Mortals and Mount Olympus

(This is another take on the last post)

I'd like to dance a jig on a mountain ridge and scale a wall of mud without the fear of falling to a premature death. Or stand rooted in the wind and stretch out my arms and let my clothes flap like drying laundry, and not dream of the gust that topples me. No, there should be no dreams of tripping or falling, at least until I've sprouted wings. Nor should any real falling occur. I'll shimmy down those rocks with my inelegant style, sigh 'oh my,' and mentally rehearse each carefully timed series of bounding steps to the next point of safety, but there's no need for death just yet. I'd like to reach that mountaintop someday uninjured (and even splinters are included in that prohibition).

Before you hold my sex against me, I'll have you know that my girliness is not so extreme as for me to bemoan the dirt that rushed up under my recently painted nails, or the mud caking on my lower body. I didn't even curse at the occasional mosquito that got a little fresh with me. But 40 ft of mud and tree roots had me wondering just which part of my body was the doing the hiking and lamenting our lack of universal health coverage. I wouldn't mind a mild battle wound, but only if I could afford to have it repaired to 'like new' condition and it saved me from the prelims.

The hike ended undramatically with a 'I'm not climbing down that, I'm not sure I could get back up' at a spot that was comparatively unimpressive. My fear of heights finally got the better of me. Yet, had we continued we would have been late returning home. So we slowly headed back taking in the view and scanning the bordering foliage for tart strawberry guavas. The mud had me momentarily reflecting on becoming the hermit of the ridgeline. That would take care of the prelims and a few other nagging inconveniences of modern life. The wind made me reconsider. A rather large L-shaped log embedded in the muck received my salacious greetings and promises of affection with a stern rigidity. Then came the bit with the rope, but it wasn't quite enough to get a good bounce out of. Perhaps mountains need more rope. Our baby roller coaster chugged back to the big rock face and up, up, up we went. I am happy to report that I almost fell off only once. Only once and only almost.

That night as my pectorals did more of the aching than my calves or hamstrings, I dreamt of our almost adventure to Mt. Olympus. At every possible moment I slipped, I tripped, I fell, and I slid right off the ridge, only to find myself further along, but meeting the same disastrous end. Not even in my dreams did this mortal make it to Mt. Olympus. One of those spills was my last. At least this time I awoke to tell the tale.