Two of my favorite things in the world are hiking and spending time with my grandkids. Now that the oldest three are finally big enough to hit the trails with me, it feels like a whole new kind of joy. I first discovered the Lake Alma trails with my husband, Mark, last year—but I had conveniently forgotten just how long that trail can feel, especially for little legs.

Before we left, I told the kids they wouldn’t need their jackets, and if they insisted on bringing them, they’d have to carry them themselves. I was not going to be the pack mule for abandoned jackets once they got hot. With brand‑new hiking shoes, a backpack full of snacks and water, and Tuck (my dog) practically vibrating with excitement, we set off.

When we reached the waterfall, the shoes came off and the splashing began. That’s also when Dovie started dragging her jacket, so—of course—it ended up in my backpack anyway. An hour later, we reached the creek crossing, and the kids were ready to play again. On a warm February day, they begged to swim. I fussed and told them to only wade, not get soaked.

And then it happened.

Reid slipped and fell right into the water. He was drenched, and I was grumbling. We put our boots back on and started crossing the creek on the dry stones. The three kids and the dog made it across easily. Then it was my turn. I stepped on a loose rock, lost my balance, and fell flat on my back into the creek.

I was soaked from head to toe—but thankfully unhurt. The jacket I swore I wouldn’t carry cushioned my fall. After I reassured everyone that I was fine, we all burst into laughter.

There’s something humbling about moments like that. Maybe it’s good for my grandkids to see that “Ábu” can make mistakes, laugh about them, and keep going. Honestly, I think that’s part of the adventure.

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