A few weeks ago, my teenage son, during the worst of our New England winter, insisted on sleeping outside. It was going to be -1 degree at the coldest point of the night, but he maintained this would not be a problem.
He was prepared; he had a tent, a sleeping pad and a sleeping bag rated to zero degrees for warmth. Also, he’d done it before, having completed a NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School) course two summers ago that had him hiking and camping off-trail in the Big Horn Mountains.
So what’s the big deal if he sleeps outside his suburban Connecticut home, elevation 1,028 feet, with only marauding deer, possums or bobcats for wildlife? Why did I not want him to do it? Isn’t this why his dad and I sent him to NOLS?
Of course my goals for him are to be resilient, independent and responsible. I want him to be curious about life and I want him to follow his own path. From a very young age, it was clear that my very good-natured son had his own way of learning about and seeing the world. I’d long thought that if I could take a step back and watch him, I could learn a lot.
And yet, the mothering gene is a pretty powerful one, so my version of stepping back and Jack’s experience of it are probably pretty different. But I relented and let him sleep outside that night.
After a terrible, fitful and cold night’s sleep, I woke to find him contentedly breaking down his tent. He had survived. And then he sat down on the snow-covered lawn and made himself oatmeal on his camp stove.
What does it say about someone who is so desperate for a wilderness adventure that he will try to create it in his own backyard?
Wouldn’t you think that I would be relieved, ecstatic even, that my child’s interests are so healthily directed? With worry about teenagers and drug and alcohol abuse running rampant, wouldn’t a kid wanting to hike and camp be a blessing?
But it is a mother’s nature to fret, to see the trouble lurking behind every tree. And it seems to be difficult to let go. To trust in what he’s learned. I see a child becoming an adult, but it is still hard to stop mothering.
Now, he’s planning to hike the Appalachian Trail for a week over spring break. This is partly my own fault. I casually threw out an offer to drive him and a classmate to a starting point in the south so they could hike the trail over their break. His friend said, “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, because we’ll definitely take you up on it.”
Clearly I am torn. I’m proud that my son is strong and brave, and I want to facilitate that. Then I worry that he’ll get hurt and run into trouble; worry that he doesn’t know what he’s up against.
The truth is — it’s me who doesn’t know what he’s up against. I’ve never camped out, in the mountains or my backyard. I must accept that he probably knows better than I what he’s doing.
They’ve identified a section of trail in Virginia and West Virginia that according to the trail’s website has lower elevations and higher temperatures than more mountainous regions and is particularly suited to spring hiking. They’ve created a travel plan and a meal plan (which is calculated at 1 and a half pounds of food a day — heavy on the GORP) and have their gear in order.
I will let him hike the trail. He’s prepared, he has provisions, he has a cell phone. He has no anxiety. I have that, but that is my burden.
I want this to go well, but once he sets foot on the trail, it’s out of my control. If it doesn’t go well, I have to believe it was still the right thing to do, because it is a positive thing.
So, he’s going to follow the NOLS directive: Plan your hike and hike your plan. It sounds like a great motto for life.
While he’s on this trip, he’ll keep a daily journal and when he returns, we will publish his story. My sincerest hope is that it will show how needlessly I worried.
Tara Kelly, copy editor at The Lakeville Journal, is an avid follower of social trends. E-mail her at tarak@lakevillejournal.com.
