Family and Philmont

 This is my unfinished personal narrative.

    The breeze lightly swept my face on that mild summer day, as we continued the gruesome hike across the New Mexican mountains. The day was a beautiful one, garnished by birds chirping and the sounds of authentic wildlife. A ninety mile hike had never seemed so hard, and yet so peaceful. Fortunately, water bottles were available and none of us were deathly ill, yet.
    Our scout troop from San Antonio, Texas had decided two years earlier to go to Philmont High Adventure Camp. We had prepared over those two years for a two week hiking extravaganza that would soon kick our butts. Averaging 7.5 miles with a 40 pound backpack would prove a lot harder than it seemed.
    In our troop, there were 5 scouts that attended and 3 leaders, all ranging in abilities and athleticism. Some were marathon runners while others played the trumpet. One was a weight lifter while another was an accountant. From San Antonio to Philmont, we drove from 700 to 10,000 feet above sea level in elevation. Altitude sickness would be a key player in the trek.
    “Bishop, I’m not feeling too good,” is never what a boy wants to hear from his father, especially at the beginning of a 90 mile hiking adventure. I idly sat by and listened as my Dad and my bishop who happened to be a physician spoke. Mumbles came, and at the end, I heard the words “altitude sickness.” My father suffered the whole trek with a sickness that couldn’t be cured. One day ended up especially bad.
    We had been hiking since five a.m. and now it was noon. The Sun was beating down and one of the scouts had wimped out, refusing to go any further with his backpack, so the rest of us split up his stuff and carried his pack for him. The steep incline of the mountain had seemed especially difficult this day, as we had no downward hike. Brandon and Marshall had gone ahead, leaving me about 100 yards back and the rest of them close behind. The water supply had been exhausted and we found ourselves in a bit of a tight spot. I was all alone, walking and thinking of girls left at home. Time seemed to stand still as I reflected on my sixteen year old life...
    ...Where were the others? Reality set in as I found myself completely alone. Looking up and down the path, I could see no one. I couldn’t catch up to Brandon and Marshall, so I decided to backtrack down the mountain to find the others. After about ten minutes of descending, I found them. They were towards the side of the path with what looked like a tarp covering one of them. As I walked closer, I found that my dad was on the ground under the tarp. His eyes were closed and I knew something was wrong.
    “What happened to my Dad,” I asked with a trembling voice. Bishop Parsons spoke up, “he is... well...” My mind raced for the worst. Had something tragic happened? Was he still alive? Reality set in as the bishop finished his sentence.
    “He is resting from the altitude sickness, but we are severely out of water. Do you have any?” My mind raced as I thought about my primary water supply. “I don’t have much, but you can have it.”