Gummy penguins for breakfast

IG BEAR LAKE, California — “You can get whatever snacks you want,” I tell my nephew, Luke, as we walk into a grocery store. I’m about to take him on his first hiking and camping trip. “One of the best things about hiking is that you can eat anything you want!”

“Gummy penguins?” he asks timidly, reaching for two bags on the shelf. It’s obvious that his parents don’t usually let him eat gummy penguins.

“Whatever you want!” I say. I treat him like an adult, because I don’t really know what else I’m supposed to do.

When we arrive at our campsite near Big Bear Lake in Southern California, Luke is enthralled by my ultra-light backpacking tent, which I teach him to construct in less than two minutes. Luke rushes impatiently through our classic camping dinner of hot dogs and s’mores, because he can’t wait to get back inside the tent. After the sun sets, we crawl inside, and Luke produces a bag of board games that he’s brought. I chuckle, because playing board games is my favorite part of backpacking trips too. While we nibble on gummy penguins and move wooden pirates onto sailboats, I realize that Luke may not be the only eight-year-old on this camping trip.

On another backpacking trip, in January, five friends and I spent hours playing the party game Time’s Up (a boxed version of Celebrity) during a three-day journey on the California Riding and Hiking Trail (CRHT) in Joshua Tree National Park. My friends Brad and Julie had never been on an overnight backpacking trip before, so we decided on the 37-mile CRHT, which is almost totally flat, easy to follow, and warm enough for day hiking, even during winter. At night, however, even with the comfort of a campfire and board games, Brad and Julie found themselves shivering from the cold winter temperatures, even in their sleeping bags. Though I had warned them about frigid desert nights and sent them a gear list, I had failed to order them to bring fluffy down jackets, naively wanting to avoid paternalism and nagging. When I woke the next morning to a thermometer reading 20°F degrees and campers reluctant to leave their sleeping bags, I feared that Julie and Brad wouldn’t voluntarily join a backpacking trip ever again.

A few weeks later, Wendy, Rich and I took my friend Rose on her first backpacking trip to Sykes Hot Springs in Big Sur, California. The trail, one of the most popular in California because of the sauna-like swimming pools at the end, was infested with first-timers carrying badly-fitted and over-weighted packs. Though I gave Rose lots of guidance about how to pack and handle her backpack, her biggest concern ended up being about going to the bathroom in the wilderness. After lunch on our first day, she announced to the group that she needed to excuse herself, taking some toilet paper and hand sanitizer with her. I didn’t think much about giving her advice. Fifteen minutes later, she returned, looking uncomfortable.

“I, uh, couldn’t do it,” she said. Wendy, Rich, and I tried to suppress our laughter. Not accustomed to counseling adults on how to go to the bathroom, I looked to Wendy, who coached Rose to find a very private spot behind a tree and relax. After another 15 minutes, Rose returned.

“I was successful!” she said. But she looked traumatized, as though she had already decided that she would never venture more than 10 feet from a toilet ever again. I felt like the experience was my fault, and I realized that my teaching skills — both for children and adults — needed some honing.

On the second day of my camping trip with my nephew, Luke, I offer to make eggs for breakfast, but he’s not interested.

“I want gummy penguins,” he says.

“Fine with me,” I say. After all, someone who wants to eat gummy penguins for breakfast is someone I understand — and every penguin’s tummy is filled with a gooey, tart liquid! While packing up our camp, we manage to eat almost two entire bags of the penguins.

“Time to go hiking!” I say excitedly, trying to pique Luke’s interest. I’ve planned a very easy, one-mile hike for Luke’s first hike, but his face starts looking pale as I drive my car up the windy mountain road toward the trailhead.

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles. “I get motion sick.” Your good parents also probably don’t usually let you eat an entire bag of gummy penguins for breakfast, I think. But, as soon as the car stops moving at the trailhead, Luke starts looking healthier.

“Okay, get your backpack, and put on pants instead of those shorts,” I say. “It’s cold out.”

“But I want to wear shorts!” he retorts.

“Fine with me,” I say, because, well, that’s what I would say to an adult.

We’ve hiked about a half-mile (ten minutes), and he seems to be having fun climbing on rocks near the trail, when suddenly, Luke announces: “I don’t like hiking. Can we turn around?”

“Luke, this hike is a loop. We can turn around, but it will take just as long to go back as it will to go forward,” I explain.

“I don’t like hiking!” he whines. Then, he starts crying.

I try to reason with him like I would with an adult, but it occurs to me that I’m wasting my time. He doesn’t actually dislike hiking. He dislikes feeling sick and cold. Yet, here I am, dragging an eight-year-old child, with a stomach filled to the brim with high-fructose corn syrup and wearing shorts, through a 40°F forest.

We return as quickly as possible to the car. Immediately, Luke, seems happy again.

“Can I have more gummy penguins?” he asks, as our car snakes back down the mountain. This time, I’ve learned my lesson.

“No more,” I respond. He doesn’t complain.