Every year at this time, I take a little trip with The Kid Down The Hall. It's the same trip, exactly 400 miles, to a tiny blush of a town in the mountains of North Carolina.

No phones, no TV, nothing but us. He's stuck with me for three days.

We hike, we walk. Incredibly (because he is 16 and I am not), we talk. We do nothing in particular. In this little place, doing nothing in particular is the business of the day.

For the longest time, I thought The Kid made this trip to humor me. I felt like I was kidnapping him. You mean, no PlayStation?

Sometimes, it's astounding how little we know about our children. We know how to discipline them. We think we know what's best for them. We try, anyway. But mostly, we live in parallel universes.

I took the kid to the boonies each year to share with him a place I've loved for 40 years. I did it for me. Until this year, I never knew he felt the same way.

I'll let him explain. He likes messing with words. As he once explained, "I don't want to be a newspaper guy, Dad. I wanna be a writer."

Here are the writer's words about our annual trip:

We move along the rolling hills

Surrounded by leagues of swaying trees

This is our home away from home

The land in the clouds

The ground moist with morning dew

Into gentle mist go the ridges

The mountains that touch the sun and find a home in the clouds

While birds sing to the world about

This serene land of peace, more beautiful than every petal of a flower

Between the trees flowers convene

Damp

As the sun spreads its rays we climb the dirt and rocks to the top of the hill

And place ourselves above the trees

Looking down on clouds

The temperature drops as you scale the pearl cover of clouds

And it is much too frigid for the growth of flowers

Our view is no longer obstructed by tall trees

The mountain's peak is lightly frosted with mist

We have conquered the hills

And found our home

My spirit resides atop the mountain and above the clouds

We begin the somber descent from the hills

Taking in the whole scene: Birds, squirrels, trees, flowers

And mist

Dripping from the breathing leaves

Rushing down the mountain with blurred green trees

We fall from the sky and below the clouds

We embrace gentle breezes and vibrant spring flowers

I look back and take a final glance at the hills

We bid farewell to the trees and throw a smile at the clouds

What is it about this portrait of natural peace

That pulls me back each year?

Not the clouds, the flowers or the chirping birds

Suspended in the air above Crabtree Meadows

I may become connected with the distant ridges and mountain springs

The blooming flowers and drifting mist

But no more than with my travel guide

For those few days in the sky

My father becomes my friend

A metamorphosis occurs

As the dad I know becomes

The dad that knows me

The unspeakable energy that we share

Fills my soul more than a flower

Or a drop of rain falling from a heaving cloud

This is our home

Only he feels the same about this place

An understanding is achieved between us

No other place could provide such refuge

It's an unmistakable sense of peace

When we look out over the hills

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com