By Anne Cassidy
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, September 15, 2008

Every day in the weeks before our daughter headed off to college, I would think of something else I needed to tell her, practical bits of knowledge that had gotten lost amid the cross-country meets and youth symphony rehearsals. Things like: Start the meat before the vegetables. Iron sleeves and collars first. Don't forget to floss. On weekends we watched the cult movies of my youth, "A Thousand Clowns" and "King of Hearts." I realized that I was trying, sometimes frantically, to tie up the loose ends of parenthood. I fought against the tendency to make every moment special and tried instead to keep our lives as ordinary as possible.

So when Suzanne suggested a walk when I got home from work one day, I said yes. I was tired, but a walk seemed more ordinary than special. Besides, we had the perfect destination. For weeks Suzanne had been talking about the Cross County Trail, the new path that extends the length of Fairfax County, and how she'd like to run it. Even though she'd soon live on her own seven hours from home, I didn't want her to go by herself. So we decided to explore the trail together.

Although the path has been publicized, it requires a fair amount of sleuthing to be discovered. We thought we knew where it crossed a road close to our house, so we set off to find it -- by car, of course, because it's the suburbs.

As we neared the spot we thought was closest to the trail, Suzanne suggested we park in a church lot. I pointed out the sign that read "Closed After Business Hours" and the gate that could make it impossible for us to drive home. Hmm, I thought as we parked across the street, more of that practical knowledge I must impart: Read signs in parking lots.

We wandered down the path of an old road beside the church. We passed a Girl Scout camp and talked about when she went there years ago. The path took us around a small pond with a meditation spot, a cross atop a knoll. Farther on, we admired the light slanting through trees. We hadn't yet found the Cross County Trail but already we were glad we came.

Less than a quarter-mile down the road, Suzanne spied the opening to the trail on the left. We entered an alternative universe of creek and field and fern. The trail wound mostly along stream valley parkland (about the only acreage that hasn't been developed around here), but there was enough leaf cover that we felt miles away from home.

We soon fell into a rhythmic hiking step, jumping over the occasional root or rock and talking a mile a minute. Suzanne slowed her pace to mine when we hiked up the hills. "Maybe I'll live in San Francisco after I graduate," she said, then quickly added, "but maybe I'll come back here after that." I knew the last part of that statement was just for me, but I liked it just the same.

There's something about the pace of walking that draws out conversation, and I silently vowed to walk more with our other daughters, too, even if it's down the street or through the mall. It wasn't that we talked about anything earth-shattering, but we were alone in a place neither of us knew. The sheer companionability of the thing, the blazing of a trail together, set it apart.

We spent the better part of two hours traipsing through the woods, crossing and recrossing Little Difficult Run on steppingstones or fallen logs or a plank bridge. The evening darkened and then my skin prickled at the low rumble of thunder -- we had walked right into a storm. But the trees kept us mostly dry, and the rain only made the walk more adventurous. Besides, I had brought my cellphone, so we called home and scored a ride back to our car. It was pouring buckets by the time we walked through the door, dirty and tired and vowing to hike another leg of the trail as soon as we could.

A few days after the walk, life again caught up with us. One daughter arrived home from work camp; another hosted a sleepover; we left for vacation. And then we drove Suzanne two states west to start her new life. I try not to think about how precious it was to hike together. Instead, I think about the walk itself, about how absorbed we were in the path ahead, how skillfully she led the way. Yes, she still has things to learn. But she has things to teach me now, too.