The other day (June 21st) I did my morning constitutional run around the base of Grandeur Peak. A half hour up the side and a half hour back down -- a respectable single day's workout for which I was well equipped with walking sticks and detachable spikes to prevent slipping.
This is a beautiful time of the year. Everything is green and the wild flowers are a profuse delight. In a few weeks, everything'll be brown and dead -- this being Utah and all. I wondered if Claire would enjoy it. We like (and she likes) to do something together every day she's with us.
How to get her up on the mountain? The last few times I've tried to take her geocaching with me, she's been decidedly unenthusiastic about even the idea.
"Would you like to go on a picnic with me, Sweetheart? There're beautiful flowers and a most delightful view."
I was proud of my cleverness. It worked, too.
She loved it, enthralled by the green lushness, the beautiful flowers, and the ever broadening gorgeous perspective on the world. We found a shaded place to sit on a large towel and eat our lunch and she sidled up close to me for stability since we were on the side of a mountain.
"This is just right!" she said. "It's fun and it doesn't cost anything. We have to do this when the cousins come in August."
She wasn't particularly thrilled when I pointed out that, by August, the only thing living here would be the scrub oak.
She wanted to climb continuously higher and she scrambled ahead of me, often on all fours, chattering animatedly the whole time while I huffed and puffed trying to keep up with her. Soon we were beyond the half-hour point I had reached earlier that morning, but now I had neither walking sticks nor spikes. I was not expecting to come up this far nor into an area this rugged. She was fully equipped with flip-flops.
I tried to talk her into believing that we were amply high enough, but I was unconvincing. "Let's just go a little higher," she said. I seldom say no to anything she suggests.
But this time I had to lay down the law. "See those rocks up there?" I said. "That's as far as we should go."
"OK," she agreed.
Soon we were at the rocks. "OK," I said. "This is as far as we go."
"No, it isn't," she said. "You said those rocks up there." She pointed to a huge outcropping way above where we were.
On we went. Soon we were higher than I have ever been on that trail and before we reached the outcropping the trail petered out completely. We continued climbing and finally stood on the rocks.
Then she was freaked out a little, realizing we were higher than she has ever been on the side of a steep mountain. She almost immediately realized that getting down was harder than getting up. But she followed me down, slipping and sliding and whimpering slightly. I was slipping and sliding, too, and was amused.
Half way down, she decided she needed to call Mommy, which she did, chattering with her for a while and feeling much better.
She was very proud of herself. "We got almost all the way to the very top!" she told people.
"Not by a long-shot," I tried to tell her, but she believes her eyes over accepting my words.
