The Beginning - Where Vacations Come From

Adventure:: ¹ad·ven·ture
Pronunciation: &d-'ven-ch&r
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English aventure, chance, risk, from Anglo-French, from Vulgar Latin *adventura, from Latin adventus, past participle of advenire to arrive, from ad- + venire to come
1 a : an undertaking usually involving danger and unknown risks b : the encountering of risks
2 : an exciting or remarkable experience adventure in exotic dining

I'm not sure exactly how my love of adventure crept into my being, but it has been there for a long time, and it never goes away. When I was little, we lived near a long canyon near Berkeley, California - now a regional park. Within walking distance of our house (albeit a long walk) was a retired Nike missile base, numerous run down and abandoned farm buildings, an active earthquake fault, an old National Guard shooting range and dozens of square miles of woodland, trails and dirt roads. And while other kids in our neighborhood played stickball, my friends and I had adventures.

We scavanged the old tunnels at the missile base. We swam in the running muddy streams after it rained. We'd pick a direction between our houses and a nearby shopping center and travel in that direction only - straight through the yards of every house in our path. We climbed trees. We got lost. We rode dirt roads on our bikes, long before anyone ever invented the mountain bike.

These adventures were the result of pure improvisation - often hatched with little more than someone's answer to the question: "what do you guys want to do today?"

A good adventure was defined by coming home too late for dinner. Having your mom make you take your clothes off at the door was a plus. Getting grounded was a badge of honor. Getting brought home by the police in the dark made you a hero.

And being a guilable kid, sometimes I was caused to have an adventure when I didn't want one. The worst example of this was the night some older kids invited me to sneak out of the house and play capture the flag. I did not quite grasp the improbability of a four-person capture the flag game in an area the size of Central Park until I heard my father's concerned voice wafting over the trees . . . at 2:00 in the morning while I sat atop a tall tree awaiting orders from my team captain. Stupid me.

So here I sit, nearly 50, and I can't get adventuring out of my soul. I spend vacations cycling or hiking or kayaking and always have. I love getting lost. I love bad weather. The best mornings of my life are spent on my mountain bike, trying to find new ways to ride the wonderful state park near our home in Maine.

But the responsibilities of adulthood affect my adventures. I have a full time job. I have two wonderful sons. I have a partner and a house. And I like this side of life. But part of me wants to live another life as a merry nomad, living out of the back of a van, climbing and skiing and cycling the world . . .

It was in the context of this collision of adventure and responsibility that one day I went on to Google and typed in the search phrase: "mountain bike hut to hut."

The first hit on the screen was my dream come true and before I had finished the first paragraph of the description on the website, I had sent emails to my friends Don and Julian with the link and the simple message: "we MUST do this trip."

They agreed, and we fly five weeks from today.