It was supposed to be a birthday adventure, pure and simple. Sixteen years old, two teenagers fueled by bravado and granola bars, and me, the designated Sherpa hauling extra water bottles and a camera bag like some damned beast of burden. Silver Falls State Park… the great jewel of Oregon… the Trail of Ten Falls.

A fun hike, they said. Just a “walk in the woods.”

By the gods, how wrong we were.

It started fine, better than fine. Spirits high. The boys were laughing, I was clicking off shots with the Nikon like some half-crazed National Geographic field agent. The air was cool in the valley, the spray from the first waterfalls kissed our faces, and I thought, hell yes, this is what life’s about.

But then came that bridge.

We crossed it like doomed travelers in a Grimm fairytale, into the furnace. The valley trail curled upward in switchbacks that seemed designed by some sadistic architect of pain. The sun was overhead now, hammering down like a celestial blowtorch. 85 degrees in Oregon feels different in a canyon,hotter, heavier. And the breeze? Oh, there was a breeze. It was like standing in front of an open oven while the warm air mocked us, whispering: you weren’t ready for this, were you?

The boys started slowing down. I tried to keep morale up, spouting nonsense about “earning the view” and “we’re practically there.” Lies. Beautiful, necessary lies.

When we reached the blessed shade of the trees, those towering Douglas firs felt like gods granting us a temporary reprieve. The gentle giants had mercy where the sun had none.

But the real trouble didn’t come until later.

By Mile 4, it wasn’t a hike anymore, it was an endurance contest. Packs felt heavier, water bottles felt lighter, and words got fewer. By Mile 6 and 7, we entered survival mode. The kind of primal zone where conversation dies and your only focus is putting one foot in front of the other.

The water ran out at Mile 7. Gone. Dry lips, parched throats, and the cruel knowledge that the refill station was at the top of the damned mountain. The last three miles became a hell march. One boy’s face was red with heat; the other stared straight ahead like he’d seen his own mortality. I had visions of newspaper headlines:

“Three Found Crawling Out of Oregon Wilderness After Birthday Gone Wrong.”

But we made it.

Ten waterfalls. Ten moments of beauty carved into a day of madness. And finally, blessedly, the truck.

As I collapsed into the seat, my leg cramped up like the final insult from an angry god. Pain shot up my thigh, locking me in place like a statue. I howled and cursed and laughed all at once, while the boys sat grinning, too tired to speak.

We survived. Somehow. And as I sucked down that first ice-cold gulp of water, I realized I’d do it again.

Because no matter the pain, no matter the heat, we saw them all. Ten waterfalls. Ten reminders that beauty and suffering often come as a package deal in this life.

Happy 16th birthday, kid. You’ll never forget this one.

Neither will I.