Hills I call home
This weekend I spent with my mom, on a hike to a sparsely visited place. Some of you know where it is, some don’t. The weather was unpredictable—sun, rain, wind, kind of cold, and a few tiny patches of snow still left on the ground from the last cold days. It rained the night before (snowed up in the mountains), and everything was greener than usual. I’d say it was that healthy, fresh forest green—not the dry, thirsty kind. I liked that. It kind of reminded me of Ireland.
The plan was simple: hike up the hill to the top, enjoy the views, then loop around it, have lunch at an old hunting cabin, and head back down along the mountain creek.
As a kid, I never thought my mom and I would go on hikes like this. Just like that—for fun, to talk, to spend time together, and to look at trees, rocks, clouds floating above our heads. I never realized she liked hiking and going into the mountains that much. I guess I was young, caught up in whatever life was throwing at me—school, travels, work… I was that confused kid who wanted to travel and see things, to look at them from different angles. I didn’t want to be an astronaut or a dump truck driver.
I think I made a lot of mistakes along the way. There were good things too, but I learned the most from the mistakes. And now, here I am—hiking with my mom in the hills I call home. I’m happy. Mom’s happy. And I like to document it along the way. That’s it. I needed to get that out of my mind—put it on “paper” so I can tick it off and carry on with the next thing waiting in line.
