It’s 6am on a Friday morning and I’m about to hustle my three children and husband to get ready so we can drive to the airport, all in the hopes of seeing their grandpa on his layover for an hour. He is on his way home from Africa, where he and my younger brother attempted Kilimanjaro. This was one of Dad’s bucket list adventures, and I’m so glad he finally got to do it, at the age of seventy three.
Let me tell you a little bit about my dad.
As far back as I can remember he modeled a life of saying ‘yes’ to adventures – even if he didn’t have much money to spend. During my childhood we rarely got on an airplane, but we saw the world by cross country skis, canoe, brown Chevrolet conversion van, pop-up camper, or Purple Bus.
Our experiences were simple – but rich, nonetheless.
I have three siblings (two older, one younger) and the earliest adventures I remember us taking with Dad were hiking or skiing the bluffs in our small town, which was nestled within a wide bend in the Mississippi River. We did it so many times the trails and caves and views are etched into my mind, reminders of weekends spent outside, no matter what the season. You didn’t stay inside, you dressed for the weather.
In warm months he would take us canoeing on the Blue Earth River, navigating his indestructible green Old Town along to find hidden offshoots, to places called things like ‘Triple Falls.’ On these excursions we find a sandy beach or large rock and eat summer sausage and cheese and apples – simple meals Dad called “shore lunch.” Afterward we would pass a bag of wrapped caramels back and forth in the canoe, our teeth satisfyingly sticky as we dragged our hands in the water. Dad would J-stroke along, belting out John Denver songs, not worried at all at our lack of paddling or occasional need to pee…at which he simply hold us our tiny swimsuited bodies over the edge of the canoe and let us go.
In the summertime, as soon as we turned three, we were whisked out of our tearful mother’s arms by Dad to go with him and his twin brother (and our cousins) on week-long canoeing trips in Northern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area. My memories of this include: huddling under green tarps in the middle of the canoe while the sky would downpour rain, eating fried Northern Pike alongside pancakes packed with fresh picked blueberries for breakfast, and my Dad banging pots and pans together while chasing away black bears who would wander into our campsite on occasion. At night there were loons calling, Northern Lights, meteor showers, campfires and lots of singing.
When I was old enough to join our church’s youth group (also led by Dad) I always looked forward to the annual summer trip. This is when usually 20-30 youth and counselors would board a purple school bus, aptly named “The Purple Bus,” and over the course of a week would bond while facing various physical and spiritual challenges. Dad was brave, energetic, patient, and passionate to give as many “young people” (as he called us) had opportunities to see the wonder of God’s creation first-hand.
Things always went wrong on these trips, but Dad seemed to hardly missed a beat. There were times we had to sleep on the side of mountains because we underestimated how long a hike would take. We would unfurl our sleeping bags directly on the trail with grizzlies sauntering in the distance (thankfully steering clear of our noisy group.) There were Bus breakdowns on the highway in the middle of nowhere, but somehow we always got a tow or God sent angels in human form to fix it.
It is because of my Dad and his relentless spirit of adventure that I got to hike the Grand Canyon, summit several peaks in the Canadian Rockies, raft the raging Colorado River, hike in the Tetons, and see a vast majority of the United States.
It is because of Dad that in my twenties I never turned down an invitation to visit a faraway friend, or take a proposed trip to just about ANYWHERE. It is because of him that Paul and I, while pretty dang frugal in most ways, are never uptight about spending money on travel – we have both adventured with my Dad and see the value. It is also probably because of Dad that I said ‘yes’ to our expat assignment here in the Netherlands. He definitely inspired me by taking a position to preach for a year in Prague, after he had retired from the ministry. He saw so much of Europe that year and when we finally visited (when Cormac was only eight weeks old) his stories completely captivated me. How could I say ‘no’ when later our own expat opportunity arose, after baby number three had just been birthed? Let’s do it! I decided in a postpartum hormonal haze.
Of course Dad asked all his kids if we would hike Kilimanjaro with him. For the first time I had to say no, simply due to the nature of my husband’s job and not living near enough to family right now to help with the kids.
However, I selfishly hope Dad has a few more incredible trips up his sleeve that I (and the rest of my fam) can be a part of. He is forever an inspiration as I raise my kids. I often say strange things to them like, when we it is taking forever to get where we are walking : Eat GORP, drink water, one hour max!” or “It’s just around the bend up there!” (It usually isn’t, of course, but Dad was/is forever an optimist.) Or if it is raining/extremely cold I harp on them to put a warm hat on, which was one of the few things that would cause Dad to get mad at his kids on trips. “Get your hat on! You lose all your heat through your head!” Which I’m not sure if that is biologically accurate either, but I feel okay repeating it to my three little ones, in honor of Grandpa.
I hope I can inspire them at least half as well as he did to have their own amazing adventures in this world.
coffee, then words 