I don’t remember exactly how I met Peter. He was a year behind me in school, and maybe we met on a youth group day hike up Old Rag, a peak in the Appalachians that required a fair bit of rock scrambling to the top. His father was a member of the PATC (Potomac Appalachian Trail Club), helped with trail maintenance, and also had access to cabins along the trail. When Peter asked if I wanted to go on their family outing to Doyle River cabin for the weekend, I, knowing nothing, of course answered, “yes!”

Snow had fallen overnight, and when we arrived at Skyline, the road was closed. The trip was ruined.

It was perhaps November when we headed out to Front Royal and Skyline Drive, which winds along the ridgeline of the low Appalachians. The cabin was supposed to be just a short walk from the road, where we would spend the night and hike a bit before returning the next day. But no. Snow had fallen overnight, and when we arrived at Skyline, the road was closed. The trip was ruined.

But Peter’s dad, Phil, was not giving up. He had a carful of kids aged 6 to 16, plus supplies; I think his wife had wisely decided not to come. Phil was a man of few words but silent determination. There must be another way. The map came out, calculations were made, and many miles later we ended up in a valley by a dirt trail that he figured ought to connect with the cabin, after some unclear distance of trekking of uphill. I couldn’t believe we were really doing this. It was nothing my own family would even consider.

This was also before the sports industrial complex boomed, before gortex and ergonomic packs and gear, but I was unequipped even by standards of the day. My winter boots were thin street wear, with no tread, and they quickly soaked through. I had a suitcase. The six-year old lugged one too. I must have borrowed a sleeping bag. Among other supplies, we ferried a big sack with a large and heavy metal Mongolian pepper pot up a very long, very steep trail, which gradually led into the snow line where we then slipped as we trudged and panted. I think only my youth saved me.

Hours later, in the fading daylight, we reached the cabin, cold, dim and basic, with an outhouse in the snow. In that unpromising destination, somehow Coleman lanterns with mysterious kerosene wicks were lit and a fire started. Phil had grown up in China, and the pepper pot was his idea. We filled it with snow water to boil. Oops, we didn’t have soy sauce. Ketchup will do. Oops, no bean paste—peanut butter will do. I have no idea what we finally threw together, but it was hot and delicious in the way only improvised camp food can be, and we all laughed together.

The next morning, the snow had melted. Skyline Drive, now cleared for traffic, was indeed steps away from the cabin. But, of course, the car was at the bottom of the hill, so we ended up with a righteous hike both up and down through the woods. He said nothing, but as we finally piled back in for the ride home, I imagine Phil might have felt satisfied that he had successfully improvised and salvaged the trip. In any case, it impressed me as I learned what a little knowledge, persistence and invention could do.

Peter and I went on to do lots of hikes, canoe trips and bike rides over the next couple of years, including more misadventures–all of which we survived. We stayed friends. I remember standing on a bridge over a creek in the Shenandoahs, with the sun shining down as we rested before heading on the next trail section. The moment was perfect. We were never romantically involved, but we laughed and were good company, willing companions. I loved him for being my friend.