his response would be cryptic and harsh: Quit your bellyaching!

I sat down on a rock to rest, the weight of the pack and of my young life pressing down upon me. Dad stood on the path, impatience in his eyes, but not saying anything. I looked up at him, saw his disappointment, and felt hot tears building behind my eyes. I blinked them back and looked away, ashamed to be such a crybaby, to disappoint my Dad, who had never, in the twelve years of my life, disappointed me.

When I brushed an errant tear away and looked up at him, he was looking at me. I was shocked to see his eyes glistening with tears as well. He wordlessly shucked his pack and helped me off with mine. Then he sat down next to me and looked down the trail where I was looking. For a long time we sat there, saying nothing.

"What time is it?" I asked finally.

Dad looked at his watch. "Seven-thirty."

"You know what they’re doing at home right now?" I asked, confused at his tears and ashamed at my own.

He shook his head.

"They’re probably eating ice cream and popcorn and watching Walt Disney." I looked up at him.

Dad smiled and nodded. "Maybe they’re having Mom’s milk shakes."

"Yeah," I ventured. "With chocolate syrup mixed in."

He put his arm around my shoulders and nodded again. We looked down the trail together in the gathering darkness. I rested my head against his chest and sighed. Maybe it would be all right. Maybe I’d make it though this after all.

The day before my eighteenth birthday, after a particularly bad argument with my mother, I moved out of my parents’ house. I was certain that my parents were intent upon preventing me from experiencing anything fun, exciting, or different. I moved in with a couple of high school friends near Balboa Park in downtown San Diego. At night, in the bed Dad let me take, I would lie awake and listen to the trumpeting of the elephants in the San Diego Zoo a couple of blocks away, imagining myself a brave explorer in darkest Africa.

During that year, I worked construction, attended college, and partied with my friends. I was busy, having fun, and in general, being a good citizen; yet I knew that the cigarette stubs and empty beer cans that littered the coffee table at our house would be a horror for my father to see.

One Sunday morning, after a Saturday night of raucous reveling, I was sleeping in, hung over, when the doorbell rang. I padded to the door in my boxers and opened it. There was Dad, dressed in his out-of-date brown suit, standing on the porch.

"What do you want?" I asked suspiciously, closing the door slightly.

"Can I come in?" He looked uncomfortable. If he’d worn a hat, I’m sure he would have been holding it, running his hands around the rim nervously.

I didn’t know what to say. I shook my head, but opened the door anyway.

He passed me and walked inside. Before him were the remains of a night of merry-making: records strewn about, burgeoning ash trays, empty beer cans, and the stale smell of cigarettes and marijuana lingering in the air.

He sat down on the couch and I sat opposite him in the beanbag chair. He looked around, surveying the room. I watched his face carefully for signs of judgment. By this time in my life, I was well prepared to argue with him—to attack his lifestyle and to defend mine. I sat there uncomfortably, my mind in high gear, cataloging the persuasive arguments I’d use to battle his puritanical judgments.

But he said nothing—just sat there, looking around, taking it in. Finally, I said testily, "What do you want?"

He took a deep breath and I steeled myself for the first salvo. He looked at me, then away, and said quietly, "I was just going to church and I wondered if you wanted to come along." He looked back at me expectantly.

My mind was too crowded with arguments and tactics to take it in. It took me a few moments to dump out all that stuff in order to understand what he was saying.

"Church?" I asked. "You want me to go to church?" I shook my head, mystified.

"Will you come?"

I looked at him sitting there in his lumpy, old-fashioned brown suit and his clunky Knapp pharmacist shoes, and suddenly knew that his coming here was as hard for him as anything he’d ever done.

I stood, reeling at the revelation. "Sure," I heard myself say, turning toward the bedroom. "Give me a sec."