Sunday, September 6, 2009

Hills-So many; So little time.

It used to be that over the hill ( and through the dale ), was the way to grandma's house. Now, I am grandma, and some infer that I am over the hill. Did I miss that metaphorical hill ?

Maybe it was the one the single engine train stopped in the middle of in the Pyrenees Mts on my way into Spain from France last year; or the hill with 80+ rough, stone steps in the Mexican jungle I had to climb to visit my friend, Jacque. It might even have been the hill here in California on route 58 that climbs 4000 feet up from the Mojave desert floor and cuts through the Tehachapi Mountain range into town.

I love hills. I love the excitement of anticipation, of not knowing exactly what lies on the other side, reaching the crest, and the descent. Even the tiniest hill offers a bit of a challenge.

I've read that at age 66 I have an average of 20 years left on this earth. I've chosen to spend them traveling, enjoying every possible hill: the climb, the view from the top, the descent and rolling down the grassy ones with my grandkids. Over the hill indeed.

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