“This is not a hike!” protested Lauren, “This is not what I was looking for - a 90 year-old could do this!” 

“A 90 year-old, really?” I bemused.

“YES!”

“Okay” I said, “What were you looking for?”

“You know, like climbing through the trees and rocks sticking out and picking your way down the cliff - NOT walking!”

“Hmmm,” I said, “I guess this is not like that.”

“Duh!”

We were hiking at Torrey Pines State Reserve, on the Southern California coastline.  It was remarkable in its ragged beauty.  We were about half way down the 2 mile trail which would drop 350 feet towards the beach.  For my almost 11-year-old climbing enthusiast, there were inviting red clay cliffs and sandstone formations leading into a glorious gorge filled with lush yet parched Chapparal and Torrey pines (not to mention snakes, coyote and cacti).  Her wistful look towards the exciting part of the park alongside her disparaging comments left me feeling disheartened, despite the sunny warm day.  Pointing out the Stay on Trails signs was pointless, as was reading about the “sensitive ecological environment” from the trail map I was carrying.  Normally she was very sensitive to protecting the environment and ‘following the rules’, but today she was particularly restless and agitated.

Once we got down to the beach, everything changed.  There was a large flat rock partially immersed in the ocean, which she could scramble on top of, and - well, walk around.  Moreover, the beach was protected by the bluff from which we had just descended.  There were some natural areas where Lauren could climb upwards and then simply slide back down onto the beach.  And there was the rolling and consistent surf which was a draw for children of all ages.  

When it was time to leave, I gave Lauren the choice of walking back to the parking lot along the beach, or going back up the trail, and down the service road to the parking lot.  I secretly wanted to walk the 3/4 mile back along the beach.  Lauren wanted to take the trail up and then down, she was feeling like getting some exercise, she said.  You’ll be sorry, I smugly thought.  She was not sorry, in fact, she asked if we could jog up the trail.  I stared at her, no longer able to recall the energy or brain of youth.  She bounded off with palpable joy, and I sauntered along behind, using the back pack I was carrying as my excuse not to run.  

As I enjoyed my solitary walk, I imagined what it would have been like to have started our family ten years earlier.  I would be a 37 year old, with a blossoming 11-year-old.  Just the thought of it made me feel fresh and adventurous.  Just then Lauren veered off the main path onto a narrow path canopied by the rare Torrey pine.  “Come on” she shouted, while waving me in.  It was dark and narrow, and I did not want to take this detour - I liked to stay the course, I liked predictability. 

In that moment, I realized that I had become somewhat humorless in the past number of years; my tolerance had taken a dive.  I did follow Lauren down the dark, cool tunnel through the trees, and it eventually led up a dusty sandstone path to a cliff overlooking the endless expanse of blue-grey ocean.  My eyes scanned the rippling surface as my daughter’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.  

“You all right mom?” she asked.

“Just perfect.” I answered.