It was a Sunday and I was with my mom in a mall. Mom is short. It is easy to overlook her in a crowd because she is nothing extraordinary to see.

We walked down the mall, glancing at windows briefly because we both knew we wouldn’t buy much, like always. I remember I was looking up at the people we passed — at first indifferently, but then attentively. Ladies wore five-inch heels and bright clothing. Men strode (阔步行走) by smelling of perfume.

An uneasy feeling started to settle in my chest. I tried to push it out, but once it took root it refused to be tossed away. I could not deny it; I was ashamed of my mother.

We were in a high-class neighborhood, I knew that. We lived in a small, overpriced apartment building that mom chose to move to because she knew the schools were good. But as I scrutinized the passers-by and then turned accusing eyes on Mom, I realized for the first time that we didn’t belong there.

I could see the heavy lines around Mom’s eyes and mouth. She wore cheap, ragged clothes. Her eyes were tired from working long hours to make ends meet and her hair too gray for her age.

I looked at her, and I was ashamed. My mom is nothing extraordinary, yet at that moment she stood out because she was just so plain.

I didn’t want to be seen with her. Just then, pointing to a sweater in a high-end store, mom said, “This will look good on you. Do you want it?” I almost agreed, thoughtlessly. Then I took a closer look at the small, weary woman and my words died in my throat. Her clothes were old because she spent money buying me new ones. She looked tired because she was busy working to provide for me. She didn’t wear jewelry because she was just content with me.

Suddenly, Mother was beautiful and extraordinarily wonderful in my eyes.

I was no longer ashamed of her, but of myself.

“No, thanks.” I said.

Last year, on report card day, my son and a bunch of his 13-year-old friends piled into the back seat of my car, ready for the last-day-of-school party at McDonald’s. “Jack got a laptop for getting straight A’s, and Laurie got a cell phone,” one boy said. “Oh, yeah, and Sarah got an iPod Nano, and she’s only in third grade,” said another. “And how about Brian? He got $10 for each A.”

I suddenly became concerned. These payoffs might get parents through grammar school, but what about high school and beyond? What would be left after the electric guitar, the cell phone, and the portable laptop?

I saw the road ahead: As the homework load increased, my income would decrease. I saw my comfortable lifestyle vanish before my eyes — no more of those $5 bags of already-peeled organic carrots. No more organic anything!

I started to feel surprised and nervous. Would every goal attained by my two children fetch a reward? A high grade point average? A good class ranking? Would sports achievements be included in this reward system: soccer goals, touchdowns（橄榄球触地得分）, runs-batted-in（棒球打点得分）? What about orchestra（管弦乐团）? Would first chair pay more than second? I’d be penniless by eighth-grade graduation.

“We never paid anything for good grades,” said my neighbor across the street, whose son was recently accepted at MIT. “He just did it on his own. Maybe once in a while we went out for pizza, but that’s about it.”

Don’t you just hate that? We’re all running around looking for the latest electronic products, and she’s spending a few dollars on pizza. She gets motivation; we get negotiation.

As intros to backpacking go, this might be pushing it. At noon on a brilliant Tuesday in March, my 12-year-old son Kai and I are a mile and a half into a four-day, 27-mile walk through the Grand Canyon—his first backpacking trip—when he asks, “Are we almost to camp?, Um, no. Camp, at Hermit Creek, is seven miles and nearly 2,500 feet below, that will take us several more hours.

We are here largely because of a birthday note Kai wrote to me two years ago in which he declared, “You used to be a wild 10-year-old like me and now you’re a wild 53-year-old. We can do so many things together! I am excited for when I’m old enough for the Grand Canyon.”

There are, I suppose, dads who could resist that, just as there are fathers who would plan an experience-appropriate trip for their sons. I am neither, so here we are. Never mind that; aside from simply being 12, Kai has done almost nothing to physically prepare for this. Or that I haven’t backpacked for 13 years.

We go down a poorly maintained path off the canyon with twisty trees and twining bushes. Gradually the view broadens, the landscape in Vishnu fascinates Kai greatly. “This place is amazing,” he says. Nightfall in the canyon can be magical. Darkness surrounds us, pressed by cool air. Hearing the sound of a waterfall, we lie down to take in the stars. Twice I suggest we turn in. “Not yet,” Kai says. “This is too unbelievable.”

Wednesday, we travel three miles to Monument Creek, and hike a mile and 1,000 feet down to the Colorado River. The next morning a t 7:30 when we march out, I’m optimistic, and Kai sets a quick pace. Friday, we rise before dawn and are the first ones out of camp; for an hour we have the Bright Angel Trail and its soaring (高耸的) scenery to ourselves.

In that birthday card, Kai had also written, “Even when you’re 100, you will always be wild.” Nice. If I’m lucky enough to make it there, it looks like I’ll have company.