On her first camping trip, my then-2-year-old daughter had her wrist dislocated by yours truly. Not exactly what we had in mind, but we thought it was important to get the girls used to camping.

You see, when Darlin and I fell in love, it was in tents. One of our first trips together was a mid-January snowshoe into Ontario's Algonquin Provincial Park; we actually overnighted in a cabin with a wood stove, but you get the idea. Eleven months after our first kiss, we both quit our jobs and spent six weeks camping.

This is what six weeks of camping looked like for us: One sweltering night somewhere in the midwest trying to overcome the distance between the Appalachians and the continental divide as quickly as possible; then South Dakota national grasslands and badlands; Wyoming national forest; Yellowstone; Montana; backpacking Idaho's Sawtooth Wilderness from cedar-shaded hotsprings to moose-and-mosquito infested high country; Oregon Coast with its gray whales and bay-laurel-scented campsites; a few nights homesteading off the grid in Humboldt County, Calif., with crazy Cam (berry picking with an icy pitcher of gin and tonics in a canoe with cupholders, then recreational bulldozing); backpacking California's Lost Coast past barking sea lions and a curious harbor seal, then steeply up to the ridge where Darlin surprised a black bear on the trail among the redwoods; San Jose for a Bare Naked Ladies concert that resembled a meeting of the Canadian diaspora's Silicon Valley chapter; Sacramento to pick up Tim and Hillary for an impromptu camping run to Tahoe and Shakespeare under the stars; Nevada, where a barn owl nearly became our hood ornament as we climbed a canyon to our campsite in the dark; Salt Lake City, where Darlin's paternal aunt and cousins and families sang me happy birthday over a homemade cake; Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, where we boldly and naively climbed Long's Peak (elev. 14,200-plus) within days of being at sea level (Fortunately, the physical effects of the elevation hit you after you descend--we slept all afternoon.); visiting friends in Boulder; then one last pitch of the tent in some anonymous midwestern campground on the way back East.

My point is, we like to camp. A related point is that, after six weeks in a car and tent you will know if you are really in love with someone.

Raising babies and holding down jobs makes camping more difficult. But last summer we wanted to prove that we could do it, and we wanted to set a precedent. (Precedent being: Our babies camp.) We booked one night at the state park campground 1.5 hours from the city. It was Sunday, the day before Labor Day. We picnicked in a field, we took turns hiking the loops of trail near town while the girls napped in the car. Mimi was two, while Posey was just 8 months old. When the girls woke, we strapped them onto us and hiked to the river. Mimi in an aluminum-frame backpack, and Posey slung from Darlin's chest. Through hemlock and rhododendron forest and finally down to the river where we all splashed in a cool pebbley eddy and sunned on the rocks while watching rafters and kayakers.

When we were done swimming, it was a steep, steep climb back to the trail. Mimi held my hand as she negotiated the giant log steps. At one big step, I pulled on her hand to help her make it up; at that exact moment, she, being two, surrendered all her weight to gravity to let herself fall back down. I could have let her fall or I could have kept pulling to get her up on the next step. I pulled, and I felt something pop.

From that moment on, Mimi could not move her arm without pain. If you've never seen a two-year-old with inexplicable pain that won't go away, let me tell you that it's a sad sight. When it's your daughter and you feel responsible, it's even worse.

"I think her wrist is dislocated," I finally admitted. "I felt a little 'pop'"

"What do we do?"

"If it doesn't get better... If it stays like this, we've got to find a hospital or a clinic." We asked about a clinic in the little state park information kiosk in the tiny river town. We got a free icepack and directions to the hospital, which was just under an hour away. We decided to go to our campsite, pitch the tent and get something to eat. If Mimi didn't seem better in an hour--by around 7 p.m.--we would drive to the hospital. That would most likely be the end of the camping trip.

At the campsite, Darlin starting whipping up some food on the picnic table while I pitched the tent. Mimi clung to her daddy like a faithful, fearful puppy. She followed me everywhere as I retrieved the tent and stakes from the trunk of the car and started to set things up. She held her arm in front of her like it was in an invisible sling, and every minute or so, she'd say, "Daddy, my arm hurts," in a pitiful voice.

"I know, sweetheart. It's going to start to feel better soon."

I had the tent up, and now I was stringing the rain fly. One rope extented a good two feet from the tent to where it was staked. I realized I needed the other tent stakes, which were on the picnic table.

"Go and get those stakes from the table, please Mimi," I said.

Mimi turned and ran for the table and immediately tripped on the rope extending from the tent. It snagged her right across both shins and she fell hard. It happened so fast that she threw both hands out to keep from smashing her face in the dirt. Immediately, I winced, thinking about her injured arm absorbing all that force.

Mimi cried a bit, and we comforted her. But the funny thing was, she never again complained about how much her arm hurt. She had clearly popped her dislocated wrist right back into place. Even knowing that was what she needed, I never could have attempted to pop it back in myself.

The lesson of the story: If your child dislocates a wrist, wait until she least expects it, then give her a really hard shove in the back so that she falls hard on her hands and pops it back into place. [Editor's note: Before anyone comments on how this is abusive and stupid, understand that it's a joke.]