The Moms Who Showed Us the Way

The First Adventures I Remember

My mom used to pack a lunch in our backpack, and we’d go across the street to the vacant lot to roast marshmallows and cowboy camp under the stars. We’d never make it much past dark, but in our minds, we had been gone for days.

This was back in a time when light pollution was virtually nonexistent, and the whip-poor-wills would sing all night.

Another great memory was driving across the country in the Impala with the popup camper in tow and stopping at roadside picnic areas, the kind you can still find on roads like Highway 70 in Texas, outside of Lubbock. We’d stop, and Mom would open the glove compartment, which folded down like a tray with cup holders, and make about four sandwiches from a small can of deviled ham. They were really more like meat-flavored bread, but with a slice of cheese and a pickle, we thought we had a full meal.

Those were the kinds of times you can’t wipe from your memory, even though I was only four years old.

• Robert, CEO

The Spaces Mom Created, The Person I Became

Mother’s Day has always felt a little different to me, not just a celebration, but a quiet reflection on how much of who I am was shaped somewhere between a campground, a campfire, and the steady influence of my mom.

Some of my earliest memories start in a truck camper, packed tight with just enough space for the essentials and a family figuring it out as we went. Before long, we upgraded to a 22-foot travel trailer, what felt like pure luxury at the time. Air conditioning, a bit more room to breathe, and just enough comfort to blur the line between “camping” and “home.” That upgrade said a lot about my mom.

She was never a fan of roughing it. Not then, not now. And honestly, neither am I. While the rest of us saw adventure, she often saw work. Cooking in a cramped space, planning meals, grocery shopping in unfamiliar towns during our two-month summer road trips across the U.S. and into Canada, it wasn’t exactly her version of a vacation. And she made that clear in her own way.

But she still did it. Every meal, every stop, every mile. And somewhere along the way, she reshaped what “vacation” and seeing the world meant for me.

To her, it wasn’t about squeezing in more destinations or checking off landmarks. It was about slowing down. Breathing fresh air. Letting the day unfold outdoors instead of behind a windshield or inside a store. She believed vacations should feel like a break, not just a change of location. That time should be spent soaking in scenery, watching wildlife, experiencing something different, and actually being present.

I didn’t realize it then, but I was absorbing all of that.

Eventually, life shifted. My tournament softball schedule started to take over our summers, replacing long RV road trips with weekends closer to home. The trailer found a more permanent spot by a lake at a campground in southeastern Michigan, just an hour away. And in a way, that’s where some of my favorite memories really took root.

There was a different kind of peace there.

Days were filled with swimming with our dog until the sun dipped low, horseback riding through quiet trails, and tearing around on dirt bikes with that kind of freedom you only get in the country. Days would start with the campground goats head butting our RV door for dog treats, our dog taking his rightful place on top of the picnic table, and every night, no matter what the day held, we came back together around the campfire. That’s where my mom’s influence showed up the most.

Not in big speeches or grand moments, but in the consistency of being there. Creating space for us to slow down, to connect, to just exist as a family without distractions. Even if camping wasn’t her first choice, she made sure the experience became something meaningful for all of us.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t just inherit her preferences. I inherited her perspective.

I still believe vacations shouldn’t feel like work. I still crave that balance of comfort and nature. And I still value those simple, grounded moments more than anything extravagant. That all came from her.

So when I think about Mother’s Day, I don’t just think about appreciation. I think about influence. The kind that shapes your values, your habits, and even the way you choose to spend your time.

And for me, that influence will always smell a little like campfire smoke and feel like home.

• Karen, Chief Sales Officer

Her Voice Still Guides Me

My mom never called it “outdoor education” or “character building.” She just called it “getting outside.” And for most of my childhood, that meant piling into a slightly dented station wagon with a bag of sandwiches, a mismatched set of water bottles, and a vague plan that usually started with, “Let’s see where this trail goes.”

She wasn’t the kind of parent who had all the gear or knew every species of tree. In fact, I’m pretty sure our first “hiking boots” were just old running shoes we didn’t mind getting muddy. But what she did have was a kind of steady curiosity. She believed that there was always something worth seeing just a little farther down the path. And she passed that on to us without ever making it feel like a lesson.

When my brother and I were younger, those trips felt like small adventures. We’d follow creeks, flip over rocks, argue about who spotted the first frog. She had a way of turning ordinary moments into something memorable. A fallen log became a balance beam. A clearing in the woods became the perfect place for an “important snack break.” She didn’t rush us. If anything, she slowed us down, pointing out things we would have walked right past. She’d encourage us to notice a strange pattern in the bark. Or the way the light filtered through the leaves. Or the sound of wind moving through tall grass.

Things changed when we got older. By the time I hit my early teens, life got more complicated in ways that had nothing to do with the outdoors. My parents separated, and suddenly my mom was doing everything on her own. There were more responsibilities, more stress, and a lot less time. The easy thing would have been to let those weekend trips disappear.

But she didn’t. If anything, she doubled down on the idea that getting outside mattered. Not in a forced, “we need this” kind of way, but in small, consistent efforts. A short walk after dinner. A quick drive out to a nearby trail on a Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t always convenient, and it definitely wasn’t always comfortable. I remember one trip where it rained the entire time, and we ended up eating soggy sandwiches under the trunk hatch, laughing at how unprepared we were.

Around that time, my brother and I got more involved in scouts. It started as something to do with friends, but it quickly became a bigger part of our lives. We’d participate in campouts, hikes, learning how to tie knots we’d immediately forget and then relearn. There were fees, gear lists, early mornings, and long drives to drop-offs and pickups.

Looking back, I don’t know how she managed it. Money was tighter than she ever let on. And time was even tighter. But somehow, she made it work. She found secondhand gear when she could. She asked around, borrowed things, improvized when needed. I remember one winter camp where my sleeping bag clearly wasn’t rated for the temperature. I mentioned it once, casually, and the next week she showed up with a thicker one she’d tracked down from someone at work. It wasn’t new, and it didn’t match anything else I had, but it was warm. That was her priority.

She never made a big deal out of these things. There was no speech about sacrifice or effort. Just a quiet, “You’ll need this,” as she handed it over.

What stands out most isn’t just that she supported us being in scouts and enjoying the outdoors. It’s how she treated it as something important, even when it would have been easy to dismiss. She showed up to meetings when she could. She listened to us talk about trips, even when the stories were long and probably repetitive. And when we came back muddy, tired, and full of half-coherent updates about what we’d done, she paid attention.

There was one trip in particular I still think about. It was a longer backcountry hike, the kind that felt like a big deal at the time. I was anxious about it. I worried about keeping up, about carrying everything, about not messing something up. The night before, I had all my gear spread out on the floor, second-guessing everything.

She sat down next to me and started going through it piece by piece. Not correcting, not criticizing. She’d just ask simple questions. “Do you think you’ll need this?” “How heavy does that feel?” “What’s the plan if it rains?” It wasn’t about having the perfect answers. It was about thinking things through.

At one point, I remember saying, “What if I’m not ready for this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to be fully ready,” she said. “You just have to be willing to figure it out.”

That stuck with me.

The trip went fine, of course. Better than fine. I came back more confident, a little more capable, and with that sense that I could handle more than I thought. But the part that stayed with me wasn’t just the hike. It was that moment on the floor, going through my gear with her, realizing that her confidence in me was steady, even when mine wasn’t.

Over time, the roles shifted a bit. My brother and I got more experienced. We started planning our own trips, picking out our own gear, figuring things out without as much help. But even then, her influence was always there in the background.

To this day, I still hear her voice in small moments. When I’m packing and trying to decide what’s actually necessary. When I’m halfway through a trail and tempted to rush instead of looking around. When something doesn’t go according to plan and the easiest option is to get frustrated.

She never framed it as life lessons, but that’s what they were.

And maybe the most important one was this. You don’t need perfect conditions to do something meaningful. You don’t need the best gear, the most time, or a flawless plan. You just need a willingness to show up, to try, and to keep going, even when it’s inconvenient or uncertain.

As a kid, I thought the outdoors was something she was introducing us to. As an adult, I realize it was something she was giving us—a way to explore, to reset, to build confidence in ourselves.

And she did it while carrying far more than we ever saw.

When I think about those years now, I don’t remember what we didn’t have. I remember the trails, the small moments, the feeling of being out there together. I remember coming back from trips and telling her everything, knowing she actually cared.

Most of all, I remember that none of it happened by accident. She made it happen.

• James, Chief Marketing Officer