Intro

Freedom arrives in stages. My first came in kindergarten, when I was allowed to walk home from school by myself, remembered mostly because I dawdled in the woods until my mother freaked out and came to find me, storm clouds of fear over her head. After that came learning to ride a bike. Then “just be home when the street lights come on.” Then, gloriously, getting a driver’s license.

Last summer, my son graduated from high school, yet another stage, and in August, during those precious last weeks before college, he asked me to recommend a camping spot—not too far from home, and somewhere with fresh water, big pine trees, no people, and plenty of room to drive, hike, and pitch a tent. For days we went back and forth. He wasn’t happy with any of my suggestions, and I grew to feel that he wanted something I couldn’t provide, or that maybe no one could. Finally, I said—you know, I think you’re just