My wife found a post online that said there was a beautiful waterfall nearby, just a short 20-minute walk, it said. Easy trail, lovely views. So we packed up the kids, grabbed our towels, swimsuits, snacks, water bottles, and set out expecting a leisurely hike.
It was not a leisurely hike.
The “easy walk” turned out to be a steep climb up the side of a mountain, boulder to boulder in places, until we reached the top of the waterfall. This was real terrain. No easy paths. Just sharp rock, loose soil, and 100-foot drops. And we were doing it with three children: our 11-year-old and two five-year-old twins.
But here is the part that impressed me most:
Not one complaint.
Not from the eleven-year-old. Not from the twins. They climbed. They pushed. They scrambled. They dangled their legs over cliffs with the confidence of mountain goats. And they did it all in the heat, with no whining, no hesitation, and no quitting.
Of course, my wife and I were carrying the gear, extra clothes, food, water, swim stuff, plus giving a hand every time the twins needed a boost over a high ledge or a slippery rock. Sometimes I had to climb ahead, reach down, and haul them up one by one. My wife did the same. It was a real climb. Exhausting. But beautiful.
When we reached the summit, we were rewarded with a cold, clear pool at the base of the waterfall. We laid down a mat, rested, swam, laughed, and soaked in the view. Worth every drop of sweat.
Along the way, I noticed something that stuck with me:
Alex, one of the twins, is a straight-line thinker.
He wanted the most direct path, shortest route possible, regardless of what obstacle was in the way. Straight over boulders, under branches, through the middle, faster.
Henry, his brother, was the strategist.
“I’ll go here… then there… and from there, I can step across to that rock.” He mapped every move as if solving a puzzle, placing each foot with care.
Same age. Same trail. Two completely different minds at work.
And my oldest boy? I told him, “I can’t hold your hand. You have to manage your own safety. Stay focused. Watch where you step. Be careful.” And he did. He carried a big bag full of towels and gear, and never once lost his focus.
That is the real lesson of the day.
Children need real risk. Real terrain. Real adventure.
They need to face uncertainty, danger, exhaustion, not recklessly, but with trust, instruction, and just enough safety net. Because this is how they learn to manage risk, read the environment, take responsibility, and overcome their own limits.
We can protect our children from everything.
Or we can teach them how to navigate life.
This was one of those days where you do the harder thing, and everyone walks away stronger.
And I would do it again in a heartbeat.
