“The imagination wishes to be stirred with the romance of places,” writes Graham. He is commenting on a walk he took at age nine with his mother where they observed “romantic and strange sights.” He was walking barefoot along the Lincolnshire sands, which is a stretch of coastline along the North Sea in eastern England.

Near the end of the journey, they began to imagine other adventures: “I am now marching on the banks of the mighty Congo,” exclaimed the young Stephen.

I remember such boyhood dreams, but my friends and I were more likely trudging alongside Lewis and Clark in the Bitterroot Mountains or looking for beaver with the likes of Jim Bridger, Jedediah Smith and Kit Carson in the Great Basin.

In retirement years my imagination shows up more in trip planning. I imagine trekking from hostel to hostel in the Swiss Alps or a more likely hike up Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. But it doesn’t have to be that far of a stretch. My imagination can go wild with a grandchild hike up a more accessible trail in the Rockies.