My Little Golden Book of Phobias

This morning, fall is in the air. A fire somewhere in the neighborhood; smoke smell lingers. The sirens yesterday made the dog howl. The chickens mumble and cawk. The cat across the alley is out yowling.    If I leave the back door open, Felix stands on the back porch and barks. At nothing.

Today, Holly and I will go to Annette Lake. Roughly 8 miles in and out. A pretty lake to swim in. Not too much elevation gain and way up the pass. Until you penetrate the tree line, you can still hear traffic.
In a few weeks, we're planning a backpacking overnight.  Maybe to Rainier, the most wondrous of mountains. Sometimes all the mountains are out; the Cascades, the Olympics, Baker to the north and Rainier to the south. Today might be such a day.

I'm grateful I can still hike. Grateful to this older body. Two types of hikers I see; young fit people with dogs, kids, inadequate footwear and no water and older retired folks, all decked out in small backpacks, water, walking poles and expensive hiking boots. The youngsters are careless. Their bones are strong, their muscles and ligaments flexible. They're the ones who trail run. The older folks are more careful and deliberate. They're wearing hats and sunscreen. They walk slowly. They're looking through binoculars at the distant snowfields. We nod at each other as we pass.

Maybe today we'll see some wildlife. Or not. Maybe I'll go swimming and yelp as I hit the cold water.