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I want my boys to look back on our travels together and remember me as one tough Road Warrior; a man whose wits allowed him to make the world—or at least the interstate—his oyster. A man worthy to be admired.

There's probably no better place for a dad to develop his reputation as a first-rate frontier father than the American West.

The American West. Rugged. Desolate. Not for the faint-hearted or dull-minded. An environment that only a man's man would dare face. A hostile environment that only a man's man could conquer. Just the place to show Andrew and Kevin my true mettle. It would be minivan against nature.

And so we made our way to the foothills of the Tetons, coursed the Snake River, and explored sections of Yellowstone National Park far off the beaten paths.

I served as wise guide and leader, telling my family the history of each region and explaining the forces of nature that gave shape to all we were seeing.

Not that I naturally knew any of this, mind you. It's just that I was usually the one who was handed the informational literature when we entered each attraction. A quick read and, presto, I became the expert!

"Hey, Dad, what causes water to shoot out as a geyser?"

"Good question, Son." With that I'd surreptitiously pull out the appropriate pamphlet, peruse its content, then turn toward my questioning son and deliver an answer that would make even a park ranger envious.

"Son, a geyser is formed due to the pressure created by tectonic shifts beneath the earth's surface, which, in turn, superheat the water."

"Gee, Dad, thanks."

"No problem."

Boys In The Badlands
By the time we got to Badlands National Park in South Dakota, I could only imagine how impressed—and proud—Andrew and Kevin were of their frontier father.

If you've ever wondered what the moon was like but didn't have government backing to fly there yourself, then let me suggest a few days in the Badlands. Its crusty, dusty cliffs and pinnacles of dried mud eerily replicate a lunar landscape, as does the park's uniform color of grayish-brown. The only difference, as far as I can see, is the atmosphere, which in the Badlands is more suited to shorts and a tank-top.

We arrived in this other-world near the close of another hot July day. After checking into our motel, we eschewed our usual trek to the information center. Who needs an informational "crib sheet" here? I thought. It's just a lot of dried mud.

We started our grand adventure at the "Door Trail," so called because of a narrow, winding passageway through two huge mud hills that leads to an endless vista of Badland mounds. We parked our van in a small, natural amphitheater a few hundred yards in front of the "door." Tall mud mounds surround the amphitheater's circumference, with one smaller mound smack-dab in the center.

Andrew and Kevin flew out of the car and made their way to the nearest mud mountain. Up the side of the amphitheater they fearlessly went, until they reached its summit—about one hundred feet in the air. One false step and it was a fifty-mile drive to the nearest doctor.

A Cautionary Tale
Judy tried her best to caution the boys of the very real dangers of a slide down dry mud, but it fell to me, frontier father, to instill awe and wonder in my boys. I climbed the hill in the middle of the amphitheater, and from my muddy pulpit, I bellowed forth.

"Sons, thou shalt wear the appropriate hiking boots before attempting a climb of this magnitude."

"We know, Dad. Mom made us put them on before we came."

"Sons, thou shalt look for pathways made by earlier climbers before forging a new path of your own."

"We know, Dad. We basically took an old path to get up here."

"And sons, thou shalt always test your footing to make sure it is strong and true." I pointed to my own feet, gently rocking my body up and down to emphasize the importance of a firm foundation.

Andrew and Kevin were all ears by now. I felt something akin to a mountain-top experience, standing prophet-like before my worshipful throng of three. Here I was, instructing a future generation of Smiths in the ways of taming wild nature. Below me, Judy—looking up at her Road Warrior husband, at the pinnacle of his prowess.

"Be careful, Harold," she said. "I don't want to take three boys to the emergency room!"

I could only laugh at her warning. Perhaps she spoke out of a sense of jealousy. Perhaps she was wishing she were the one straddling the hilltop, that she were the one boldly instructing the flesh of her flesh.

"See, sons. Secure footing. Absolutely essential." I was now jumping up and down, as if to put an exclamation point to this last climbing commandment.

"Yep, boys, absolutely … "

And with that incomplete sentence, the loose dirt under my right foot gave way, transforming my muddy pulpit into a fifty-foot mud-slide.

As I tumbled over the jagged rocks to the amphitheater floor below, I could see Andrew and Kevin running down their hill to come to my rescue (or maybe just to rub it in). I could also see Judy shaking her head in her when-will-he-ever-learn look.

When I finally came to rest on the amphitheater floor, my legs and arms were banged and bruised but happily not broken. Nevertheless, movement was difficult. Nurse Judy tended to the more noticeable cuts and scrapes, and prescribed a strong dose of common sense. The boys, however, were thoroughly impressed.

"Dad, Dad, are you okay?" they asked. "That was a cool fall!"

"Now do you see the importance of good footing, sons?" I sternly warned, as if the fall were an object lesson on their behalf. (Dads have to be "quick on their feet" in more ways than one.)

"Yes, we do, Dad," they replied, and then turned and headed for Door Trail. Their dad had looked the Badlands straight in the eye and survived … or had at least been clever enough to save face.

Judy, on the other hand, turned and headed for the car, confident that we'd probably need more Band-Aids and disinfectant before leaving this desolate landscape.

As for me? Well, I just stayed put, nursing my wounds, and wondering how I'd overcome my next challenge—getting up off the ground.

Harold B. Smith is corporate vice-president of Christianity Today International. He and his wife, Judy, and their two sons live in Carol Stream, Illinois.

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