HIGH ADVENTURE WITH GRANDPA

FEBRUARY 3, 2025 – The best antidote to news of more nonsense is to spend the weekend up at the cabin with your nine-year-old granddaughter. For one thing, you find yourself looking at our world—and the worlds above it—through a fresh lens. Take for example, my first glance up at the sky after we’d pulled up to our Shangri-La three hours northeast of all the commotion—and light pollution—of the Twin Cities. The stars and planets were so bright and numerous, they reminded me of one of Illiana’s paintings of the nighttime sky, which, in turn, reminded me of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Later, after we’d unloaded the car, I led her outside again to the icebound lakeshore, where together we savored another long look at the heavenly jeweler’s display. I pointed out Orion, who was in his prime, then Venus, Mars, and Saturn (“Or is it Jupiter?” I questioned myself aloud).

“Let’s make a wish upon a star,” I said.

“Okay.”

Illiana was very familiar with my routine: “Star light, star bright . . .” I said, and together yet separately, we each made a wish. She’s a thoughtful kid, so I knew her wish wouldn’t be squandered. If she’d asked, I would’ve told her that I hadn’t wasted my wish either.

Over the following two days, Illiana and I took several long winter walks (Grandma is still convalescing from back surgery)—down the shoreline path to the old cabin of Björnholm; later, into the tree garden to a section I call, the “Plantation,” where a thousand or more volunteer pine saplings have taken root over about an acre of cleared land adjacent to the power line easement. I was surprised by how much stronger she’s become. Not once during a nearly hour-long snowy hike did her spirits or energy flag. Moreover, she covered nearly twice the ground I did, as she run ahead, then behind and back to me numerous times. Her delight engendered my own: nothing lightens the heart more than watching a child running in the snow—without aim or destination but just for the fun of it.

One of our walks took us onto the lake ice. To ensure that our return trip would be warmer, we headed into the wind. We stayed relatively close to shore, since there were signs that the ice was unstable. Little did I anticipate that the greater danger was on land.

We walked along the shore of Björnholm and eventually past its eastern limit. Along the way, I pointed out noteworthy trees and formations and Illiana discovered others on her own. Natural attractions were the jagged chunks of ice pushed upward by unceasing forces. Regular stops to inspect things at closer range slowed our progress to a crawl. Half an hour passed by the time we decided it was time to turn around.

I’m not sure whose smart idea it was—Illiana’s or mine—to leave the ice and ascend the steep bank along the easterly end of the property. The logic—if there was any—to the move was that at the very top of the slope we could find our way to the well-defined path back to the Red Cabin. Before I could tell her, “slow down,” however, and “give me a chance to catch up,” the young climber had scrambled over the rocky berm at the base of the slope and was 20 feet up the embankment.  At this stage, I had no choice but to follow.

Though this neck of the woods has been experiencing a months-long drought, a recent dusting of snow had turned the bank into a banana peel. By the time I’d reached a precarious position, Illiana had scaled even higher. I could see, however, that the terrain above her was steeper, more challenging, than the ground she’d already covered. Her progress now stopped.

In disbelief that I’d allowed us to reach such a predicament, I began to worry. Illiana was now holding on somewhat desperately to the base of a small pine. Her hands and feet had begun to feel the cold before we’d even started on this ill-advised detour. Depending on how long it would take us to extricate ourselves, we were another good 20 minutes from the cabin—assuming we ran along the ice. I had my phone, but if we needed to summon help, how long would it take for anyone to reach us? As I sized up our situation I recalled Illiana’s earlier question, “What does frostbite looks like?”

After sizing up a possible exit route, I shouted up to Illiana to traverse—“edge your way sideways to your right”—and grab another slender red pine in that direction. She followed my direction but soon hit some obstacles, and an even steeper pitch. Traversing her way out to her right wouldn’t work.

“Move your right foot sideways,” I said, “then up a bit to that short pine stump.”

She executed this step perfectly, but I could see there was no easy step beyond that. I also knew that climbing down was much harder than climbing up. If either one of us tried moving back down, we’d likely slip on the snow and dead leaves and crash down on the rocks and sharp vertical ice shards below.

Illiana now applied a bit of self-help. With a foot against the pine stump, she found a short stick for each hand, then tried to jam them into the bank to help her climb upward and out. The sticks were quite rotten, however, and wouldn’t support her. Good concept, I told myself, but won’t work—none of the sticks lying around are strong enough, and besides, the ground is frozen solid.

I surveyed the terrain going in the opposite direction and decided that it would be easier to negotiate than attempting any alternative way. When we seemed to be low enough not to kill ourselves if we lost control, I told Illiana, “What an adventure we’re having!”

“No,” she corrected me in less time than a heartbeat. “It’s a nightmare.

Illiana is not a thrill-seeker, and she’s generally appropriately aware and cautious. The touch of humor in her tone signaled that she was not in a panic, though I certainly would’ve understood if she were to panic. At this stage, I was simply trying hard to prevent a meltdown. Though I was plenty worried myself, I dared not show it.

As my dad would often say when facing a difficult task, “The only way to do it is . . . to do it.” Taking inspiration from that faint echo inside my head, I kick-started myself and focused on the best way out.

Ultimately, I talked Illiana down from her predicament and accompanied her to safety—one step at a time. She was none the worse for wear, and by the time we—half frozen—reached the Red Cabin, Illiana and I were both magnificently relieved. Soon she was sipping hot chocolate and assembling the latest Lego kit with Grandma, while I, Grandpa, watched the fire, relieved that our little adventure was over.

The Bard certainly had it right: “All’s Well that Ends Well.”

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson