Keys on a mountain

The nine year old wanted to go for a training hike with me. I was delighted to share my hobby and we set out bright and early.

Oh the wicked arc of a day hike with a child.

He started off chattering endlessly. “This is so fun! We’re doing the whole trail. Catch up mom.”

I smiled knowingly and continued my steady pace.

He scampered up steep hills. Each rock was a parkour challenge. We collected acorns and giggled that they looked like fat Frenchmen.

The turn came when I discovered that the trail didn’t dump us out where I expected. We now affectionately call that “doing a 2020.”

His mood darkened considerably. “Not another hill!” he lamented. He silently began tossing fat Frenchmen to their death off the steep ravine.

His constant dialogue went mute except for the moment when he quietly muttered “You know you are my only food source out here.”

Dark times indeed.

Every rock became a sitting rock. He asked passing hikers for water or to put him out of his misery.

My enthusiastic rendition of “To Dream the Impossible Dream” was met with a death stare and a reference of me being “so ‘80’s.”

We finally made it to the car. His face lit up at the thought of water and a seat.

“Dude guess what,” I casually said. “I think I left the keys at the top of the mountain.”

Oh if I could have captured that look on film.

Back to solo hiking!