When we lived in Arizona, a friend and I joined my dad and another schoolteacher, Mr. O'Bannon, in a Jeep trip into the Mojave mountains. Old mines were located in the mountains, and very crude roads led to them. At one point, we traveled a narrow section of road with a ravine on the right side of the Jeep. We three passengers hung on the outside of the Jeep, on the left against the rocky hillside, trying to add some weight to hold the Jeep down.

We also ventured into an old mine. We got in a ways, it was very dark, and we came to an ominously dark shaft in the middle of the tunnel--basically, just a hole spanning much of the tunnel's width. We skirted around it carefully, hugging the wall, ever cognizant of the fact that a misstep or an unexpected rattlesnake could send us plummeting downward.

I remember thinking that it was neat that Dad let me, a junior higher, his first-born, join the adults in creeping around that shaft. He didn't say, "Steve, you wait here. Don't go any further." No, he let me come. Maybe that was a bit stupid of him, I don't know. But to me, at that age, it was neat. Like he trusted me to take care of myself. I also remember being scared out of my gourd as I hugged the wall, stepping sideways and wondering just how deep that dark, dark shaft went. Scared, but exhilarated.

I suspect we never told Mom about any of this.