A Tender Moment

My father never told me how he really felt. It took me decades to realize that he never had to.

Every muscle in my body ached. I was overheated, blistered raw where my backpack’s shoulder straps dug into my bony collarbones, and very thirsty.

My father, brother and I, along with about a dozen other members of Boy Scout Troop 75, had backpacked to a fairly remote campsite in Upper Bear Creek, located in Southern California’s San Gabriel Wilderness. Although, at age 10, I wasn’t yet old enough to be a Boy Scout, my brother had joined the troop one year earlier, and I was invited along for the weekend adventure.

Within a half mile of leaving the trailhead, however, my “adventure” had become somewhat of a death march.

The trail we’d taken crossed swollen, fast-running Bear Creek at least a dozen times as we ascended our way past the sage scrub, chaparral, ponderosa pines and coast live oaks that populated the region. Between my far-too-heavy backpack, the blown-out sneakers that offered little support when negotiating the slick rocks found at every creek crossing, the unremitting July heat, and the fast pace set by the older, stronger boys, our three-mile jaunt felt more like 50 when I finally dumped my pack and collapsed onto the tarp my dad had spread out at our campsite.

“Let’s go get some water,” Dad said a few minutes later. “Drink a little, and you’ll feel better.”

Offering a strong arm, he helped me to my feet and we ambled our way toward a stand of ferns flourishing in the shade offered by two white alders that arched out over the creek. Dad was right. Within minutes of filling our canteens and drinking the cool, clean water, I felt rejuvenated.

We sat next to each other, blissfully cooling our bare feet in the creek and gazing up at the alders’ leaves, which danced and shimmered in the late-afternoon light as creek water sighed and gurgled over nearby rocks.

Then my father did something he’d never done before, something he’d never again do for the rest of his life: He put his arm around me.

I briefly twitched in shock at this new experience. What the hell is happening?

Then, as his fingers began to caress my shoulder, I felt an odd blend of confusion and tranquility.

I instinctively knew that my father felt the same. I sensed his apprehension, his hesitation. And beneath my confused state, I admired him for the risk he’d taken by expressing himself in this manner, something men of his era often avoided.

Dad and I spent a few awkwardly wonderful minutes together, two imperfect souls wordlessly connecting in a beautiful slice of paradise.

We soon stood and headed back to set up our campsite.

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Forty-three years later, I sat in a chair next to my father, who lay in bed dying of an aggressive form of melanoma that had ravaged his body. He spent most of his time sleeping, waking up to let me give him a sip of water, occasionally mumbling something I couldn’t quite understand.

“What did you say, Dad?” I asked, confused.

I then felt compelled to do something I’d never done before: I gently took his hand in mine, feeling what he must’ve felt when he’d risked placing his arm around his young son so many decades earlier.

Once Dad fell back asleep, snoring lightly, I went outside to unwind, take in some fresh air and try to process what had just happened. My mom met me just outside the front door about five minutes later.

Looking up at me and smiling through the pain of impending loss, she said, “Your father just told me something you should know.”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Tell Larry I love him very, very much.’”

His mumbled words, those words I couldn’t quite comprehend ...

Part of me had always known that my father loved me, ever since he’d taken a chance and put his arm around his young son at Bear Creek so many years earlier.

Dad, wherever you are, I hope you understand this: The feeling is mutual.

Kudos and hugs to Dana Allen, Matt Cyr, Kathy Ayers and Genie Joseph, who provided valuable feedback while this essay was being written.