There’s a special kind of confidence you feel when you’re young parents. The kind that makes you believe you can do absolutely anything, even when every sign in the universe is flashing “You’re not built for this, turn back now, before its to late!” That was us the day we decided to tackle Apple Orchard Falls in Roanoke, Virginia.
We had read—somewhere, from someone we clearly should never trust again, likely a blog post—that this was a “family-friendly” hike. Three miles. Easy. Scenic. Great for kids. With a 200ft. water fall at the end to reward you for your efforts.
Looking back, I think the person who wrote that review either A) has no children, B) has legs made of titanium, or C) is deeply evil and enjoys watching families suffer.
When we started, the trail was lovely. Paved. Gentle. Birds singing. Trees swaying. The Appalachian Mountains whispering sweet sweet encouragement. I was wearing flip-flops, because obviously this was going to be a walk in the park.
Oh, how wrong we were.
Logan, our oldest, was three at the time—full of energy and absolutely no stamina. Kara couldn’t walk yet. And in a poetic twist, the rest of us would soon join her in that condition.
About a quarter mile in, the trail stopped pretending it was friendly and revealed its true form: a steep, rocky, Appalachian torture chamber. One moment we were strolling. The next moment we were basically clinging to a rock face like confused, underprepared mountain goats, while chords of dueling banjos drifted over the wind.
I remember thinking, “Huh. Maybe flip-flops weren’t the right footwear.” But at that point the only way out was through, and pride is a powerful thing. So I kept going, slapping my bargain-bin sandals against rock like I was auditioning for a survival show.
Then Logan stopped. And not like a normal “I’m tired” stop. He turned into a full-on statue. Sat down on the trail, folded his arms, and decided that his journey was over. Absolutely refused to move another inch. A three-year-old weighs approximately twelve thousand pounds when they don’t want to be carried, and as I stared at him, I briefly—just for a second—considered leaving him there to be raised by chipmunks.
Before I got too far into that plan, Jo—my fearless, dramatic, and always sacrificial wife—stepped in to help. And by “help,” I mean she attempted to maneuver herself and Logan down a rocky section and performed the most spectacular, heroic fall I have ever seen. She twisted, turned, threw her weight so Logan didn’t roll off the mountain, and in the process, she broke her knee.
At least for the purpose of this story she broke her knee. In real life, she hurt it so badly she eventually needed surgery, so you should feel about 12% sad for her. The other 88% is reserved for “What were we thinking?”
That was the moment the mountain made it clear: we were not going to see any falls. We weren’t even going to see anything falling except us. We were done. The dream died right there next to a mossy boulder and a very confused toddler.
Turning around felt like admitting defeat—and it absolutely was. But when your wife is injured, your toddlers are staging a sit-in, your infant is along for the ride, and your footwear has the structural integrity of wet noodles, pride becomes optional.
The walk back to the van took roughly three eternities. Every rock mocked me. Every incline felt personal. At one point, I’m pretty sure the mountain whispered, “Should’ve worn shoes, buddy.” Between my wives shattered knees, Slayden on my back, Logan on my shoulders, diaper bulging to the point of pending nuclear explosion, and kara in my arms, the shoes were the 5th worry on my list.
By the time we finally stumbled back to the van—bloody, bruised, limping, and spiritually broken—we didn’t celebrate. We didn’t talk. We just sat there, breathing like we’d escaped a prison break. I searched for the nearest McDonalds, we deserved a coke, and a burger… and a lot more than McDonald’s could sell us. Jo googled, nearest ER.
We left a lot on that trail. Some of our innocence. The last of our pride. And, a chunk of Jo’s knee.
The mountain won that day. And I’m completely fine letting it keep the title.
hope today is a FLAT one!
-austininva
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