Shawn, your reply sent me down memory lane.

My grandfather came here from Norway and never lost his love of hiking or nature. From the time I was a tiny child, I was following him through the woods. As I grew older, Grampa, Grama and I travelled by car, train, bus. boats and ships.

After Grama died, Grampa and I started backpacking. My memories are full of extraordinary moments. Sitting quietly in a canoe in the middle of Lake Moraine watching fish swim along the bottom of the lake and the glacier touring above us. Dawn hikes up to steamy hot springs in the middle of winter, then strolling to town for hot chocolate and croissants right out of the oven. A week in a room at the back of a bar in the Rockies — dancing, playing cards and making friends we followed over hidden mountain trails. The poor maitre de who tried to seat us in the middle of the room instead of the window. Grampa threw a movie script tantrum and I thought I would die of embarrassment. But we were seated by a window and treated like royalty. When I arrived in Singapore, a woman Grampa had met on a ship home to Norway greeted me; they had been corresponding for 15 years. Ruby read some of Grampa’s letters to me and I discovered my grandfather was a true romantic.

Because of my grampa, I knew what was possible in silence, and long easy conversations where we had all the time in the world to talk things through. I knew how to stretch a penny and travel far. A few boiled eggs, a few pieces of fruit and a couple tea bags lasted us for days. I was 35 when grampa died and I’ve never stopped remembering him.

Your granddaughter is a very lucky girl.