Chapter Five: Climb

2095:

 The three-hour drive from the Twin Cities to the North Shore of Lake Superior is more than just a journey; it's packed with family traditions. Habitual routines to break it up with a refreshing stop at a park—a chance to stretch, shake off the monotony of the road, and reignite the excitement of the adventure ahead. 

 Jay Cooke State Park is usually the go-to choice, conveniently located just before Duluth. But this time, Cole and I decided to bypass the usual routine. We wanted to put the city and its traffic in our rearview mirror as quickly as possible, so we opted to hold out until Gooseberry Falls State Park. Besides, the perk of Gooseberry is that it's free to enter, while Jay Cooke requires a state park permit. 

 Technically, though, Gooseberry wasn't our *first* stop. Cole, ever the persuasive navigator, convinced me to swing by the Great Lakes Candy Kitchen along the way. It may not have been the most adventurous detour, but it certainly proved to be one of the most delicious. Laden with homemade chocolates and candies, our snack supply was in excellent shape—fuel for the rest of the trip and a sweet start to our escape.

 Gooseberry Falls may be teeming with visitors year-round, but it never loses its charm. There's something hypnotic about the rush of cascading water—it draws us in like moths to a flame. Its simplicity is soothing, a balm for the spirit, even when surrounded by throngs of people. 

 For me, this park has always had a way of awakening my inner child. As kids, Gooseberry was our wild playground, a place where the confines of the car melted away, and pent-up energy could finally erupt. Long drives with our parents made everyone restless, but our antics must have driven them to the brink. They practically *encouraged* us to let loose when we arrived, desperate for a break from our relentless noise and boundless energy. 

 We'd scramble over jagged rock faces, splash in the cool, shallow pools beneath the lower falls, and challenge ourselves to hop from stone to stone across the river—usually with a soggy finish. Those wet escapades often meant an abrupt end to our fun, but they never stopped us from trying again the next time. 

 Even in winter, Gooseberry transformed into a frosty wonderland of adventure. The river, freezing solid in places, became a new kind of playground. The staircase down to the falls, slick with snow and ice, was less a path and more a makeshift slide. We'd throw caution to the wind, sitting down on our butts, we'd careen to the bottom, only to climb back up and do it all over again. 

 Even as an adult, I've always tried to recapture the playful spirit of my childhood on every visit to Gooseberry Falls. I still challenge myself to climb the rocky slopes, testing my balance and courage. Jumping across the stones scattered through the river remains a favorite, though these days, I've had to tone down the degree of difficulty. Still, I refuse to give it up entirely—it's a small rebellion against time. 

 What strikes me now, though, is how few kids seem to come here for the kind of wild, reckless fun we used to revel in. Instead, I see a lot of people standing still, phones in hand, angling for the perfect shot. There's nothing wrong with a photo, of course, but something about it feels hollow. Where's the adventure in snapping pictures? What's the point of capturing a moment when you've hardly done anything to make it memorable? 

 It's as if people are more interested in logging proof of their visit than living in the moment. A quick photo, a glance at the falls, and then they're off to the next destination. It feels robotic, like they're checking items off a list instead of letting the place leave a mark on them. Gooseberry deserves more than that. Every stone, every stream, every tree is an invitation to climb, splash, and explore—a chance to *experience* something, not just document it. 

 The spirit of a place lives and fades, just like all things in this world. People hear about its beauty, its charm, its magic, and they come in droves. But when that magic is worn thin—when the mystery fades—those same people move on, seeking the next untouched destination. Time forgets what once was, and the place evolves into something else entirely. It's the transient nature of all life: everything is in a constant state of change. Nothing in this world is ever stagnant. Energy is always in motion, transforming, reshaping, and reinventing itself. It's like a handful of marbles, constantly gathered up and thrown again, scattering in new patterns each time. The contents never change—it's the same energy, the same elements—but the forms they take are endlessly different, endlessly evolving.

When I first came to Gooseberry Falls, it was simpler. You'd park along the busy highway, scramble down worn paths, and discover the falls on your own terms. The park building back then was nothing more than a modest shack, offering just the basics. Then came the remodel—a shiny new visitor center, paved paths, and carefully planned overlooks. It was all designed to make the park more accessible, to welcome more people. And it did. But in some ways, it stripped away part of the park's untamed charm. The spirit of it is still there, but now you have to search a little harder to find it. 

 There was a time when parks embraced the adventurous spirit. If you wanted to take risks, to climb where you shouldn't or wade into dangerous waters, no one stopped you. Danger was part of the experience, a personal choice that carried personal responsibility. Now, every park is littered with warning signs and bordered by fences, their purpose clear: to protect people from themselves. It feels sanitized, as though we've traded the thrill of discovery for the sterile comfort of safety. 

 Blame the insurance companies, if you like. They've reshaped our world, making everything about liability and the fear of lawsuits. And yet, for those willing to bend the rules a little, to step beyond the barriers, that spirit of risk and adventure still exists. You just have to be clever enough to find it—and bold enough to embrace it. 

 It was summer, and the trails were dry and easy to navigate—if you could dodge the constant stream of visitors. Most people come to admire the upper and lower falls before moving on to their next destination. I had other plans in mind. This time, I wanted to stretch our visit and see if I could coax my grandson into a bit of the adventurous spirit Gooseberry had always stirred in me. 

 The upper falls are picturesque—perfect for a quick photo and a moment of quiet reflection—but the real action lies further down at the lower falls. Here, the river surges under the highway, cascading over ancient lava flows hardened by time, carving and eroding the bedrock in its relentless journey toward Lake Superior. 

 At one narrow cascade, water sprays and tumbles into a pool that transforms into a playground during calmer days—perfect for swimming and splashing when the river isn't a raging torrent, as it is after the spring thaw or a heavy rain. Below the pool, the river twists sharply into a horseshoe-shaped ridge, briefly splitting the current before it merges again past the bend. 

 This divided section of the river is a climber's dream, with jagged rocks and natural footholds begging for exploration. Near where the waters reunite, a group of university students was practicing rock climbing. Their ropes and determined expressions caught my grandson Cole's attention. 

 "Some pretty girls down there," I said casually, noticing his gaze lingering on the climbers. 

 "I guess," he mumbled, trying to act disinterested but failing miserably. 

 "You should give it a try," I suggested. 

 "You mean ask them to if I can join? No way," he replied, a hint of panic in his voice. 

 "No, I meant find your own spot along the river. Challenge yourself. It might even impress one of those young beautiful eyes to gaze your way." 

 "Nah, that's okay, Grandma. I'm fine with watching." 

 "Watching," I echoed. "So is everyone these days." 

 Cole shrugged. "I don't really know about that kind of stuff. Besides, I don't have the right clothing." 

 "What's the 'right' clothing?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "This kind of climbing doesn't require a uniform." 

 "I mean, I don't have a swimsuit or anything. If I get wet, I don't have anything to change into," he explained. 

"Then don't go into the river," I said. "Though it's much more fun if you do. I'd climb with you if I could, but I'll settle for rolling up my pants and wading in the shallow water." 

 "That's okay. I'll pass," he said, avoiding my gaze. 

 I sighed, feeling the weight of his hesitation. "I thought you came here for an adventure, Cole. Here it is, right in front of you." 

 "Maybe later. I just don't feel like it." 

 "Don't feel like it," I repeated softly. "That's because you've been stuck in a dark mood for too long. Patterns like that are hard to break. The longer you stay in them, the safer they feel. Suddenly, you never *want* to do anything different, because staying the same feels easier." I paused, letting my words sink in. "The only way to break that pattern is by force—by deliberately choosing to do something you *don't* want to do. If you wanted to do it, there wouldn't be a challenge, would there?" 

 "You're probably right," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "Maybe I'll try something else later." 

 I shook my head, my patience thinning. "Excuses," I said plainly. "That's all I'm hearing. Excuses are just a way to justify staying exactly where you are. We use them to convince others—or maybe ourselves—that we're okay with not trying. But deep down, we're not. Excuses are wasted energy, Cole. They don't help you grow or learn. They're just words meant to quiet the guilt of playing it safe." 

 He didn't reply, but I could see the conflict in his eyes.

 "People who say they'll do something later rarely follow through," I said, my voice soft but firm. "Maybe it's the danger—you don't want to get hurt. Or maybe it's the fear of embarrassing yourself, especially in front of cute girls. It could even be the thought of strangers watching, making you feel shy. But there will *always* be something—some threshold holding you back, convincing you to stay in your comfort zone. That's why we came here, at least for me. It wasn't just to admire nature or learn interesting facts. It was to push you beyond what feels safe and familiar." 

 I paused, watching him shuffle his feet, then pressed on. "When I went with my grandfather to the Boundary Waters, the wilderness was just the backdrop. The real challenge wasn't the canoeing or the camping—it was being thrown into a world that was completely foreign to me. I didn't know how to navigate it, literally or figuratively. But that kind of challenge forces you to grow. More than that, it makes you reach inside yourself and discover something you didn't even know was there." 

 Cole kept his gaze on the ground, scuffing the dirt with his shoe. For a moment, I wondered if I'd gone too far, pushing him harder than I should have. 

 "And what are you going to do while I climb?" Cole asked, his tone teetering between skepticism and curiosity. 

 "I'll stand above you and help," I replied, trying to sound supportive. "If you're worried about your clothes, I can give you some money to buy shorts at the Visitor Center. They've got bathrooms where you can change, so you won't have to worry about ruining what you're wearing." 

 I could feel the ice melting from his resolve as he considered my offer. 

 "Okay, Grandma," he finally said, exhaling in resignation. "You've worn me down. I feel like we're not leaving here unless I say yes, so let's just get it over with." 

 A pang of guilt struck my conscience. As much as I wanted to believe this was for him—to give him an adventure, a moment of growth—I couldn't ignore the truth stirring inside me. This so-called adventure wasn't entirely for Cole. It was for me, too. A way to relive my own memories, to justify my own longing for spontaneity, for challenge. 

 I am only human, after all. Full of my own excuses and justifications, just like everyone else. 

 After Cole disappeared into the Visitor Center, I started to wonder if he'd changed his mind. Maybe he'd found an excuse to back out. But just as I began to accept the possibility, there he was, striding down the stairs in his newly acquired outfit. 

 While waiting, I'd kept myself entertained by people-watching. Families and couples came and went, each wave of new faces sparking random thoughts in my head. Some made me chuckle—a little girl loudly scolding her father for dropping their water bottle. Others brought an unkind sort of judgment—a couple bickering over directions, their whispers escalating into sharp words. It struck me how easily we judge others over the smallest cracks in their social masks, and I couldn't help but laugh at myself for the petty nature of such thoughts. Where did they even come from? Perhaps from my own insecurities, quietly lurking in the background. 

 "Look at you, ready for battle," I teased as Cole reached me. 

 "It's just a shirt and shorts," he said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic." 

 "I'm old. I get to be as dramatic as I want," I shot back with a grin. 

 "Oh Lord, here we go." Cole laughed. "Every time you want something your way—or want to get out of something—suddenly your age is the excuse. But if I bring it up and say you *can't* do something because of it, you get all offended and tell me not to use your age as a reason. Convenient." 

 I laughed, caught red-handed. "You might've made one or two good points there." 

 Cole rolled his eyes, shrugged, and made his way toward the area beneath the final set of falls. I trailed behind at a distance, climbing onto a perch above where the river split into two channels, giving me a good vantage point. From there, I watched as he wandered along the rocky terrain, carefully examining several potential climbing spots. He paused at three or four different places before finally finding a route he felt brave enough to attempt. 

 As he prepared to climb, I leaned forward on the rocks, keeping him in my sight, cheering him on, though unsure if he could even hear me. 

 Cole moved slowly and deliberately. His nervousness was palpable, visible in the way he swallowed hard and scanned the wall with a constant, calculating gaze. He extended his right hand as far as it would go, groping for a solid hold above him. Even when he found one, he tested it cautiously before committing to the move. His left foot followed, inching upward as he sought a secure crevice to press into. 

Tentatively, he repeated the process on his opposite sides, slowly finding his rhythm. As his confidence grew, his movements became a bit faster, though still precise. His head remained focused on the route ahead, resisting the urge to glance down at the jagged rocks and rushing water below—a fall from this height could mean serious injury or worse. 

 Cole was free climbing, with no safety gear, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying to watch. 

 The wall wasn't particularly tall, but it was a challenge of willpower more than distance. Cole carefully plotted his route, moving upward and slightly to the right along a natural path of handholds and ledges. Step by step, he fought his nerves, his determination etched in every movement. 

 I kept shouting encouragements from above—tips about holds, reminders to stay calm—but I had no idea if I was helping or just adding to his stress. Cole seemed locked in his own world, laser-focused on the climb. 

 Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled himself over the edge. His face was a mix of adrenaline-fueled exhilaration and utter exhaustion. But then came the grin—a wide, triumphant smile that spoke louder than any words. 

 "I made it. Are you happy now?" he asked, catching his breath. 

 "The question is," I replied with a smile, "do *you* feel happy about it?" 

 He hesitated before nodding. "I have to admit, I wouldn't call it fun... but there's definitely a sense of accomplishment." 

 I opened my arms, and he begrudgingly leaned in for a quick hug. 

 "See?" I said. "If you can do *that*, just think of all the other things you might accomplish that you didn't think you could." 

 "I don't know if I need to risk my life to find out," he half-joked, his grin returning. 

 "I'm just glad you're alright." 

 "You're not expecting me to do anything else crazy today, are you?" he asked warily. 

 "No," I said, shaking my head. "You're right—it was a pretty wild idea. I doubt your parents would approve. People *have* died here, you know. It's not something to take lightly." 

 "Oh, so *now* you say that," he quipped, mocking me. "Before, it was all, 'It's an adventure! Do it, Cole! It'll be amazing!'" 

 "And?" I countered. "Was I wrong?" 

 He sighed, reluctant to concede. "It may have been rewarding in some ways." 

 "Well," I said with a grin, "you've earned a break. Go cool off in the shallow water, enjoy the reward, and get some use out of your new digs." 

 Cole smirked and headed toward the water, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the tension. Watching him wade in, I couldn't help but feel a little proud—of him, for pushing himself, and maybe even of myself, for giving him the nudge he didn't know he needed. 

 I rolled up my pants and found a comfortable spot by the riverbank, letting my feet dangle into the cool, rushing water. It was a welcome relief on a warm summer day, the sensation immediately soothing. The setting overwhelmed the senses—brown, churning water, heavy with organic material, roared past, drowning out most other sounds. The misty air carried a faint musk of decaying leaves and damp earth, leaving a subtle tang on my tongue. Yet, the icy touch of the water on my feet stole my attention, quieting the rest of the world and coaxing me into a rare moment of pure relaxation. 

 The spell, however, wasn't meant to last. A constant flow of people moved through the area, their chatter and footsteps breaking the fragile serenity. It was harder to feel connected to the moment when the rhythm of the crowd kept intruding. Eventually, Cole and I exchanged a glance, a silent agreement that our little adventure had run its course. 

 As we headed back, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Despite his initial resistance, Cole had taken a step outside his comfort zone—and, even if just for a moment, it felt like he was beginning to open up. Still, I knew better than to take this for granted. It wouldn't take much for him to retreat into his shell again. This trip wasn't about a single breakthrough; it was about finding the small, steady steps that might lead him somewhere new.