It's Hard to Save Face Properly when You Are 1200 Miles from Home

When our oldest daughter was barely 16, we took a trip to Nazko, British Columbia, in Canada, 1200 miles from our home.

Our family of 5 was heading home in our Volkswagon Van, tired, but happy to have had a good visit with our friends in Nazko. At night when we stopped to camp, each of our three girls had a job assigned to her; two unloaded a large chest with our camp stove and cooking supplies, and the other unbolted and removed the back seat so cots could be set up for sleeping later in the evening. I started preparing the evening meal while my husband hooked our van up to electricity, when it was available, and water.

One morning, the 16-year-old decided she was tired of seat duty and wanted to trade jobs with her two younger sisters. An argument ensued, and when their father got involved, the oldest let him know that she considered removing and replacing the back seat far beneath her talents, and that she didn't want to do it any more. He reminded her that we all had our jobs to do, and, probably unwisely, told her that if she didn't want to cooperate as part of the family, she knew where the road was. (There was a little more to the argument than that, but you get the general idea.)

In a tiff, she packed her suitcase, and headed out of the campground. Of course, I pleaded for him to run after her and bring her back before she ended up hopelessly lost in this terrible wilderness. He assured me that she was just testing us and would be waiting down the road as soon as we drove out of the campground, which, incidentally, had no other campers. In fact, we had not even seen any cars for miles before we had turned in to camp the night before.

We finished packing the car, a little faster than usual, loaded up and headed toward home. A mile passed, two, and then three, before this mother gave way to hysterics. I was absolutely sure our oldest child had been kidnapped was on her way to a horrible death. After mile 5, my husband became concerned, too, and turned the car around.

Back past the entrance to the campground we went, with two little sisters sobbing along with their mother, by now, and Dad trying not to show how worried he was getting.

Finally, about a mile and a half back toward Nazko was our stubborn daughter, marching along with her suitcase looking for all the world as if she knew exactly where she was going.

We pulled up beside her, and my husband said, "Want to ride for a while?" She answered, "Sure, why not?" and climbed in beside her sisters.

We all started talking about the visit to Nazko, the things we were planning to see on the way home, and what we were going to have for lunch; not a word about the argument was uttered then or ever.

When we stopped that night, our hiking daughter picked up the wrench and unbolted the back seat, even humming a song as she worked.