Ok, it was dusk. That was the best I could do. That's Bishop's peak at the far right, Cerro San Luis to it's left: as seen from about midway up Islay Hill.
You wind through a residential neighborhood to get to the trail head.
The guardian of the mountain came to me in the visage of a 1st grader on a trike.
"That's my house! Do you think my house is cool?"
I thought over the possible responses, then gave what was apparently the sacred password:
"I think your house is the coolest!"
After nodding appreciatively (perhaps scanning me for sincerity), the guardian pedaled off, and left me to my thoughts.
The trail is quite a bit more fun than Bishop's Peak, and its steady, panting, wheezing grade. It curves gradually to the right, alternating steep and plateau terrain.
At a certain point, I had to turn around. I was worried there would not be enough light to see the trail.
I had a moment of panic in the descent. I skidded down a steep grade uncontrollably. Flashbacks to my broken ankle. The memory nearly makes me throw up. I somehow land upright, uninjured. But I freeze for an indeterminate amount of time.
Then I begin a more careful descent.
A family boldly has their drapes open, exposing a family game night. That is surprisingly hard for me to handle. I decide to let the grief have its course, as I lean on my walking stick. Sadness, anger, regret, self-recrimination (don't let THAT one go too far. Conscience, yes. Self-abuse, no.).
THAT (in the family room) was what I wanted. THAT was what I had every intention of being a part of.
And yet...
And yet what? It won't happen in that form. It will take it's own form. Time will tell.
Pangs of envy. Yet I'm grateful for them. Enjoy each other.
For now, another baby step, then another: literal now, metaphorical later.
Back to the car, safe and sound. Grief has it's way.
Yes, guardian of the mountain. I think your house is cool.
I think your house is the coolest.
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