I’m typing with one hand only – for the next six weeks.
Up in Waterville Valley for a few days with son Sam and friend. Both strong minded 13 year-old boys essentially only children as far as home life goes. We have 3 days here together for this stint.
They wanted mountain biking, club with pool, tennis, racquetball, weight room, etc. I wanted mountain climbing – Mt. Osceola as one of our 4,000 footers. Wednesday was the best weather day so we drove right there.
“Climb a mountain after sitting in the car for two and a half hours?” Sam protested.
“Uh. Yes.” Movement after sedentary sounds good (and sensible) to me.
Got maybe 20 minutes into the hike with Sam sending back his 13 year-old indignant ‘wiser-than-thou’ rants every step of the way. I practiced deep walking meditation. Until his partner in crime sits down on a rock looking at a few flat though wet rocks ahead. (His footwear had worn treads and ‘slow and steady’ was apparently not in the wheelhouse – I’m not saying he didn’t ultimately choose wisely. I’m just not saying.)
“I can’t get over that.”
“It’s a just a flat, level, slightly wet rock.”
After a few admittedly embarrassing behavioral expulsions from this embodiment of a 57 year-old, I ingloriously admitted defeat and left them with lunches whilst I lived out my own version of glory.
And it was. My last summit of Osceola was an early morning solo run/hike last August. This one was supposed to be accompanied, but alas. The view was stunning.
And in my haste to return to the two apparently carhood lounging teens, I took a misstep (not my first or last) and my right hand opted to sacrifice its good health and break my fall.
Seems fractured plans abounded – but – do I wish I had chosen differently in place of lessons learned and sights seen?
Not a cha