Traveling in Place

The Long View and the Near View

Yesterday, my son Nathaniel and I ascended Algonquin Peak, the second highest in the Adirondacks Mountains. It was my third climb to this particular summit. The first time was with my oldest son Aaron the summer before he went away to college. That was eight years ago. (We also ascended neighboring Wright Peak, just as Nathaniel and I did yesterday.) The next time was four years later, again with Aaron, when we decided to hike all three major peaks in the MacIntyre Range. It’s appropriate that my third trip up Algonquin came at the next four-year interval, this time with my youngest son, who will graduate from college next spring.

People who know me know I’m a hiker. But here’s the thing. My hiking interest is pretty narrow. First, I’m a mountain hiker. Second, I’m an Adirondack mountain hiker. Third, I’m a Adirondack mountain day hiker. Carrying 50 pounds on my back and spending a wet night under a lean-to shelter holds little appeal for me. More importantly, I appreciate how day-hiking is less invasive of the wilderness terrain. Outdoor overnight camping, while accommodated, is not encouraged by the Adirondack Mountain Club. So I’ll probably never be a “46er,” one of those ambitious folks who scale all 46 Adirondack peaks over 4,000 feet (reckoned by earlier slightly erroneous measurements). To do so, you just about have to camp overnight. Some of those peaks are trail-less, and some of them are too deep into the wilderness to reach from – and get back to – a parked car in one day.

So now, after ten years of Adirondack Mountain day-hiking, which has included a few truly strenuous treks stretching up to fifteen miles and requiring up to 4,700 feet of total ascent, I’ve pretty much exhausted all the possibilities within my self-imposed limits. Now, when I venture into the mountains, it’s usually to trace a path I’ve walked before. But, to paraphrase the words of Greek philosopher Heraclitus, “no one hikes the same trail twice.”* The wilderness is always changing. The seasons, and even slight changes in the weather, yield different vistas.

What to Do With the Children?

“Let the children come to me. Do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” (Mark 10:14)

This was Jesus’ “indignant” response to his disciples, who had spoken sternly to those who were bringing children to him in the hopes that he would bless them with his touch. It was forbidden in those days for children to speak to a religious teacher. Rabbis had too many important matters to address to be bothered with unruly youngsters. Yet Jesus was glad to welcome the children. He probably told them stories that made them laugh while teaching an important truth to the adults who were listening.

But when we read the passage in Mark through the lens of our modern child-centered families, we miss the radical nature of his words. During Jesus’ earthly ministry, the plight of many children was abysmal. Because most families lived off of subsistence farming, having children was a matter of economic necessity. Where contemporary families err on the side of spoiling our children, parents of the ancient world typically refrained from getting too attached to their youngsters, since child mortality was high. Not only were children to be seen and not heard – they had no legal protections. Poor families might turn children out into the streets because they did not have enough to feed everyone in the household. In every village, dirty homeless children pilfered food from merchants for survival.

So the scene in Mark 10 is not quite as sentimental as it appears to our modern imaginations. It’s not as though eager, pushy parents, unable to get Jesus’ attention, have sent their children under a rope line in violation of security protocols. “People” were bringing little children to him. Some were parents bringing their own children, but probably not all. Community members likely also brought the local urchins, whom they regularly caught stealing, in the hopes that Jesus might take pity on them and let them join his traveling rag-tag band of misfits.

This passage has been on my mind as I have read about the humanitarian crisis of tens of thousands of children crossing our Southern border. Unaccompanied by

What I Did on My (Geeky) Summer Vacation

Martha and I just returned from a week’s vacation that included visits to four presidential homes (Franklin Roosevelt, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, and Martin Van Buren), an art museum (Norman Rockwell), a living history museum (Plimouth Plantation), a restored whaling ship (the Charles W. Morgan), and the New Bedford Whaling National Historic Park. I didn’t realize how geeky our summer vacation had been until we got home. I guess this is how a history teacher and a history buff have fun.

We do love history, but if you’re wondering what kind of family vacations our kids had to endure, don’t worry. We’re not even close to being the champions of geeky expeditions. One of our college classmates, Joe, was the son of the senior member of the history faculty at our school. Joe once lamented to us about the summer his father enthusiastically led his wife and two children on a station wagon tour of all the Civil War battlefields. Sure, Gettysburg and Shiloh (and a few others) are interesting. But all of them? In one summer? One open field surrounded by canons and stone monuments looks pretty much like another.

When our children were young, we visited historical sites (in part because we wanted them to learn to appreciate history), but we also played at the beach and in the mountains. We even mixed in a few amusement parks. And we spent nights on the road at campgrounds where we cooked burgers and hotdogs over open fires and made s’mores.

Now, with no kids in tow, there’s nothing to stop us from planning the kind of week we just had. Actually, two of those stops weren’t even on our itinerary. Who plans to visit the home of Martin Van Buren (our 8^th President)? Since we were