Pulling up in the pick-up truck in the heart of the Ozark National Park, Arkansas, I was off on a hike with my grandparents Jay, now 85, and Joyce, now 80.
I was only six, and while I don’t remember loads, it was my first time visiting the park.
My grandparents – who I called Mimi and Pop – picked me up from my parents Steve, 56, and Kelly, 56, one early morning in April 2001.
With the park an hour’s drive away, I remember being grumpy about being up early.
While I loved spending time with them, this was our first big hike together.
I had a typical relationship with Mimi and Pop.
They didn’t live too far from me and would frequently take me on fun days out.
And this time, the idea was to look at the blooming wildflowers in the Ozarks, while we hiked in the forest.
Members of the Sierra Club, my grandparents would regularly meet other conservationists to go out walking with.
A warm day, I left
