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Family Herder

By Katharine Niles

"Chris was cranky about something, Jonathan cranky about something else, so as we drove down the road I resigned myself to a frequent role of mine: that of Family Herder."

Ah, the Niles family outing. In its most recent incarnation, we had wanted to camp. However, after a trip back east to the vast wilds of Massachusetts, my husband contracted Lyme disease. Rife with antibiotics and feeling fatigued after a week and a half of sheer hell, he wasn't exactly up for camping. I joked that we could bring the chaise lounge and wrap him in blankets like those tuberculosis patients of yore, but he merely smiled and said nothing.

So off we went on a day trip to explore the area where we would have camped had disease not felled one of our members. Be it winter sledding, summer hikes, spring camping trips to Utah, the Niles family entourage is thus: One car (Prius) or truck (Nissan), depending on the necessity for 4-wheel-drive and high clearance; one dog (Tasha, breed unknown); one leash for dog (blue); one boy (Chris); one wife/mother (me); and one husband/father (Jonathan). Gear varies from full-blown camping equipment to day packs.

This day, we didn't even have a day pack. Chris was cranky about something, Jonathan cranky about something else, so as we drove down the road I resigned myself to a frequent role of mine: that of Family Herder. Just as I was wondering what to do with them, Chris saved the day temporarily by asking, "Can we listen to Green Day?" Perfect, I thought. I punched the right button and Jonathan turned it up and Chris rocked out to "American Idiot." I had to smirk at myself; Ms. Silence-in-the-Wilderness was getting to said wilderness by blasting the very sort of noise I loathed hearing out of other people's machines.

We made an executive parental decision to turn the music off as we neared our destination, though, and tensions flared again. Chris moaned at the lack of noise and Jonathan said he wanted to hike in the woods and Chris said he wanted to hike by the lake and Tasha whined and I had to go pee. Having failed to bring maps, we ended up on a Forest Service road until my bladder couldn't hold. We all got out of the car, stretched, and then I said, Family Herder ever on the alert: "We will go back and walk by the lake for a little bit, and then we'll go find the wilderness trail. Okay?"

The boys agreed. Tasha was happy, since the lake was not far away. We thus roamed the shores of a reservoir that had white caps on its waters and driftwood on its beaches. I caught a whiff of the great Pacific Northwest then - the air smelled of fish, the breeze was cool, and a seagull (!) soared above us. Jonathan and Chris skipped stones, and after a time all happily got back in the car.

Next stop: Wilderness trailhead. One could walk 50 miles on this trail if one wanted to. Jonathan and I immediately wanted to. Chris immediately grew hypoglycemic. This was, of course, inevitable, since unlike those perfect mothers you see in magazines I had not packed lunch, I had not packed water, I had not packed a damn thing. We managed to have a mile or so of mild complaining until Chris feigned massive panting and weakness. I hate it when he does this because I know just how he feels. He takes after his mother in the Crash-and-Burn-Quickly department. My husband, born in the Year of the Ox, could plod along ceaselessly without complaint. My son and I are both Year of the Tiger.

Jonathan sighed as Chris mewled. "We'll hike this whole trail while he's at camp next summer," he said, vaguely sotto voce.

"Good idea," Chris said, hearing anyway. "I don't want to hike 50 miles."

"Yes, best to let camp indoctrinate him into that routine," I muttered.

So Mr. Lyme Disease and I schemed a romantic get-away for two involving backpacks and GPS systems as we turned around to satisfy our collapsing son's every whim. At a general store down the road, the Family Herder stopped the car for fudge. We ended up with a decent lunch and then fudge - or ice cream depending on your tastes. It was well worth it. The dog was patient, the boys fed, the family once again successful in its outings, albeit not without pulling some strings. Both my males knew it. They are very good at the Post-Herding Butter Up. "Without you," they purr, "we couldn't function."

To which I just go SIGH.

Durango writer Katharine Niles is the author of the award-winning novel The Basket Maker.