I was hiking in Papago Park with my father-in-law, John, when he lit up a cigarette and started smoking. Smoking while hiking seems, to me, anti-productive, but who am I to question the logic of a 55 year old man? He was in great shape and he didn't slow down my pace, so I just kept my mouth shut.

I kept it shut, that is, until he threw his cigarette on the ground and stepped on the smoldering butt. I stopped in shock. We were hiking on a dirt trail in God's country--scenic desert complete with Saguaro and Cholla cacti; caramel-colored buttes and jagged mountains; small, crystal lakes with ducks and assorted fowl; and a deep blue sky sparsely littered with puffy white clouds--and he has the nerve to carelessly toss his cigarette aside?

 

"John!" I hissed. "The world is not your ashtray!"

He stared at me in disbelief and mimicked my words back to me. We stood on the trail and glared at each other in silence, both of our jaws indignity set.

Finally John said, "What's the big deal? I have always done that."

"Yes," I retorted, "and look at the Earth."

We both looked at the ground surrounding us and it was covered with brown and white butts.

"I didn't put those there . . . other people did."

"I know," I replied.

The silence hung uncomfortably between us and I repeated, "The world is not an ashtray . . . for anyone."
With that he emitted a heavy sigh, picked up his butt, and placed it in his pocket.