国产吃瓜黑料

On the third day of our mother-son road trip in Northern California, Scout and I stare each other down in the parking lot of Mount Tamalpais State Park, near the Pacific.

We鈥檙e hot, tired, and hating each other.

That last part鈥檚 not true. We love each other.

But the heat, Scout鈥檚 stinky feet, and my excessive nagging make us edgy. He reacts by shutting down; I react by asking why he isn鈥檛 showing more enjoyment. If this continues, we might start shouting.

Then, out of nowhere, angels.

A father and son, twin-like in their resemblances to John Travolta. They pull alongside us in a carbon-belching Volvo. Stepping out and addressing me, older Travolta practically sings, 鈥淲hat a day! My son and I are on a father-son road trip! We just did Tomales Bay. You ever done it? If not, you should!鈥�

I beam congenially at him, but my competitive spirit has ignited. 鈥淗ow weird that you鈥檙e on a father-son trip,鈥� I say. 鈥淏ecause we鈥檙e on a mother-son trip!鈥� Then, to myself: But ours is amazing. Because we鈥檙e not just on a trip, we鈥檙e on a pilgrimage.

Our journey stems from a book I read and loved and gave Scout just after his 15th birthday: , Jack Kerouac鈥檚 classic Beat Generation novel, published in 1958. It tells the semifictional story of a merry band of society-shunning writers and the beautiful friendship between Ray Smith (who represents Kerouac) and Japhy Ryder (the poet Gary Snyder, whose work I worshipped). Japhy teaches Ray about Buddhism, hiking, mountain climbing, and how to become a fire lookout. (Full disclosure: It also contains plenty of R-rated events, but since Scout has watched his fair share of Game of Thrones, I thought he could handle it. Plus, it generated a lot of conversation.)

After reading the book, Scout had this assessment: 鈥淚t adds spirituality to the things I love doing. You know, hanging out, backpacking.鈥� He then said that he鈥檇 like to visit some key places Kerouac details in the book to see if Dharma Bums spirit still exists. I wanted to do a trip with Scout, because in kid-rearing, time speeds up exponentially the second they hit high school. And it鈥檚 hard not to worry about the limited opportunities left to share what you think are the greatest beauties of the world before you blink and they graduate.

Now 16, Scout is a quiet, creative, endurance-sport-loving, mandolin-playing鈥攁nd worried鈥攌id. His lesser concerns focus on why he can鈥檛 ski race faster and if his younger brother will get his driver鈥檚 license before he does. He is happiest on weekends, when he鈥檚 at home, running on the dozens of miles of singletrack winding through the woods in our small Colorado town. But what keeps Scout up at night are questions about his future. He wants to excel physically and academically, have friends, and enjoy life. In other words, he鈥檚 like most kids.

But ever since he was young, people have said, 鈥淭hat Scout. He鈥檚 on his own planet.鈥� They usually follow up with, 鈥淚 wish I could be on Scout鈥檚 planet.鈥� For instance, he鈥檚 a little Elizabeth Gilbert鈥檚 Last American Man in his sensibilities and wishes. Among his favorite pastimes is dreaming of the gaiters he鈥檒l hand-sew before whipping up some elk-meat pemmican to gnaw during the solo climbing trips he鈥檚 planning in the Himalayas.

As you might imagine, not all that many kids share Scout鈥檚 exuberance for such activities. And there are times when I question my husband Shawn鈥檚 and my choice to raise him with such an outdoorsy, Emersonian aesthetic. We put prime importance on outdoor sports and self-reliance. We live inside a national forest. We love it when our neighborhood bears leave paw prints on our pickup. We worship the natural world and worry about the environment. So does Scout.

Which is all the more reason to go on a Dharma Bums adventure. I鈥檓 acutely aware that this could be the last mother-son trip we ever do. Substantiating my hunch is the fact that our friends recently invited Scout to work on their fishing boat鈥攊n Alaska鈥�next summer. That has heightened several existential questions: Have I set Scout up for the best possible adulthood? And: What if I haven鈥檛? And: If not, what can I still do?

A road trip retracing Kerouac鈥檚 steps, from San Francisco to Berkeley to Marin County and on to Yosemite, with some city exploration, hiking, climbing, and camping along the way, just him and me, is at least鈥omething. We planned a week at the end of July, shortly before Scout would start his junior year of high school.

After meeting the father-son Travoltas, I felt a renewed sense of the coolness of our journey. Scout seemed to as well. We were, after all, about to start the first hike we鈥檇 ever done with a trailhead at the top of a mountain. From the parking lot, we walked down, to the ocean.

Our first night in California, we walked the North Beach district of San Francisco. The stars were out, and a cool breeze blew in from the Pacific. We headed toward City Lights Booksellers, on Columbus Avenue. Lawrence Ferlinghetti founded in 1953, and it has long been a home for writers like Kerouac who pushed social norms.

I was older than Scout when I fell in love with The Dharma Bums. I picked it up in my early twenties, during my second attempt at college. When I found the novel, I connected with Ray鈥檚 hobo aesthetic and hunger for spiritual seeking. But the narrative I loved most was the one in which Japhy springs Ray from the 鈥済rooming schools for the middle-class non-identity鈥� and takes him 鈥減rowling in the wilderness鈥� on a climb up in the Sierra. I hungered to find 鈥渢he ecstasy of the stars,鈥� like they did, and I marveled at how someone as inexperienced as Ray could so easily get deep into the wilderness under Japhy鈥檚 tutelage.

Once they start hiking, Ray is overcome with childlike amazement. But a hundred feet from the top of Matterhorn, he aborts the mission. 鈥淭he whole purpose of mountain climbing to me isn鈥檛 to just show off you can get to the top,鈥� Japhy says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 getting out into this wild country.鈥� Scenes like this, and Ray鈥檚 calls for a 鈥渞ucksack revolution,鈥� in which 鈥渢housands or even millions of young Americans鈥� take up wandering, allegedly inspired just that. Even cooler, 60 years after The Dharma Bums was published, the book is inspiring Scout.

Now at City Lights, we lounge in the Poetry Room, scouring Beat-related titles. When it鈥檚 time to cash out, Scout expands his Kerouac collection, plunking The Dharma Bums precursor, , onto the counter.

After touring the Beat Museum and walking Kerouac Alley, we head to Berkeley, where we see the ghosts of homes where Kerouac and Snyder once lived, we stand on the exact location of the birth, and we score two scalped tickets to see Scout鈥檚 favorite soft-political, barefoot, ukulele-strumming crooner, Jack Johnson, at the Greek Theater.

But soon, city claustrophobia sets in, so we head to Mount Tam to hike.

As we drop down the trail toward the bright blue Pacific, a Dharma Bums word pops into my head: compassion. As in compassion for everything, what Ray strives for in the book. I鈥檓 not going to pretend I have any real understanding of what this means. I bring it up only because, having just read about it, I feel it for Scout as we walk toward Stinson Beach. We鈥檙e on the Dharma Bums trail, yet he still seems out of sorts.

I get his sometimes unexplainable descent into despair. Another reason I conceded to the trip is because it鈥檚 so hard being a teen. It feels obtuse to list all the challenges today鈥檚 kids face, so I鈥檒l highlight Scout鈥檚 personal list: disappearing snow, vanishing coral reefs, the island of plastic in the North Atlantic, and not knowing where he 鈥渇its.鈥� That last item hits me hardest, because I know how hard it has always been for Scout to believe he fits in.

It鈥檚 been top-of-mind ever since we departed for our trip.

But I鈥檓 kind of speechless when I ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, and he replies, 鈥淗onestly? A pirate.鈥�

鈥淥k. What else?鈥�

鈥淐辞飞产辞测.鈥�

鈥淥谤鈥�?鈥�

鈥淲riter.鈥� (Shit.)

But he also lands on slightly more dependable career choices, informed by his childhood: Forester. Mountain guide. Outdoor educator.

After we reach the beach, we snack on oat bars and Scout body surfs. Then we hike back to the parking lot of Mount Tam. Even though it鈥檚 approaching dusk, we decide to hightail it to the Sierra Nevada, where we鈥檝e planned a multiday backpacking trip. It鈥檚 not to Matterhorn Mountain鈥攖oo much snow鈥攂ut the Quartz Mountain Trail, which accesses a gorgeous chain of lakes just inside the Yosemite鈥檚 southwestern boundary. Scout is navigating.

鈥淐an you ask Siri to help?鈥� I ask as we hit the highway.

鈥淪ure, Ma,鈥� he says.

鈥淭hen why aren鈥檛 you?鈥�

鈥淥ne sec, Ma.鈥�

Instead of doing the easiest and most accurate thing, he types 鈥淵osemite鈥� into MapQuest. Then he tries to zoom in on his cracked iPhone screen and navigate us there himself. It leads to hours of lost time we could have used to find a campground close to the park. But unpreparedness makes us more bum-like. We drive until hallucinogens of leaping deer make me pull over, and then we hastily set up camp鈥攊nside our rental car. It鈥檚 amazing how comfortably two adult-sized people can sleep fully stretched out in a Toyota Yaris. We get a solid five hours before waking up and heading to Yosemite.

Thanks to Scout鈥檚 navigating, we approach Yosemite from the west. The is on the far southeastern side, so we have to drive through the park. We arrive and find it clogged with motorhomes, tourists, and iPhone photographers shooting towering rock.

Still, I鈥檓 happy we are driving through, because anyone who knows Scout knows that he should have been born during the golden age of the Yosemite Camp 4 dirtbag climbing revolution. Yet seeing as he is the tiniest bit passive, he only quietly mentioned, when we were still in trip planning, how vitally important it was that he visit this holy site. Scout did bring his climbing shoes, which I assumed he鈥檇 use if we found some choice granite, and now that we鈥檙e in the park, with the option to go to Yosemite Valley or continue on to the Quartz Mountain Trail, he wants to drive beneath the granite gods of up-until-now only images in photographs and documentaries: El Cap, Sentinel Dome, and Half Dome.

Approaching Camp 4, Scout shouts, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 it!鈥�

I slow the car. We see it. We need to get going.

But at the intersection that will eject us onto the highway leading to the Quartz Trail, Scout asks, 鈥淐an we go back? I mean, I don鈥檛 want to mess with the schedule. It鈥檚 just鈥︹€�

There鈥檚 no question. Something is different in Scout. I see it.

He hasn't shown this kind of excitement yet on our trip. All of a sudden, inspired by the enormous, gleaming walls of El Cap and the vision he has of himself one day climbing it, Scout takes the moment into his hands.

He jumps out, digs in his pack, and finds his chalk bag and shoes. Then, as I watch, Scout lopes away from the car and into the trees. He鈥檚 not going to climb the Nose or Dawn Wall, but he鈥檚 letting himself run, disappearing into the distance, where he鈥檒l find a boulder. He鈥檒l let himself climb, forgetting about me and about feeling uncomfortable and about his future. And when he returns, he鈥檒l be flushed. Flushed with something that鈥檚 only his to name, but it鈥檚 clearly a new emotion on this trip, and maybe in his life.

It鈥檚 so good that I almost want to end our story with it. But we have one more item on our tick list: our backpacking trip to Chain Lakes. We bid goodbye to the park. We start our hike. And something has changed.

All the way to camp, Scout leads the way. When I start to feel down鈥攂ecause I do, letting myself churn over the scary world awaiting my son鈥攈e elevates me in the same way I try to elevate him. When we get to the first lake, I'm tired, so Scout sets up camp, cooks, and then sits with me, looking at the water.

There鈥檚 an island out in the middle, shaded by trees and dotted with boulders. Features on the island are reflected perfectly in the water. As we stare, Scout says, 鈥淭here鈥檚 the thing, the reflection of the thing, and no thing.鈥�

I don鈥檛 know if this is right, but it sounds like a Japanese koan, a riddle or puzzle Zen Buddhists use to untangle truths about the world and themselves.

It must be something he picked up from Japhy or Ray, who are literally here with us. I lift them out of my pack, and we read a little Dharma Bums before drifting into a soft, quiet, wilderness-induced sleep.

The next morning, neither of us feel like staying here, because we were so jazzed by the last place. First, we hike to a lake, and I watch Scout leap from enormous glacial rocks into the Sierra snowmelt鈥揻illed water. We sit together, eat lunch, and then pack up and leave. We hike out, returning to Yosemite Valley and the moment where Scout embraced his power. We head to Camp 4 and climb for a good long while to the top of Yosemite Falls.

There, standing beside Scout and looking out onto the gleaming valley, I can almost see his future.

Tracy Ross is an NMA聽award winning writer, author of The Source of All Things.聽She lives with her family at 8,000 feet in the mountains above Boulder, Colorado. Dylan Fant () is an illustrator living in聽Burlington, Vermont.