After a week of driving we found ourselves on the shore of Lake Michigan, in Indiana Dunes State Park. We had been driving for more than three hours ( a long time for our two kids) so were happy to be out and stretching our legs. The conditions weren’t safe for swimming, and despite coming dressed to swim (if everyone’s doing it , we can too, right?) we did not venture into the water. No one, in fact, dared to swim.
Instead we piddled around on the beach, tossing rocks into the crashing waves, while I checked every single gull I could. Most of them were ring-billed. One was a herring gull. None were the monstrously large Greater Black-Backed Gull that I so desperately want to see. I mean, it’s the largest gull in the WORLD. How cool is that?
Because we couldn’t swim, I had it in mind that we could climb to the top of one of the dunes (there was a trail, Leo reiterated many times that we were not to walk on the dunes because birds might be nesting there) but it quickly became apparent that this was not going to happen. Xander was too infatuated with picking up rocks, holding them, and saying ‘throw rock’ without actually throwing them. We had barely walked 100 feet. We needed to walk 300 just to get to the trailhead.
“Leo,” I asked. “Would you like to climb to the top of that dune with me?”
“Sure Daddy!” he said to my shock.
A quick conference with mom, a handing over of the car keys, and we were on our way. We strolled down the beach at a much faster clip now. Leo found a feather from a gull (ring-billed, I deemed it) and I tucked it in my hat. I had lost the feather from my chicken somewhere on the road.
We found the trailhead (trail 8) and started our assent.
By the time we had made it what I thought was halfway, Leo had already fallen down a half dozen times. He did this while laughing, and it could not have hurt, because we were walking on soft sand. In good spirits, I pressed us upward. At this point, we were high enough that we could see Chicago across the river. I am not a geographer, but holy crap that seemed high. The way back down was long and steep, and my legs were starting to ache. For every two steps forward, I slipped back one. Leo, being a four year old prone to wandering, was more like three steps to one of actual progress.
But still, he did not complain. Not even when he flopped over for the tenth time. I gave him water, shouldered the backpack, and on we pressed until we reached the treeline. The top. I told myself.
It was not the top.
From here, the slope got even steeper, from something like 35 degrees to 40 (I’m not exaggerating. There was a sign that said the maximum grade of this treacherous sand was 43 degrees.)
We paused to look for a greater black backed gull ( did not see one) and continued upwards.
Still, Leo did not complain. He was so exhausted that he was literally dragging himself through the sand like a lizard. Using four legs instead of two, slithering like a centipede. But onwards we climbed.
The day before Raquel had read me an article about raising resilient children, and damn it all if this was not the strongest evidence for us having done exactly that with our firstborn.
Up we climbed, into the trees, over roots (How did you get your water tree? I don’t understand how you can grow here” Leo said.) until finally, we reached the summit.
We, my four year old son and I, had climbed 192 vertical feet, up a grade that was 43 degrees at points. I was unspeakably, indescribably proud of my boy, not only for making this trek, but for doing it without asking to be carried, or having a tantrum, or demanding anything but water. I don’t know how he did it, and I don’t know how he kept a smile on his face the entire time.
That smile dipped a little bit though, when he saw the stairs leading down the other side and back to our campsite (I had told Raquel when I gave her the keys that we would just meet her there).
“We have to go down all those?” Leo asked.
“Yes,” I said. ‘But it won’t be so bad.”
Down the stairs we went. Leo jinxed us at some point, and said that he wished there was more sand to walk on, and around the next turn in the stairs, the sandy path returned,
“Wow, a magic forest,” I joked. “You asked for sand, and here it is.’
Leo died laughing at this, and promptly told me to wish for something.
“I wish we could see a Cape May Warbler,” I said. I had lugged my binoculars all the way up the cliff in hopes of seeing that gull.
What should appear before us but that very warbler.
Astonished, I pointed it out to Leo.
He lost his mind. He thought it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened. We had come to a magic forest. Anything we wished for would appear!
He told me all this at a rapid fire speed, while I urged us forward and prepared myself for him to lose his mind when the magic was not to be.
“What else do you want to see, Daddy?” he asked me.
“A hairy woodpecker,” I said. It would be new for the trip, and likely enough to spot.
“Birds are kind of hard, Daddy. They take a while to spot. I want to see someone running.”
The little stink had obviously seen someone coming toward us through the trees, for a second later, a jogger popped out, making his way up and toward the stairs.
“Wow, Daddy, it worked!” He grinned.
My brilliant, beautiful boy. He knew this forest wasn’t magical. A couple of coincidences was all that had happened. Still. That was enough for him.
“I guess I’d like to see some cool plants,” I said. Leo promptly pointed some out.
“I’d like to RUN FULL SPEED!” Leo shouted, and run we did. All the way down the hill, despite the stitch in my side.
It was one of the best hikes I’ve ever been on with Leo. Magic, one could say. Even if I never did see that gull I wanted.
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