My earliest memories involve rolling around in a muddy riverbank, napping in the footwell of a raft on the San Juan River, Russian olive thorns poking sunburnt skin. I’ve identified as a river rat for all my 44 years, as a kayaker for 35 years, as a river guide for 25 years, and as a parent for six. My wife Susan and I, like parents all over the world, strive to instill values and skills in our children that will guide them throughout their lives. A recent trip down the Rogue was proof again that extended periods in nature are an essential part of raising children who are capable and deeply connected to the world around them. It was also just a fun time outside.

For the 119th time on this six-day raft trip down the Rogue, I found myself smiling at the sound of my daughter Juniper’s voice, harmonizing(ish) with her “cousin” Gaia and “Auntie” Carmen. Their voices blended in a jaunty, hearty rendition of “Muddy River” by Katie Lee. Juniper was perched in the bow of her adopted family’s raft, singing with a confidence that seemed to grow with each verse.

Now if I had a Mexican Hat,
I wouldn’t put it on.
I’d jump right in
from its broad brim
and skim down the San Juan.

And if somebody made for me,
a good ol’ gooseneck pie,
I’d rather float on down its throat
in a river boat says I!

Oh, oooh, Oh! Muddy River.
Oh, oooh, Oh! on your way down to the sea!

We don’t live anywhere near the silt-laden desert rivers that Katie Lee so passionately devoted her music to, and Juniper has never touched the waters of the San Juan. Yet, her love for wild rivers is real, born from the stories we’ve shared and the experiences we’ve created together. As she sang, I was transported back to my own childhood, floating and swimming the “Sand Wind” from Bluff, Utah, past Mexican Hat, through the Gooseneck canyons to Clay Hills near Lake Powell. The deep shade of those twisting canyons, the feel of the river’s current, the sound of the water against the boat—all of it came rushing back as I listened to my daughter sing the cowboy ballads of my youth.

I’ll take your rapids and your roar
like they ain’t never been took before
and come around and back for more
’cause, you don’t worry me!

Gaia, just a few months older than Juniper, is the daughter of my best friend, Travis Winn—hence the “cousin” status. Carmen, Travis’s sister, has memorized most of Katie Lee’s catalogue and has fully embraced her role as the Cool Aunt. She taught the girls these lyrics, singing with them again and again, and has also taken on the role of an adventurous guide—swimming, reading stories on the sand-mat, rowing the girls through big rapids, and generally being an awesome role model.

This is the first summer that one of them—Juniper—has shown a real affinity for being a River Rat. While Susan and I started taking our kids on mellow multi-day raft trips when they were just five to seven months old, it feels like a turning point for our family.

Is it her growing confidence in swimming ten feet or more from shore or boat? Is it her love of flipping our pack raft in camp eddies? Or is it simply that, at 6½ years old, she’s becoming more independent, with friends to pal around with? I sometimes wonder if I’m projecting my own identification with river life onto my children, but then I see the genuine joy and curiosity in Juniper’s eyes, and I know that this connection is hers.

At camp one evening, the girls played for hours, building and breaching dams with sticks, rocks, and five-gallon bailing buckets. Their excitement was infectious as they shouted, “Again! Again! Again!” and “We’ll bust out Boulder Dam!”—a reference to Hoover Dam, renamed upon its completion in 1931.

While Juniper doesn’t yet understand the complexities of water politics in the Western US, we’re attempting to expose her to the intricacies and hypocrisies of the society we live in. I imagine and hope that these early glimpses into environmental history, coupled with the joy she experiences in these exquisite canyons, will open her heart and mind to the importance of protecting wild places.

As parents, we often find ourselves asking, “Who are these little creatures becoming? What are we cultivating here?” When Susan and I take a moment to breathe amidst the hustle of pick-ups and drop-offs, tantrums, packing lunches, illnesses, and childcare cancellations, we inevitably reflect on our parenting choices. Are we doing this right? Are we giving our kids the tools they need to navigate the world?

Sometimes, it feels like we’re screwing up. We strive to empower our children with courage, kindness, humility, patience, and humor, yet  the simplest of tasks—like brushing teeth—can bring moments of intense frustration. But then we remember that adventure is a grand teacher with the ultimate curriculum for life.

River trips, in particular, are a microcosm of life—a quintessential metaphor for the journey we’re all on. Our family has certainly embraced the outdoorsy lifestyle, and I truly believe that wilderness, and our journeys through it, is a direct path to a balanced and regulated nervous system.

And what about Jasper, our youngest, who sleeps peacefully on my chest, wrapped in a damp sarong, under the shade of a granite cliff? Just like his older sister, we’ve been taking Jasper on multi-day rafting trips since he was four months old. He’s floated the Ruby Horse Thief, Lower Deschutes, John Day, Grande Ronde (twice), and now the Rogue. Each of these journeys has left its mark on him, even if they aren’t yet clear memories. I’m sure the stories we tell about these trips will shape his understanding of what it means to be a River Rat, different from his sister’s but equally profound.

Even so, I wonder, what can I teach him about this place and our place in it? Perhaps I have too many precious preconceptions about what I hope these kids will learn. Dozing in a tethered packraft with my son, I realize that sometimes, the most important lesson is simply learning to “let go.”

Jasper looks up to his sister so much, picking up on all her little cues—her preferences, hesitations, and excitements. For both, I think we’ve done well in exposing them to risky play, a critical component of their development. They’ve both learned that it’s their responsibility to exercise caution, to assess risk, and to make decisions accordingly.

Yes, we sometimes let our kids get hurt—within reason, of course. Just as Mom and Dad spot Juniper when she’s bouldering, Juniper has become a good spotter for Jasper. One of his favorite things to do is jump off things—boulders, logs, chairs, decks, tables. If there’s something he wants to jump off, he asks for a hand, and we do it together.

This approach to parenting, one that embraces the unpredictability of nature and the lessons it offers, is not without its challenges. It’s often when we are confronted with limited time and few resources that we question ourselves. We wonder if we’re doing enough; if we’re making the right choices. But then there are moments of clarity, moments when we see the light in our children’s eyes, the joy they find in exploring the world around them. It’s in these moments that we see the fruits of our labor, the values and skills we’ve worked so hard to instill in them coming to life.

Parenting should never be about perfection. It’s about being present, about guiding our children through the highs and lows of life, and about giving them the tools they need to navigate the world on their own. It’s about finding balance—between risk and safety, independence and guidance, adventure and caution.

At the end of one particularly hot and long day, everyone felt exhausted. Tempers were short, tears were shed, and needs were misunderstood. Does anyone relate to this? Both of our kids were at full tantrum, and my instinctual response was to laugh at a tearful and ridiculous demand for a glue stick to adhere a leaf to a rock. I could only offer a small, sad smile, crouch down and open my arms for a hug. Sand-encrusted tears were wiped off, wet clothes were changed, and electrolytes were drunk. My big kiddo snuggled into our collapsible camp chair with me.

As I told her a story about a Pirate Princess, it occurred to me that resilience isn’t taught with admonishments, with “should” and “shouldn’t.” Our little river rats need to feel safe to try things and trust that we can weather storms together. Sometimes, the storms are great monsoons that shake the cottonwoods. Sometimes, they are emotional tempests of unknown origin. Still, it is our responsibility as guides and parents to confidently and compassionately acknowledge and assuage those fears.

The next day, we hiked up Tate Creek, complete with log walks, bouldering, wet hiking, bug swatting, and lots of snacks. For Juniper, every new obstacle was bigger than the last, more challenging, more exciting. At the top of one tough log/boulder scramble, she shouted, “These are good climbing shoes!” (Chacos with socks). And as she swam across the big pool and pulled herself up the rope ladder next to Tate Creek Waterslide, she looked back at me as if to say, “Am I doing this right?”. I just smiled and gave her a big thumbs-up.

Later, when Susan and I climbed up and slid down the slide, Juniper shouted, “Woo-hoo Mom!” and “Good Job, Dad!”. River rat or not, I guess we’re all doing something right.