When I was a kid, my dad and I would hike the Appalachian Trail, each summer picking up where we had left off the year before. We never got very far. Just long enough for that time when we stumbled across some black bear cubs — no mama to be found, though she was undoubtedly nearby — and I went barreling toward the cubs for a hug and my dad held back, rooted in terror, shrieking for me to return to him. Just long enough for that time when I chewed on horsemint while taking a break on the side of the trail and my dad told me it’s called horsemint because it grows in horse poop and I immediately spit it out and my dad laughed and laughed at my gullibility. Just long enough to share a campfire with father-son thru-hikers who smelled so terrible I breathed through my shirt, though I still loved every moment of basking in their stench.

My dad used to say we would hike the entire AT together, but when I finally had the free time, his knees weren’t what they used to be, and the idea of lugging a home on his back and eating beans and horsemint and running into mama bears that could tear you limb from limb and smelling like death no longer appealed to him. It still appealed to me.

Correction: It still appeals to me.

A few months ago, my husband and I sat down to plan out our ideal summers over the next decade, and of course, a few summers are dedicated entirely to thru-hikes. This makes both me, an avid camper, and my husband, an avid five-star-hotel-goer, equally excited. I’m excited that I’ll get to see a dream come to fruition, even if it will not be the AT. My husband is excited to embark on a totally new type of adventure, one that will challenge him in ways he never expected to challenge himself.

The first planned hiking summer is just a few years away. Our children will still be very young. We will have to train, both mentally and physically, for this type of journey — especially so the kids enjoy it and see it as a proper adventure rather than a punishment.

I say this. People nod. They seem to hear me. My husband nods. The children nod. But something doesn’t quite seem to be clicking. We take a walk in the woods next to our home. The trail is a half-mile. My son, going into first grade, demands to know why I have tortured him. He picks up rocks and throws them into the stream. “We’ve been at this all day!” he insists. I look at my watch. We’ve been at this for 12 minutes. I argue with him that when we spend our real summer hiking, we will have to do at least 10 miles a day. I explain to him we really will be hiking all day. But he doesn’t understand how to tell time well enough to process what I’m saying. Plus, it’s hard to reason with someone at death’s door — someone dying of starvation, heatstroke, dehydration and West Nile virus, as he explains to me.

Okey-doke.

At the start of our neighborhood, we have a field and a tennis court. A neighbor zips around the street on a golf cart. This is not Florida. Our neighborhood is not a sprawling city of retirees. There are only 70 homes. The front of the neighborhood is a 5-minute walk. “We should get a golf cart,” my husband says. I look at him as if he’s nuts. “What?” he continues. “The tennis court is far. We don’t want the kids tired from walking before they even start playing.” I remind him that we want them to walk 300 miles in just a few years. They need to build stamina. “But it’s far. And hot. And golf carts are cool,” my husband insists.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to Banff, Alberta, with my in-laws. We took a gondola up a mountain and tackled a 2-mile trail. My 3-year-old insisted on being carried. My husband acquiesced and picked her up.

“You have to be able to hike on your own,” I told my daughter.

“I am hiking,” she yelled from 4 feet off the ground. “Don’t you see me moving up the hill?”

I believe I will be spending my future summers thru-hiking alone. Send bear spray.

——

Katiedid Langrock is a

nationally sydicated columnist.