Growing up, it was called "going for a walk." And it usually involved tramping out somewhere in the back of an unreliable Saab, one bota bag of water to two adults, two children and two dogs, to scramble through prickly pear and jumping cholla in sandals only to look at some godforsaken decrepit Anasazi shithole or other. Deer Trap Mesa, for example. Be eight. Be pulled away from a Saturday afternoon working on cars, drinking sweet tea and eating white trash cookies to blister in the sun for three hours so you can feel embarrassed about your dogs barking at other hikers and be thirsty only to stare at a fuckin' hole in the ground.
My attitude on hiking improved somewhat when I discovered that plenty of people went out for the afternoon with a muthafuckin' gallon each, and often left their ill-behaved pets at home. Also, you could put gatorade powder in the water. And ice.
I didn't really take to it, however, until my old memories were a thousand miles away.