At noon on a brilliant Tuesday in March, my 12-year-old son Kai and I are a mile and a half into a four-day, 27-mile walk through the Grand Canyon—his first backpacking trip — when he asks: “Are we almost to camp?”

Um, no. Camp, at Hermit Creek, is seven miles and nearly 2,500 feet below, which will take us several more hours. We’re going down a poorly maintained path off the canyon, across which we can see many of the canyon’s layers. This is on display in cliffs hundreds of feet tall, a reminder of how far we have to go.

We are here largely because of a birthday note Kai wrote me two years ago in which he declared, “You used to be a wild 10-year-old like me and now you’re a wild 53-year-old. We can do so many things together! I am excited for when I’m old enough for the Grand Canyon!”

There are, I suppose, dads who could resist that, just as there are fathers who would plan an experience-appropriate trip for their sons. I am neither, so here we are. Never mind that; aside from simply being 12, Kai has done almost nothing to physically prepare for this. Or that I haven’t backpacked for 13 years.

We head on past twisty trees and brush. Soon the view broadens, and the layers grow deeper, down to the shadowy, 1.8 billion-year-old Vishnu, a panorama(全景) that leaves Kai excited. “This place is amazing,” he says.

Nightfall in the canyon can be magical. Darkness surrounds us, pressed by cool air. We navigate a narrow path to the stream and, hearing the sound of a waterfall, lie down to take in the stars. Twice I suggest we turn in. “Not yet,” Kai says. “This is too unbelievable.”

【推荐3】I was about 13. My father frequently took me on short outings on Saturdays. Sometimes we went to a park, or to a marina (码头) to look at boats. My favorites were trips to junk stores，where we could admire old electronic stuff. Once in a while we would buy something for 50 cents just to take it apart.

On the way home from these trips, Dad frequently stopped at the Dairy Queen for l0cent ice cream cones. Not every single time: just often enough. I couldn't expect it, but I could hope and pray from the time we started heading home to that critical corner where we would either go straight for the ice cream or turn and go home empty handed. That corner meant either mouthwatering excitement or disappointment.

A few times my father teased me by going home the long way. “I'm just going this wry for variety.” he would say, as we drove by the Dairy Queen without stopping. It was a game, and I was well fed, so we’re not talking torture (折磨) here.

On the best days he would ask, in a tone that made it sound novel and spontaneous, “Would you like an ice cream cone?” and I would say, “That sounds great, Dad!” I’d always have chocolate and he’d have vanilla. He would hand me 20 cents and I would run in to buy the usual. We'd eat them in the car. I loved my dad and I loved ice cream — so that was heaven.

On one fateful day, we were heading home, and I was hoping and praying for the beautiful sound of his offer. It came. “Would you like an ice cream cone today?” “That sounds great, Dad!”