My family camped across the U.S. and Canada on a month-long road trip. It bonded us like nothing else

It’s 2011, and I’m sitting in the back of our family’s dark green minivan with my feet dangling next to a laptop stand, once again watching the movie “Inception” during what would be one of the most cherished trips of my childhood.

I was born in Windsor, Ont. but soon my dad had an opportunity to move to the U.S. and I ended up calling Chicago home for 18 years.

Growing up, I often sought refuge in my room, chatting with friends or stuck in my own world.

That is until my dad proudly announced in the summer of 2011 that he was going to take 11-year-old me, my 13-year-old brother, and my mom on a one-month road trip. I was going to be forced to spend every single day with them.

Our trip spanned from my hometown in Aurora, Ill., to our final destination in Vancouver, to see my cousins whom we hadn’t seen in six years.

Along the way, we marvelled at the expansive Mall of America, slept in freezing temperatures in the middle of July at Glacier National Park in Montana, canoed on crystal blue waters at Banff and Jasper national parks, took pictures with shaky hands of a bear crossing the road in front of our car, and ate the spiciest Thai food I’ve ever had at the Calgary Stampede.

We only stayed in a hotel once during the whole trip.

Each night, we set up camp — my brother and dad pitched the tent and rolled out sleeping bags; I made the beds; my mom handled dinner, which was often “curry,” using canned chickpeas and a small bottle of Penzeys’ Northwoods seasoning.

Setting up camp every night was annoying, especially after hours spent in the car, unable to stretch my growing preteen legs but then it became therapeutic. The process became a ritual that we were all participating in together. We learned to rely on each other. If someone didn’t do their part, we quite literally wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep that day.

Each night ended with one person writing their daily reflection in a leather journal my dad brought along. He still has that journal proudly on display in his basement office.

About halfway through our trip at Glacier National Park, my dad was experiencing excruciating back pain. Some water was dripping through the tent, it was snowing, and the ground was feeling much rockier than usual.

“I hope you’re going to be OK,” my mom kept saying over and over to my dad. That night, we didn’t sleep much.

As my brother and I groggily stepped out of the tent in the morning, my dad was outside with his tan Bosun hat and black fleece half zip. “There you guys are! Hungry for breakfast?” he said cheerily, while admiring the snow-tipped Rocky Mountains in the distance.

After filling our bellies, it started raining heavily with a chance of more snow. As we scrambled to put all of the dishes away, my dad had his thinking face on.

“You know what, kids,” he declared, pausing for a few seconds. “We’re not going to let the weather get in the way of our itinerary.”

And my dad was right. Up until that point, our family had already endured hiking through the intense terrain of South Dakota’s Badlands, I was slowly getting over my fear of spiders in Port-a-Potties, and my dad didn’t let his aching body stop him from showing up for his kids.

We stuck together no matter the weather and no matter how much anyone complained because no one had rooms to go hide in. We had no choice but to work it out if there was a conflict of any kind.

My family made me feel unstoppable in that one month we spent together, and I hope we can give this gift to many other children, especially those who are underprivileged or have special needs, through the Fresh Air Fund.

The Fresh Air Fund is in its 123rd year and offers meaningful camp experiences to children who may not otherwise have the opportunity to enjoy these kinds of summer outings.

Your donations provide these opportunities for many young people to create their own memories exploring nature that will stay with them — as mine did — as they grow up. Your help makes it possible for them to experience the same kind of confidence building that I did on my family’s camping journey.

During the trip, I felt like I could do anything because I knew my family would have my back no matter what. I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents were teaching me to have faith in our connection as a family unit, where nature would keep us bonded forever beyond living in the same household.

Since then, camping has becoming an annual tradition and when I come back home, we usually end up doing something involving nature — whether that’s spending time chatting in front of our family garden, mountain biking, or finding a trail we’ve never walked on before.

And each time I see a tent or go hiking, I’m reminded of that time when it was just the four of us, and how blessed I am to have experienced that time together.