“Swim?” I asked, because I was sure she had to be joking. It was the deepest lake in the United States, with something like six species of fish that had been “introduced” over time. By whom? That’s what I wanted to know. Plus, the lake could be as cold as thirty-eight degrees. I’d read all about that in the guidebook. “You can’t swim in it.”

And by can’t, I mostly meant no sane person ever would. Besides, I wasn’t a strong swimmer even under the best of circumstances. Like a warm pool.

“Of course swim,” my mom said as she marched on toward a short dock that extended out some distance into the lake. A dock she had clearly been aiming for all along. “You can’t come all the way to a place like this and not at least swim a little.”

And from the way she said it, I already knew that “a little” actually meant a lot. She looked so excited, too. And there actually were a handful of totally insane people already in there. Remarking loudly: “phew, it’s chilly!” or “refreshing!” Nothing unbearable or dangerous. But also nothing that sounded the least bit appealing.

“I’m not swimming,” I said, quiet but firm as I marched on behind her. And I meant it, too. I had been following my mom on these adventures for years now. And for years I had done everything that she wanted. I had climbed the mountains. I had camped—cold and terrified. I had rappelled. And yeah, all of that had given me something to hold on to at times when I badly needed a lifeline. I was grateful, but it also hadn’t changed anything about me. I wasn’t all better. I also wasn’t a little kid anymore. I was entitled to make my own choices.

“If we go from here to that corner over there, it’s a little over a half mile. Then we could rest on the other side and come back.” All of this was based on advance research, obviously. Like she had committed a map of the lake to memory. She then produced from her pocket a small orange bag that was currently pressed flat. It took her less than a minute to inflate. “And we have this buoy for emergencies, in case you’re”—she winked at me—“worried. It is totally safe.”

She sounded so triumphant and looked so elated. I could tell that this was it, the moment that was to be the culmination of all our years of trips. The moment when her broken-winged little baby bird would, at long last, truly fly.

I probably should have been touched. Maybe even appreciative. But all of a sudden, all I felt was seriously pissed off.

“I’m not swimming in there,” I said again.