What would Sir Edmund Hillary do?

The weekend weather made it feel more like early March than mid-January. We promised ourselves that we'd spend as much time as we could outside, enjoying the spring-like weather. Unfortunately, the exigencies of Saturday errands and the vagaries of Samson's nap schedule left us with less time than we planned. Also, there was a grand opening at a bookstore at the market in our neighborhood. But we did have lunch outside. Under an awning, but still.

[And Vicki did find time to put on her dirndl and rock out Alpine-style in celebration of the good weather. Amazing how much she looks like a young Julie Andrews isn't it?]

But this left me on Sunday feeling like it was some kind of moral imperative that we get outside. I didn't quite reach Clark-Griswold-at-the-gates-of-Wally-World status, but I was close.

Accordingly, I thought we could go hiking. It's been a while, however, since Sam has been in the backpack, so I figured we could do a trial run in the house. [Sidenote: I hate being the guy at the trailhead trying to mollify the screaming toddler in his backpack while acknowledging the various concerned/horrified looks of other trail users. It makes me feel all Mile Zero. And I'm pretty sure that Samson actually enjoys being out in the woods in the pack; it's just getting him into it that he's not crazy about.]

Anyway, I had Vicki help me get Samson situated in the backpack, but, for some reason, I decided to lift it differently than I usually do.

Bad idea.

The metal legs that support the pack when not in use moved in as I picked the pack up --- which they are supposed to do --- but I hadn't tightened my shoulder strap enough and Samson slid back fast. I caught him before he hit the floor, but I imagine the experience of being trapped in a falling object and hearing your parents simultaneously yelling "whoa, whoa, whoa!" is fairly stressful. Mind you, I was kneeling at this point, so he was only about six inches off the ground.

Even so, he cried. A lot.

To be fair, he probably needed a nap anyway. He'd been up early and had yet to submit to our entreaties to get him in his crib. But I felt like a heel. What made it worse was that he kept looking at the pack, shaking his head, and saying "no, no, bye-bye, bye-bye."

In any event, we ended up bagging the whole hiking idea. He never did nap, but we hit the playground later, where we played with some trucks in the sandbox and shared (mostly) with a few other Tonka enthusiasts. So the day wasn't a total wash.

Hopefully, I haven't instilled in him a mortal fear of the backpack. Or created some kind of rosebud fixation that he'll carry with him for decades to come. Citizen Samson, indeed.

I mean, it's not like I'm this guy (rest his soul) or that I'm going to get all Great Santini on Samson to turn him into one of these guys. But it would be nice when spring finally does arrive to be able to hit the trail without a) terrifying my son or b) giving him an object lesson in physics.

Part of me thinks that by now he's probably forgotten all about it. The other part of me (the part which has yet to put the pack away) watched him give it a wide berth tonight as he made his way from the living room to the kitchen.

Stay tuned...