When I was
fourteen years old, my family spent a week at Philmont Scout Ranch in New
Mexico. While my parents and siblings stayed in camp attending classes, doing
crafts and other activities, my older sister and I opted to take a week-long backpacking
trek through Philmont’s wilderness backcountry.
It sounded like a
fun adventure: hike a few miles every
day, cook outdoor meals, watch campfire programs at night, and do some rock-climbing
and rappelling—nothing we couldn’t handle.
In fact, we were exhilarated about a week in the mountains.
We said a cheerful
“goodbye” to the rest of our family and boarded the bus that would take us to
our drop-off point. My heart pounded
with anticipation. The bus rolled to a
stop and we jumped out, grabbed our gear and looked up—at a huge hill. The first mile of our trek seemed to stretch straight
up from where we stood! Biting our
tongues, we set out. It was hard! Our forty-pound
packs weighed us down and the sun beat on our backs. When we reached the crest of the first hill,
another one loomed before us. This was
one, big mountain! After what seemed
like ages, we begged our ranger to let us take a break.
“No,” she said, “We’re
just getting started.”
