They called it an, “adventure walk”. The name made me smile as I laced up my boots. Gabe, Abby, and Eva, cousins I had only met for the first time two days ago, bussled about alternating between getting ready and whatever distractions each of them managed to find. Dave, their grandfather, helped his son Andy wrangle them together for our hike up the ridge. I remember the enthusiasm the most, and a preoccupation with walking sticks.
Walking the logging road was peaceful and invigorating. There wasn’t a destination really. It was about the world around us. This place had been Dave’s home since he was a boy. He explained the history of the homestead, pointed out edible plants and the ground signs of the Oregon wildlife, and re-lived funny stories from hunts and logging. A lifetime of knowledge and memories being revealed over the course of a few miles. The kids ran ahead exploring, eating sour grass, and finding slugs; a lifetime of knowledge and memories being born.
It was easy to find the poetry of the hike and belied the truth that it’s about the journey, not the destination.