Kathleen Lynn
July 25, 2026
I became enchanted with hiking and camping long before I had a driver’s license or owned my first car. The woods, ponds, meadows, and valleys pulled at me like a magnet from when I was old enough to walk by myself.
One of my first adventures takes me back to a small cottage off Plainfield Avenue on the Grand River in Northeast Grand Rapids. At three years old, the rhythm of my day began with the whooshing of the Grand River that ran in front of our house. Rowboat adventures to swim on the opposite bank became a weekly ritual and lent a recreational feel to our lives.
The first time I explored on my own at that age, I grabbed a blanket and dragged my play table and set them in the woods across from our driveway, on the side opposite of the water.
My mom watched with curiosity, which eventually turned into a watchful eye. After a few times of exerting my independence, she played along and packed a suitcase for me to take on my adventures. After twenty to thirty minutes, I’d return to my play area, motivated by that initial rush of freedom.
One day, I snuck out of the house when she wasn’t paying attention. I wanted to see how far back I could go into the woods. The further I went, the harder it was to see the way back. The undergrowth grew thicker, and the trees changed. I know now that the “mean” trees were probably honey locust or hawthorn. All I knew back then was that the harder I tried to untangle myself, the more I became tangled up in the long black spines that pierced my skin, with pokes that felt like bee stings.
Soon, I was bleeding from several spots, and it seemed I had been gone a long time. I realized I had made a mistake when I didn’t remember the path home. I cried and couldn’t stop shaking.
I didn’t know that my venture that day sent my mom into a panic. Her fright increased when she realized I was actually missing and not just setting up camp across our driveway. Beyond our woods, a sand and gravel company had dug a dangerously deep pit, prone to collapse, and full of slippery mud that made it hard to get out even if you just waded in a few feet.
Suddenly, I heard branches snapping and loud snorting and knew my German Shepherd dog, Rusty, was heading my way. I called for him and he came bounding towards me. I wrapped my arms around his thick fur and when he walked away, I held onto his tail. He gave no growl of protest as I tightened my grip, not wanting to lose my rescue animal. Rusty allowed that intrusion, and continued to follow the trail only dogs can smell to the safety of our yard. That taught me something about the protective nature of dogs.
My mom’s tear-streaked face was the first thing I saw when I reached our dirt road. She pulled me into a tight hug and wouldn’t let go. The wicked branches had torn my clothing, and several thorns stuck out of my head, causing blood to drip down my face.
As my mom came into view, I ran into her arms and noticed her weary face. Nothing in my life had ever felt better. She told me years later, that she could hardly breathe in my absence, because she feared drowning would be my fate. When she shared that, I could imagine how she would have felt if a team of divers brought my lifeless body up our back steps. My poor mother!
I wish I could say I never did anything that risky again. But then, I’d be lying. Over the years, I seem to have repeatedly chosen some wicked thorns with dire consequences.
At least these days, I write those adventures into my stories and don’t actually choose the roller coaster ride. I now prefer to experience the thrill from the safety of my writing chair, with a cozy blanket on my lap.
Kathleen Lynn 