At the end of a hard packed trail outside of Washburn, a series of cliffs beckon hikers to take a plunge into the cool, crystal blue waters of Lake Superior. By all accounts, it is a relatively easy jump. On this particularly hot August day, a couple of teenagers, along with a mother and her three kids are taking turns plummeting feet first, only to spring out of the sandy bottom onto a series of rocks destined for climbing.
I took my son on this Houghton Falls hike determined to maintain my status as cool mom (at least in my head). My memory failing me when I determined the cliff was much higher than I recalled in a previous hike. Perched on the edge, I knew I was in trouble. My son, cautious yet fearless, briefly hesitates before ultimately jumping in and scrambling back-up the cliff to see me take my turn.
I request my husband films. Afterall, if this is not captured on film, does it even count? The recording starts, only for me to give several false starts. A part of me proud that my heart and brain still recognize the dangers of a middle-aged mama jumping off of any ledge, let alone a cliff. My son grows anxious, mocking me for being a scaredy cat – a chicken – that’s all talk and no action.
I’d like to say that in this moment, I gracefully took the plunge. Not quite. After several more false starts, I eventually barreled my way down with a minimal scream and a whale-like crash. I didn’t die. If this were a movie, the end credits would role and there’d be some lesson about middle-aged mom conquering her fears and in the words of George Lucas, determining everything you want is on the other side of fear.
Turns out, that isn’t always true. I lingered in the greatest of the great lakes allowing my heart to settle down. I then began contemplating the scramble up a rock cliff that came next. Now mind you, my 11-year old son, multiple teenagers, a mom, and kids ranging from what appeared to be 7 – 16 year old shimmied their way up this cliff with no problems. For this non-athletic mama, I hadn’t really calculated in my inability to climb anything other than a flight of stairs (preferably with a railing). My legs are short and my fear of falling extra high. I lack coordination and upper body strength and am quick to visualize all of the ways slipping off the ledge could lead to my death.
I eventually made my way to the shoreline and stared at the rock path ahead of me. My body shuts down. I contemplate whether I could swim to Washburn versus hurling myself up these rocks like a beached walrus. The reality was in that moment I wasn’t capable of conquering this cliff without a little help from my friends.
As I stood on the first rock and slowly swung my leg up, my 11-year old towers above me encouraging me to keep going. My husband, always the hero, stands on my other side holding my arm and torquing me forward. I soon catapult forward onto a slender ledge that lead way to another jump up before tightrope walking on a narrow ledge underneath more rocks and returning to the base.
I exhale, confident I’ll survive now that my feet are firmly planted on solid ground. I look back at the cliff which now seems small in comparison to my fear. (But no, I do not jump again). A piece of me proud that I’m retaining cool mom status for one more day, along with sharing a life lesson with my son. Taking the plunge – that leap of faith for whatever matters to you is hard. What we often forget is what comes next is even harder. But, often times what matters most.
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