Shame on me for laughing at my little girl. This hurt her feelings. To right a wrong, I quickly added that we couldn't take a day off, as we were to meet Grandfather at Lost Lake. I promised her a scene right off of a calendar. The image of the deep waters of this lake reflecting the shimmer of Mt. Hood, framed by blossoming rhododendrons, is a perennial favorite.

On our way again, we descended into a deep canyon to cross the treacherous glacier fed waters of the silt laden Sandy River. We had navigated many stream crossings by now; some rather dangerous. I am mentioning this one, as the recommended procedure was absolutely unique .

A hand written note tacked to a tree instructed the hiker to head out into three foot deep rapids for a mark on the opposite shore. Halfway across, there was a hidden sand bar. Upon hitting this, the idea was to wade downstream 100 yards until even with another marker. From this point, it was a short plunge to the shallows under a steep cutbank. Here, a crude trail led the way to a break in the cliff wall, and the main path again.

Fun! Previously we had been skiing on horseback. Now we were white water kayaking. As the water was so murky we followed the footsteps of this unnamed scout, with thanks.

We also took a detour over an old trail to visit a shelter cabin near a bubbling wall of moss and dripping spring water known as Ramona Falls. This is where I had taken BJ, at age five, on his first "men only" overnight camp-out.

I didn't explain why we had left the main trail, or why I called an early lunch break. I wanted to see if Barry Jr. would remember a small boy, so tired from hiking into this spot, that he fell asleep at dinnertime, with his head resting in a plate of beans. It took BJ all of 30 seconds to realize where we were. It was the closest I had seen him come to tears on the whole trip. He put his arms about me and squeezed.

I understood this gesture very well. When I had called my father from the lodge to arrange a rendezvous, he asked if I remembered the place where we had first shook out a sleeping bag to lay under a blanket of stars.

After nearly 25 years, I did. It took another detour off of the main trail, that now bypasses Lost Lake. Without signs, or blazes, or markers, as a salmon migrating upstream, returning from the sea to the stream where he was born, I knew exactly where my father would be.