By Greg Giles and Geoff Giles: We had spent some good years in Yosemite between the initial adventure to Convict Lake and this trip, and those were filled with great memories as well, but we were always missing something. Here at Convict lake we had bb gun wars, fished and hiked. Even though we were in a cabin we felt the freedom to live. We saw our Papa grow old before our eyes. I remember Grandma made lots of spaghetti and sent it with us for our first dinner. I had just graduated high school, and I had brought 2 friends, so the problem was we were starving before dinner time. Tim had done a great job of making a schedule and organizing all of us, even the dinners. We bought some fried chicken on the way and that was going to be for another dinner. But, we saw it in the fridge and went to town on those buckets, even filmed ourselves doing it. Then dinner came and grandma's spaghetti was placed before us, and we barely ate. Papa was so mad that we weren't chowing down on the spaghetti like it was an offense to his wife. We got through it though, and had a great week. Young and foolish, but it was a great time to be together. By Geoff: I love how my brother just casually says we had a BB gun war. In order for it to be called a war I feel like both sides would have to be taking on fire. What it should be called is BB gun target practice. Greg and Charlie would shoot me and my 13 year old friend Tim Rose in the head if we ever tried to engage. They told us that it was fine because they forced TRo and I to put on three hooded sweatshirts each. The hoods of said sweatshirts must have been a suitable substitute for helmets to the two of them. For TRo and I, we were too naive at the time that we didn’t even realize until after the whole ordeal was over that for my outer layer they suggested a yellow one and for my fellow target they dressed him up in orange. I kept yelling at TRo, “every time I move positions it’s like they already know where I’m at. Every time I duck my head out they shoot me in the forehead!” “I know!” He shouted back. What is in the heck! They’re doing the same thing to me!” BB gun war? I was never able to fire a single shot. Before I read my brother’s glossed over ridiculousness, I was going to write a different story. I thought I had already written the story I was going to share and I ended up looking up what I wrote in the “As I Walk” books that I wrote about my trip on the PCT back in 2009 and 2010. Sure enough it was the same story. I guess when I think back about the ‘92 trip it will always be about this one for me, i hope you like it: Sunday June 14, 1992 3:30 p.m. Backpack really came to life on Flag Day of 1992. The early years of the trip my family would go to Yosemite and do more of a traditional camping experience. Roo decided, for some reason, that our summer trip of 1991 we would return to Convict Lake, this time we could bring one friend each. Roo said, “I want to go back to where the trip started out, years ago.” But when the trip was over something was still missing, but we didn’t know what it was. During our Giles family Christmas party 6 months later, my father decided to invite my uncles and my cousins. Two agreed to come, my uncle Alan with his 10 year old son Bubba and my uncle Tim with his 6 year old son Kevin. To top it off the three of them invited their father to come as well. To complete the group, my uncle Alan decided to invite his father in law Steele, so he could look over Papa. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway we knew what we were missing. On the way up to the lake I interviewed my grandfather and he set the theme for the new type of trip, “Well I’m just enjoying this trip going up. It’s beautiful. Nice and windy. Having a hard time keeping the cars on the road, but we got good drivers so no problem there. Just looking forward to getting up there and catching some those trout and having a nice big fish to fry. Signing off.” We were a family from the moment me all got out of the cars at Convict Lake. Fish were on everyone’s mind and everybody couldn’t wait to get their poles in the water. Someone asked my father around a campfire years later, “Of all the stories from Backpack through the years which one is your favorite?” His answer surprised me and it happened on a rainy day in the middle of the week of this 1992 trip. The dark clouds started to make their way back over our hideaway to confirm the idea that we should go back to the cabin. I looked at my father and could tell he had no intention of giving in another day without a fish. Everyone headed back but my forty three year old dad wrapped in black trash bags and his fourteen year old sidekick. He and I walked the northern shore looking for a good place to spend the next few hours. My father stopped and stared at a spot about a hundred feet from shore. He asked me, “Hey do you think those black lines that keep appearing and reappearing look like fish?” I said, “Yes.” but I honestly couldn’t see what he saw. I saw giant circles from raindrops and blurry water. He pulled out his fishing tackle from under his homemade poncho and put on extra weight to make the gigantic cast. I remember the smile he gave me right before he threw the first cast. It was a strange almost forced smile. He didn’t want to show his son that his faith had run dry and that he was holding back the tears with “this better work” repeating over and over in his mind. He threw the power bait as far as he could and we agreed to wait five minutes and if we didn’t get a bite we would head back. At that moment I think we both had to say a little prayer. Mine was for my father and my father’s was for a fish. Just before the five minute mark, our point of no return, the tip dove to the water. My father jumped out of his skin. He began to reel as fast as he could only to break to see if I wanted to bring it in the rest of the way. I couldn’t risk the chance in fear that we’d lose our prize, so I let him pull it to shore and silence the skeptics that left early because they thought the lake was empty. We put the large rainbow trout on a stringer and cast the same jig figuring we discovered the secret. We waited and waited until it was getting dark and we were soaking wet, but another fish never joined my new friend. We decided to name the fish Leo since he was basically a part of our family now, and when we finally gave in and accepted the fact that God heard our prayers we decided to let Leo go. We knew the others would never believe not only the size but also the mere fact that we caught a fish. My father looked into my eyes hoping to maybe change the decision that I was responsible for bringing up, but he could see that I wasn’t going to change my mind and he crouched down and untied the stringer and we watched Leo rejoin his friends. We walked a little slower back to the cabin in spite of the pouring rain. We wanted to try and prolong the inevitable end of the day. Just as we thought - nobody believed us, which only made the moment more our own. This is the last memory I have that I remember my father being larger than life and I was his little boy. Unfortunately life got in the way when we got back from the trip and the influence of everyone and everything around me stripped us from the simplicity of a father son relationship in the most innocent form.