Tomorrow afternoon is the start of a three day weekend. Officially because of Columbus Day, but I refuse to acknowledge that. The man was a genocidal whack job. Just because he happened to stumble into the Americas and make it back to Europe alive doesn’t make him a hero. It doesn’t excuse the atrocities he committed.

But that’s not really relevant right now. What is relevant is that my dad and I always go camping on this weekend. Every year for as long as I remember. Of all the stereotypical father-son bonding activities he’s made us do over the years, this is the one I actually enjoy. I look forward to it.

Sure I complain occasionally, but I like spending time with my dad. He’s not exactly cool, but he is smart. He has some pretty funny stories from his own childhood (like the one about the fish in the well), and he listens to me.

I was worried we wouldn’t go this year. He hasn’t tried to get me to play catch since I came out to him. He hasn’t tried to get me to help on the car. We haven’t done much of anything together in a month. But yesterday he asked me if I was still up for camping. He had the campsite reserved and paid for, but if I didn’t want to go, he had a friend who would probably want to use it.

“Of course I want to go!” I don’t quite shout, “This is lucky number thirteen.”

I watch his face. Is he disappointed that I didn’t back out? Happy? I can’t tell. It’s always been hard to read him, and it’s just gotten harder, lately. I’m going to assume he is happy about it.

“Unless you don’t want to go . . . “ I say.

“No, no. Of course I do, if you do.”

“For goodness sake, you two,” Mom breaks in, “You both want to go. Just go.”

Sometimes she’s handy to have around.

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We’re pulling out of the driveway Friday afternoon when it hits me. I can’t go away for a whole weekend.

Alex.

Crap.

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Okay. I can make this work. Surprisingly, Dad agreed when I told him I needed to swing by the store where Alex works. I said I’d forgotten to give him back a text book I’d borrowed. As lies go, it’s pretty small. Of course, if seeing them once right now and then Sunday evening isn’t good enough, I’ll still be stuck.

“Is Alex here?” I ask Tim.

He’s the owner, it turns out. Supposedly he has an employee (Alex doesn’t count, being an intern and all), but I’ve never seen them.

“She’s in the back,” he says.

Sure enough, they are.

I give them the quick run down of my problem. The important question is, will they be okay with me gone for the weekend.

“Sadly, no,” Alex says. “I don’t think it will work.”

“Shit.”

“Why don’t I just come with you?”

No. I explain that this is a tradition almost as old as I am. That it’s always been just me and Dad. That things are already tense enough between us. There’s got to be a way.

“How far away is it?”

“A little under two hours.”

“All right, I have a plan.”

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“Did you get Alex his book?” Dad asks.

“Yeah. I just want to stick this in the trunk. Would you pop it, please?”

“This” is a box. One that used to hold a couple of reams of paper. Now it holds assorted junk from the recycling bin in the store. Tim now believes that I am working on a dadaist art project.

“What do you have there?”

“Some stuff Alex gave me.” Vague. I know. I’m counting on our recent lack of communication to carry me through this one. Dad shrugs and pops the trunk. Whew.

My Dad’s phone rings inside the car. As soon as he starts he looks down to find it, step two of the plan starts. The really bad plan. Worst plan ever. But it’s all I’ve got.

I close the trunk.

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We actually talk some on the drive. Mainly just nostalgia stuff. We’ve done this so many times that we have a ton of stories. Dad’s favorite is the one where I thought the tent was about to be overrun by wild pigs. The grunting from outside was so loud. And then there was the crashing sound. But, it turned out to be a family of raccoons that had managed to get into our ice chest by shoving the large rock we had used to hold it closed off the chest, onto the concrete pad.

The first few years we hadn’t really roughed it. We’d stayed in a tent, sure. But we set up the tent next to a little shaded structure with a picnic table. There was even a concrete pad for the tent.

Since I was nine, though, we’ve been hiking to our site, once we reached the park. It’s not a huge hike, right around three miles, but when you’re carrying a full pack, that seems like a lot. Luckily for Alex’s plan, that means we don’t bring all that much stuff.

Before we can hike in, though, we have to check in at the park office. When we pull into a spot, I tell Dad to go on in. I want to stretch my legs. The moment the door closes, I head to the driver’s side of the car, reach in, and pop the trunk. Before I can reach the back, Alex is climbing out.

“This way,” I say, leading them around to the back of the office, where the bathrooms are.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to find a place to sleep?”

“I’m not sure I can move.”

“This was your plan.”

“I know,” they look around, “I’ll probably just sleep in there.” They indicate the office, “If they don’t have a cot, I can sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure you can get in?”

They pull a paperclip from behind their right ear and show it to me.

“Okay, sure,” I say, “We’ll definitely be climbing the big rock first thing in the morning. That’s what we always do. You think you can find me?”

They just look at me.

“Right.”

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Dad and I don’t talk on the hike to the campsite. It’s not an especially tough hike, but it’s tradition. We just enjoy the experience. I do point out the roadrunner that I spot, and I think I see a coyote, but I only get a glimpse, and I can’t be sure. We make good time, and are done setting up our tents by noon, and lean back in our camp chairs to enjoy the sandwiches we picked up on the way in.

The silence lasts as long as the sandwiches, and a little bit longer.

“Why not?” my Dad asks.

Now I realize why that thing Alex does doesn’t bother me as much as it should. I’m used to it. He waits patiently while I process the question. It takes a minute, but I rewind to the last thing I said to him the night of the conversation. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to transition.” Oh.

I don’t know why he’s asking. I gave him the reasons. I’m too old. I’m too tall. I’ve got facial hair. My voice is too deep. It’s too late.

“I told you. It’s—”

“It’s not too late,” he interrupts, “That’s an excuse. Now, really, why not?”

He’s barely talked to me for a month, and this is what he has to go with? I don’t understand what he even means. Those are excuses? No, they’re the reasons. Good reasons. I tell him that.

He shakes his head, “Fewer than five percent of trans women start transitioning by the age of eighteen.”

“What?”

“The latest stats I could find are a little out of date, but I doubt that that’s more than doubled, so feel free to call it ten percent.”

He’s been researching this?

“There are quite a few famous models six foot tall and over. Now a little under 1% of American women are over five feet, ten inches, but being an outlier isn’t that bad. Also, some women shrink by as much as an inch once they start hormone replacement therapy.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond.

“Don’t be too proud of that beard of yours, a few sessions of laser and it could be gone completely. And your voice? It’s not that deep, and if you can’t raise it with voice training, there are surgical options, if you want them. Not that they’re necessary. Many women have deep voices.”

“But . . .” I just trail off.

“You’re smart. You could have researched all this. Did you?”

“Maybe a little. Mainly I read discussions online.”

“Let me guess, a bunch of other teens talking about how it was too late for them?”

“Well, some.”

“Mostly?”

“Maybe.”

He gets up, “Let’s gather some firewood.”

I follow him into the brush. It’s against the rules in the park to build a ground fire. I think it’s technically any ash-producing fire, but we haven’t gotten in trouble before. We’re always super careful, and in dry years we haven’t built one. That’s not an issue this time. The ground is still almost muddy in places from recent storms. Thinking about this, and looking for the firewood, lets me not think about our discussion for a few minutes, But only for a few minutes.

I’m trying to process what my dad said, but every time I think about a specific part of it, it’s like my mind bounces off a forcefield. I try from different angles, but it’s no good. It’s too confusing. Too unexpected. Too much.

I keep coming back to one thing. The thing that wasn’t explicitly said. I think I know the answer to this question, but I’m afraid to ask. What if he doesn’t give the answer I want? What is the answer I want? Another forcefield is isolating me from the answer to that one. Maybe if I hear the answer, I’ll know then if it’s the one I wanted. I guess I need to find out.

As we walk back into our amp with a couple of armfuls of firewood, I speak, “So, you’d be okay if I did transition?”

He puts down the firewood before he speaks. He looks at me, and I can’t read the expression on his face. Hurt? Confusion? Doubt? Just say something!

“You’re my child,” he finally says, “I have always told you I will love you no matter what. This doesn’t change that. Nothing will. Nothing can. If you decide to transition, I will love you just the same,”

“But do you want me to?”

“I want you to do what it takes to make you feel whole.”

I think that’s the answer I wanted to hear, but I keep pressing.

“So if I started taking hormones tomorrow, you’d be okay with that?”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course not. —”

“So you’re not okay with it.” I knew it.

“What? You know better than to put words in my mouth. What I was trying to say is that it’s a big decision, and before you make it, I want you to see a therapist.”

“To talk me out of it?”

He sighs. “What have I said to make you think that’s what I want?”

Nothing really. It’s just . . . Well, I don’t know. I look for words.

“Why are you being so reasonable about this? So logical?”

“Have you met me? I’m pretty sure you have, what with me being your dad and all.”

Okay. Point to him.

“Like I said,” he continues,”this is a big step. But it’s not a bad one. There’s nothing wrong with being transgender, it’s just who you are. And there’s nothing wrong with being the best you you can be.”

I sit down in one of the camp chairs. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. Or climbed up and down the big rock four times in a row nonstop. I have no idea what to say.

“So, do you want to see a therapist? Start figuring this stuff out?”

I nod, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, “You’ve got an appointment after school on Tuesday. If you don’t like her, I’ve got a couple of others lined up to try.”

I’m barely holding back tears. I can’t believe this. Why didn’t I tell him years ago? Before it was— No. It isn’t too late. Maybe. I take deep breaths until the tears stop threatening.

“So, I assume you’ve thought about a name?”

The tears come pouring out.

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While I was sobbing, my dad gave me some space. He does seem to know me pretty well. He lets me know he’ll be back in time for dinner, and sets off on a solo hike. That’s routine for us, at least since I’ve been old enough for him to trust me on my own out here. Routine helps.

While he’s gone I prepare a fire circle. There’s a clear area easily twenty-five feet across, but I give it another pass, making sure there’s nothing to catch and spread a fire. Then I arrange stones for the circle itself. Only a couple feet across. We never make a big fire out here. Just a little one. We cook over a kerosene stove, but neither of us can stand marshmallow roasted over one.

By the time Dad gets back, I have dinner going. It’s just canned chili, some sliced bell peppers, and a chunk of cornbread each. We once again eat in silence. We don’t speak more than a word or two at a time until it’s finally time to crawl into our tents for the night. We like to be up by dawn.

“Goodnight Dad,” I say, “Thank you.”

“Goodnight. You’re welcome.”

I tuck into my sleeping bag. But there’s one more thing I have to say.

“Maggie. It’s short for Magdalena.”

“Goodnight Maggie.”

I drift off to sleep crying. And smiling.

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As usual for these trips, we eat breakfast in silence. Like so much of the tradition we have going, I’m not sure why that started. We talk (or used to, anyway) all the time during meals at home. But out here, our meals are quiet, other than the occasional request to pass the salt.

Since I cleaned up dinner, Dad cleans up breakfast. While he does that, I take my own solo hike, to find a private place behind a tree or a boulder. I go a little farther than absolutely necessary to give myself time to think. It’s a beautiful morning. Chilly, but not cold. There’s still dew on a lot of the leaves.

By the time I get back, Dad’s done cleaning up, and I’m ready to talk.

“I guess I was scared.”

After a minute or so considering this, Dad nods. “You were scared, or you are scared?”

“Both, I guess. I was scared of how you and Mom would react. I don’t think I’m scared of that any more,’ I give him a little grin. A look I can’t read flits across his face at that. I continue, “But what if I’m ugly? What if I always look like a guy in drag? What if I never find somebody? What—”

He holds up his hand. “That’s a lot of what ifs. And I can’t promise that all or any of those won’t happen. But what if they don’t? Good things rarely come without risks. Sometimes big ones. You just have whether you want the reward enough to take those risks.”

I know that. And I guess I decided that they weren’t. But I’m not so sure, now. Something has changed. Knowing that my parents will still be there for me, will still support me, makes all the difference. Maybe I can do this.

“I think I do.”

He nods again.

We don’t talk about it anymore that day.

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That afternoon, I wander away from him a bit while we’re ascending the big rock. I’m unsurprised to find Alex waiting for me behind an outcropping. We sit for a few minutes, not even speaking. As they stroll away, I realize something. I’m not mad at them anymore. Huh.

The next day, Dad and I take a long, mostly level hike. Once again, I run into Alex when I’m on a personal detour. Once again, we don’t speak. And that’s okay.

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Monday afternoon we break camp. I volunteer to pack our stuff into the trunk, to be sure to leave room for Alex. While I do that, I realize that we didn’t make arrangements for how they would join back up with us. That could be a problem. I’ll have to improvise and hope for the best.

When we read the park entrance I ask my Dad to park in so I can make a quick pit stop. He pulls into a parking space. I get out and head toward the bathrooms around back. Hopefully Alex will be there and we can figure something out. I hear the car window slide down behind me.

“Why don’t you tell Alex he can ride in the back seat on the way back,” Dad says, “It’ll be more comfortable.”

Well, crap. Should I deny everything? That seems sort of pointless. I guess I should deal with the fact that I’m not as sneaky as I thought. I nod to dad, “I’ll tell ‘em.”

Alex comes out from behind the office before I reach the corner. I guess they have good hearing. They look at me as if to say “Why did you tell them.” I shake my head and shrug, “I didn’t.”

Once we’re all in the car, we start the two hour drive home.

I spend so much time trying to figure out what to say to my Dad that we’re home before I come up with anything. I guess I don’t need to.