You know that old schtick of the donkey being lured by the carrot? In my case, it was a Cadbury Bar — milk chocolate with nuts and raisins — and I would have gone to the ends of the earth in order to chomp into one. This is the story of the kid and the Cadbury.

I grew up on Mercer Island, Washington, and even though it’s connected to the mainland with an eight-lane bridge, it had plenty of green groves and lush ravines surrounded by water.

Dad still hits the trails in Mt. Rainier National Park.

We had milk-carton derbies in nearby ditches, built forts from fallen branches, and captured frogs, spiders, garter snakes and anything that moved but wouldn’t bite or be broken in half by its capture. For all intents and purposes, we were serious outdoorsmen. Unless you compared us to my parents. Now these guys were serious.

For pretty much every other weekend for the two months that comprise spring/summer around the area, my folks dragged us kids on day hikes. Not the kind of day hike in which you venture out to the mailbox in fuzzy slippers or take a walk at a neighborhood park, but actual hikes in national parks with packs and first-aid kits and the possibility of being eaten by bears.

What defined these excursions was the ability to drive there, hike for three or four hours, and get back to civilization in a single day. This was serious stuff, with gear involved, detailed maps, liquids, GORP (Good Old Raisins and Peanuts), stiff hiking boots and, worst of all, an extremely early wake-up call on a weekend.

In addition to dragging the young’uns into the wild blue yonder, my parents loved to turn other people on to their favorite trails. (My dad took copious notes on each hike, including the attendants, trail conditions, flowers and wildlife spotted, and miscellaneous entries on terrain, elevation gain and suspicious forks in the road that would make a general proud.)

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This meant we’d often be carpooling or caravanning with some of their more outdoorsy or adventurous friends. (According to one of their friends, a doctor, hiking with a martini shaker is good for both hydration and as an antiseptic, though he clearly seemed to be using it as a pain killer).

My Aunt Bessie was one of my favorite guests, not only for her caustic remarks and sense of humor, but for at least one guaranteed face plant somewhere along the trail. If I was lucky, I also got to take a buddy from school along, who had no idea what he was in for … tennis shoes and a headband does not a hiker make.

Sleep was a major priority for me in the 1970s. And 80s. (Still is, there just isn’t any to be found.) Point is, I wasn’t nearly as happy to be getting up as my insane father, with his exuberant shouts of, “Isn’t nature wonderful!?” and “Don’t you just love the smell of Deep Woods Off in the morning!?” Mom knew it would take bribery, and that’s where the Cadbury came into play.