Mount Adams: Parenting, Wild Places, and Joy
Yesterday was an epic day in the Mount Adams wilderness area. The morning started a bit bumpy—two people with the same plan but different perspectives and needs in their own wilderness of being human. My son and I bumped up against each other as we hit the road. Parenting is a challenge, and being a teenager isn’t easy. We’re both learning as we go, figuring it out for the first time—and some days, those learning curves feel bigger than others.
He had a plan. He’d spent hours researching trails, waterfalls, and wildflower hikes. He loves this—finding the paths, imagining the day—and I got to follow his lead. So we set out, two hours along winding roads that carried us higher and higher, until we slipped quietly into the heart of the wilderness.
The moment our feet touched the trail, the noise of the morning melted away. Life stirred all around us. At first glance, the land seemed empty of life and barren but it was anything but. We left the parking area and headed up and over the hill. There, chipmunks darted across fallen logs, a frog paused midstream, birds swooped low through pockets of shade. Wildflowers colored the path, some I’d never seen before, small mysteries tucked in the forest just for us. And then—waterfalls. One after another, spilling down cliffs, filling the air with mist and relief from the heat. My son climbed near the base of one, his face lit with pure joy. Laughter tangled with the roar of water, and in that moment, he felt what pure aliveness and connection is.
The land always teaches us. The hike was a metaphor for resilience. Trees scorched by fire still reach skyward. Burned slopes now carry tender green shoots. Water shapes rock over and over. The wilderness mirrors life: we burn, we bend, we scar, and somehow, we grow anyway.
As we hiked, I shared with him how trees sometimes grow like arrows pointing in every direction. Life can feel that way too—choices scattering us, signals pulling every which way. Parenting is much the same: a slow release of our children into the world. We give them space to grow, to learn, to have their own experiences, while we walk beside them, quietly holding the compass and discovering the path alongside them.
Being here with him today, seeing his joy, following his lead, reminded me how grateful I am for these moments of connection. The land holds us, teaches us, and heals us. And in the quiet, it always calls us home—to ourselves, and to each other.
Where are the wild places speaking to you?
