Leaving The Trail: Hiking With My 14-Year-Old Daughter

By Kristy McCaffrey

[Author’s Note: This essay originally appeared on the Women’s Adventure magazine website last year. I thought I’d share it here as we kick off a new year. While the well-trodden path can be considered a starting point, we should all have the courage of a teenager to forge our own journey.]

On a Sunday morning I invite my youngest child, Hannah, on a hike. The McDowell Mountain Preserve, near our house, has many trails to meander on, but a favorite of many is a giant granite monolith called Tom’s Thumb. It can be accessed from two different sides, but the fastest, albeit more strenuous route, is a two-mile uphill switchback. This will be our outing for the day. I anticipate fresh air, great weather (it’s January in the Phoenix area and in the high 70’s), and a nice workout, all while hanging out with my daughter. She’s never been to Tom's Thumb, and is eager to see what others have said about it. I’ve done this trek twice before. The second time, with my husband and good friend Lisa, we all decided to take a bypass path, one that cuts directly down the hillside to a boulder-filled valley, then up the opposite slope. The trail was sparse and easily lost, we became hopelessly confused as to the best way, and ended up clambering up and down ten-foot-high rocks with no special gear. We desperately scrambled out of the valley in the wrong direction in an effort to reconnect with the main trail.

I make the mistake of sharing this story with my daughter.

After an uneventful but very pleasant hike up, followed by a quiet lunch with views of the Valley of the Sun to the south, and Scottsdale and Rio Verde to the north, Hannah announces that she’s bored. She wants to take the side trail I’d spoken of and takes off on what looks like a pathway, down a steep incline and in the wrong direction. Hannah is athletic, curious, and daring—traits I admire. Of all my four children, she’s the one most tied to the land and sky, to the pull of nature. It tugs at her very soul. But at times, it blinds her to her own good judgment.

As her mother, it’s my job to keep her safe. I tell her no, that we’ll take the main path back. She stands her ground, and in true teenager form immediately hits below the belt.

“You claim to be so adventurous, but you’re not. You’re just afraid.”

Hannah and I have one of those mother-daughter tight-lipped control fights at the base of Tom’s Thumb. Having endured her three older siblings, I’m hardly shocked by the swift turn of events—adolescents thrive on sudden mood swings and aimless discord with their parents—but I’m annoyed that she’s ruining a perfectly nice day for me.

Hannah sulks as I strive to find the well-trodden path back. I sense that this is a teaching moment, and if I can keep my own frustration in check I might be able to instill something lasting into her mind. Because I feel, deep in my bones, that she will embark on many more intrepid pursuits in her future, bolder than the one at hand.

“Adventure should be pursued with a clear mind,” I say, “not recklessness. That endangers not only yourself, but those with you. Be smarter than that.”

The lesson isn’t taking hold. She is still brooding. So I acquiesce, and tell her we can take the shortcut if we can find a clear starting point. Off we go.

For a while, all is good. There is a trail, of sorts. Then it’s gone, and we’re halfway down the hillside, too far to return to our starting point. I already know how this will go, having done it previously with my husband and Lisa. But then something happens that I don’t expect. Hannah takes charge, path-finding most of the way, scrambling over boulders, not complaining over the endless scrapes and scratches from the thorny bushes. She’s only wearing running shorts and a t-shirt. I have long pants and a fleece pullover. I cease worrying about her as I must concentrate fully on getting myself out of this predicament. We hit numerous dead-ends—slabs too steep and chasms too wide to traverse. To cross requires jumping, and I cannot jump. I’m too afraid. My daughter had been right about that.

Hannah finally realizes, as we’re sliding off a steep, gravelly slope, grabbing at sharp branches and trying to avoid prickly pear and barrel cactus, that this route was a bad idea.

At last, the lesson takes hold. But we’re still in trouble, still searching for the path, still spending too much time in the wrong direction and then having to backtrack. It’s late afternoon. I know we won’t perish, but should one of us get hurt—a twisted ankle, or worse, a broken appendage—it would be difficult to rescue us. There are many people on the main trail, but it’s several hundred feet above us. No one would ever hear us yelling for help. Our cell phones work and have signals, but it would likely be well into the night before someone could reach us. So, our goal is to keep moving horizontal to the slope, scooting on our butt if need be, but to keep progressing toward the main trail and the parking lot.

The dynamics of the mother-daughter relationship changes. Hannah and I lean on each other equally. Sometimes she leads, other times I do, the boundary of adult and child becoming blurred. I need her as much as she needs me.

Finally, we find the ridiculous, hardly-there path known as the shortcut and make it back to the car. Surprisingly, our mishap has only taken us an hour past our end time. Both Hannah and I shake our heads. It felt like five hours, trapped in the ravine, fighting the desert with nothing but our hands, feet, and mounting distress.

Hannah admits she was wrong. We never should have ventured from the main path. She takes my hand and says she’s sorry.

But my desire to impart the lesson fades as I realize a deeper truth. There is the main path, and then there is your path. My daughter, with her budding independence, instinctively knows this—to seek out her path, not the one we’re all told to take, not the one I told her to take. Our side-trek imparted wisdom—resilience, problem-solving, focus in the face of anxiety—not found on the main path.

So, in the end, Hannah and I teach each other. When leaving the trail, make good choices. But, by all means, don’t fear leaving the trail.

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College-Bound Children and Hiking

By Kristy McCaffrey


When my two boys were young, they frequently used the word “pathway” to describe a direction they wanted to go. It was an unusual description for them to utter since my husband and I never used it. You’ll note that my blog is called Pathways, which is a direct reference to my children. Pathways lead to all sorts of places: a sidewalk in front of a house, a stream in the woods, a new direction in life.



Sam and I at
UC Boulder

I recently dropped my oldest at college. Samuel is 19 years old and beyond ready to begin his life. That readiness took some of the sting from watching him exit our world. When he was a toddler, I’d delayed his start to kindergarten, something I realized a few years later was unnecessary. First child, many mistakes. However, I had one extra year of him chomping at the bit to gain his independence. We parents will take whatever we can get. 

Sam’s destination was the University of Colorado at Boulder, a really lovely campus in a really beautiful location. My husband and I met his roommate, we bought him a bike, I organized his clothes because like most moms I worry he won’t do it correctly. Mostly, I just worry he won’t do it all. As I’ve said many times to my children, life is much easier if you’re organized. But when a mom speaks, kid’s ears automatically close. Really, it’s a thing.

The Columbine Trail in
North Cheyenne Canyon,
Colorado Springs

The following day my husband had a business meeting in Colorado Springs, so I accompanied him to Colorado Springs. With an afternoon to myself I spent 6 hours hiking my sadness away. I found an easy-to-follow yet rigorous trail in North Cheyenne Canyon. The Columbine Trail was eight miles roundtrip. Just what I needed. And being alone was welcome. When Sam was born, he was 8 weeks premature. I remember then that I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with others—I simply didn’t have the energy, anxiously visiting him every day at the neonatal intensive care unit at Magee Women’s Hospital in Pittsburgh. And now, I didn’t want to talk either. It was as if conversing would spill too much from me. I wanted to keep it all close—my memories of him, my joy from having him in my life, my happiness as he embarks on a wonderful new phase, my heartache from simply missing him.

View from the Columbine Trail ~ Colorado
Springs is in the distance

Samuel at Magee Women's Hospital in Pittsburgh



Three days later I hiked again, this time an attempt at the summit of Mt. Humphrey in Flagstaff, the highest point in Arizona at 12,633 feet. The 4-mile trail, beginning at the Snow Bowl Ski Resort, is strenuous and hard-to-follow in places, with a 3200 foot elevation gain. I attempted it earlier in the summer with my husband but heavy cloud cover had left us confused and we lost the trail, so we never made it to the top. This time I went with my dad, who knew the area. When I told him our stories of Sam and college and concerns and woes, he just laughed. I finally knew exactly how he and my mom had felt when I left for college all those years ago, me being his eldest. I could now appreciate not only their restraint in showing their grief, but also the financial support without probing my every monetary move. (I think of my year in the sorority that cost my dad a fortune—he never berated me when I decided to quit.) I can only hope to be as supportive with my own children. My husband and I still have three more to go.

But back to my attempt for the Humphrey summit—I didn’t make it again. At around 12,000 feet I knew I needed to turn back. After 4 hours of hiking in the rain, I was drenched and in the early stages of hypothermia. It’s a really strange phenomena when your fingers stop functioning and it’s not from frostbite. I made several mistakes with my clothing (I should have donned a rain poncho from the start and not worn layers of cotton clothing, which don’t dry quickly), but I also learned two things: push your boundaries but know when to heed that inner voice. My dad never tried to sway me either way. Perhaps that is the best parenting of all—buoy your children to step outside their comfort zone but at the same time let them think for themselves. Entering young adulthood isn’t unlike a long hike: there will be ups and downs, there will be good stretches along with exhausting slogs through the mud, and there will always be the unknowable aspect of the journey.

You can choose to stay where you are, or instead follow the pathway.

Sam—your father and I are here for you, but I promise to keep my weeping to myself.

The Wave in Arizona ~ Amazing Sandstone Formations

By Kristy McCaffrey

On a chilly December day I embarked on a hike with my dad to see The Wave. While you may envision us searching for an ocean overlook, this swell of nature exists along the Arizona/Utah border among the bottom of Utah’s Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument and the upper section of Arizona’s Paria Canyon-Vermillion Cliffs Wilderness Area. And after that mouthful, all you really need to know is that it’s a really cool-looking sandstone alcove.

To enter the North Coyote Butte Special Management Area, where The Wave is located, you must have a permit. Only 20 people per day are allowed—10 through a lottery system and 10 for walk-in permits submitted the previous day. It took my dad two tries to gain two permits and to my great fortune he invited me along. To understand this you must know that my younger sister is a ski patroller, nurse, gun-toting park ranger, and well-versed in search and rescue. I, however, am a writer. Who would you choose to take into the wilderness? Exactly, not me. So I was thrilled by the invite. I might not be able to save my dad should he fall from a cliff, but I’d be able to inscribe my thoughts about it later. And what about my mom? I think she gave birth (twice) so that my dad would have someone to hang out with on his outdoor adventures.

We arrive the day before in Page, Arizona and stay the night in a hotel. We arise early the next morning, find a Denny’s open at 6 a.m., and eat a hearty breakfast since our day packs aren’t filled with anything hot and tasty. The drive to the Wire Pass parking lot—the start of the trailhead—is about 43 miles from Page. The last 8 miles are on a dirt road that is impassable when wet, the red clay turning into a slippery muck. With the day overcast and the air a bit misty, the fact that we threw a few sleeping bags into the back of my dad’s truck at the last minute suddenly seems like a good idea.

The parking lot houses a restroom and a sign-in, likely to find those who enter and never return. But this wouldn’t be us since we feel well-equipped with a very detailed map provided by the Bureau of Land Management, a compass, and a GPS. But the start of the trailhead soon leads to a non-trail. We don’t pay close enough attention to the landmarks provided on the map and manage to spend the first hour in the wrong direction. Of course the GPS indicated we were moving farther away from our target rather than closer, but in my defense it was the first time I’d used the GPS app on my smartphone. I figured we were taking a circuitous route that would eventually bring us to where we needed to be.

Our detour did lead to an awesome slot canyon, however. And after backtracking we were soon headed in the right direction. We made certain we nailed every landmark thereafter.

The 5.5 mile hike scrambling over sandy hills and red rock takes us about 2 hours. The terrain offers sweeping views of sandstone pillars and red rock buttes, tiny cacti growing in crevices and giant juniper trees standing vigil. It’s a desolate and quiet place, far from civilization.

But that’s why we come to areas like this—to know ourselves with no expectations, no grasping for outcomes; to search for the boundary of our Self in a wide open space. It’s as if in this natural environment our own internal compass is reset. We’re grounded in a way we can’t be in our busy, everyday life, our soul craving the true order of things.

At last we climb a hill just below a prominent landmark called “the Black Crack” and enter the alcove known as The Wave. The undulating swells of sandstone greet us and we’re awed, but admittedly slightly confused. Is this all there is? I think we both thought it would be more like a bowl viewed from above.

Another hiker arrives and, having been here before, explains the layout. We must climb to above the alcove to find the picture-perfect spot, the one that he stakes out with his tripod and camera for the next several hours. I’m using my small handheld camera until my dad drops and jams it, then I switch to my phone camera.

Even with our less technical approach to photo-taking we still get awesome and surreal pictures. The rock flows like water around us and the eye can hardly believe it’s authentic.

We find the Second Wave and Hamburger Rock (per the hiker’s directions) and snap more photos.

My dad wants to climb ever higher but I’m beginning to feel tired and cold so I hang back. I begin to worry that he might come rolling off that cliff after all but he soon returns in one piece.

There are dinosaur tracks in the area but we decide the GPS coordinates will likely send us on a wild goose chase clinging to the sides of the cliffs and we can’t muster enough enthusiasm to warrant the search. Instead we drop into the small canyon below, exploring the narrowing curves of the walls as they close in on us. We eat lunch here, somewhat sheltered from the wind, and decide to begin our return hike.

The way back isn’t difficult but the landmarks are not easily discernible, blending into one another in a blur of red rock upon red rock. We reference the map and GPS frequently. My dad attempts a few compass readings but the simple device is deceptive. In our weary state we realize neither of us really knows how to use a compass. Luckily my phone battery is still above fifty percent. We’re soon sitting in a warm car.

All day I faced my own insecurity about entering the wilderness, a nagging worry carried forward from childhood that I’m not the adventurous daughter, that my dad would be better off here with my sister, whose entire life is an ode to Mother Nature herself. But I’m pleased that I was able to put these doubts aside.

I embrace the challenges instead of complaining at their presence. The day unfolds in the only way it can, from one moment to the next, and within that is a happiness that sits with me now and into the days that follow. My dad and I had an immensely good time. And to honor his choice to invite me along, I now do what I do best—I write.