My mother's enjoyment of the great outdoors consisted of a lounge chair, a glass of chilled lemonade, and a saucy pulp fiction novel. She was almost too easy to annoy. But Mom had a counterplan. She knew exactly how to deal with the boredom of an energetic young boy. She set a loose perimeter around our campsite, one she could monitor from behind her cat-eye sunglasses. I was allowed to explore and investigate whatever dark hole or crevice I could find. With a sturdy stick, a Cracker Jack magnifying glass, and a well-fed imagination, I became Charles Leakey, Henry M. Stanley, and Neil Armstrong for an entire weekend.

Dashing about, I dug up bugs, tracked squirrels, and caught lizards and snakes (Dad luckily once rescued me from a baby rattler I had cornered). To my utter joy, and Mom's chagrin, Dad even suggested I inspect the mushy remnants of his gutted catch. Hard to top that for an inquisitive 10-year-old boy.

Whether or not they knew it, my parents' encouragement to jump knee-deep into the great outdoors with my senses flaring inspired my everlasting passion and respect for the wilderness. Today that seems to be an odd notion. While there are many adventure groups for kids, including the historic Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and their newer incarnations, most specialize in weekend recreational trips or weeklong camps that rely heavily on structured curriculums. Their camps are for horseback riding, snow skiing, or hiking. All good physical exercise, no doubt, but hardly conducive to fostering an interest in nature's grandeur.

On the next trip, I decided, there would be time for my daughter Kimi to have her own time in the same way I had camping with my folks. In truth, I had no idea if she cared much for the outdoors or was simply going along with her dad. She might be as adventurous as Lewis and Clark's Sacagawea or a reincarnation of Madonna's material girl. All I knew for certain was that by leaving our outdoor toys behind, I ran the risk of being trapped in the wilds with a bored 8-year-old. Not my idea of a fun weekend. I also knew that no matter how carefully one tries for spontaneity, it never comes out ... well, spontaneous.

I needed a plan, not a strict plan, but at least a well-laid-out scheme. Mom somehow pulled it off. Old serving spoons had became hand shovels, canning jars were transformed into collecting bottles, and a shoebox with a few holes in the lid became a makeshift cage for horned toads and turtles.