Aloha

Lush and Luxurious; Hawaii.  That's what we encountered our first two days, thanks to our tour guides, our chauffeurs, our great and gracious friends, Joyce and Rick.
Then the third day arrived.
A hike up "Boy Scout Trail."  "Sure," we said.  We walk four miles a day; we're Sandy and Tanner Walker.  We can handle this.  I mean, Rick and Joyce are sane people, (well, Joyce is) they wouldn't suggest anything they didn't think we could handle.  Right?
The adventure started with the trip to the trail, beautifully and  innocently named "Waihee Ridge."
The winding road was only occasionally treacherous, only occasionally just a single lane, and only once were we face to face with a massive truck on said single lane.  Little did I know that this would not be the last time that day that I thought I might breathe my last breath.
I did not.
We arrived at the foot of the trail.  Other people were planning the same hike.  Good.  Regular people do this; not just crazy Canadians.
And up we go.  I volunteer to carry the backpack because I'm a man and I'm vain.  We reach the half mile mark; it's all good.  One mile marker, still good.  Taking pictures, laughing, camaraderie.
Good times, eh?
Before we reach the 2 mile marker, I gratefully relinquish the back pack.  I'm still a man, but now I am old and no longer vain.
This is hard, but still good times.
We reach the top!  Victory is ours; nirvana is here.  Let's see those views from heaven.
Mmmm.  Nirvana is apparently a picnic bench surrounded by mud,  Heavenly views are remarkably similar to facing a prison wall.  A heavy mist has reduced visibility to less than fifty shades of grey.
Still, we made it to the top!  A nice ego boost.

But then we are forcefully reminded of a basic law of science.
What goes up, must go down.
Crap.

The ominous return trip begins with some nervous laughter and much trepidation.
Joyce in the lead, followed by Pat, then me.  Rick, the good shepherd, follows.
Numerous moments of "what the hell," "you've got to be kidding me," and "WTF" follow.
It's raining; the trail is slippery and muddy.
Rick is jabbering away; "worst conditions ever," he repeats over and over.
Pat and I are mostly silent.  Every fiber of my intellect is concentrating on my next step.  I am desperately trying to avoid a broken ankle, a cracked skull.
Joyce is now far ahead.  I think she is singing "zippity-do-dah."
Pat falls.  No harm; nervous laughter.
Pat falls again.
Rick falls.  Rick falls again
I fall.  Minor physical bruises; major bruise to the ego.

Joyce is still far ahead of us.  I think she may be skipping.
Yada, yada, yada; we return to the safety of level ground. Whew!

No broken bones, no fractured skulls, and to be honest, a slightly elevated ego.
We did it!
And we will never do it again.

The next several days offer the promise of more Hawaiian lush and luxury.
There is talk (threat) of another hike, but how risky can it be?  I mean, Rick and Joyce are reasonable people, (at least Joyce is). What could possibly go wrong?

Mahalo.

Nice Catch!

My grandson made a terrific play in center field last night; a diving catch!
I remember my  first great play.  It was a game saver.
I was 5 or 6 years old.  I know I wasn't yet 7, because I was using a tattered, flimsy glove,
not the Willie Mays model that is now prominently displayed in my bedroom.  (Other gloves
from my childhood are less prominently displayed in the garage, but I digress.)

The game was played in a wide alley behind a series of connected 2 family houses.  I could see  said houses, somewhat enviously, from the back window of our fourth floor apartment.
It was a game of punch ball; Donald, Eddie, Bartley, and me.
I was playing first base, which was a corner of a fence that protected a small garden, owned
by an elderly man with a reputation of being mean and nasty.
We were using a Spaldeen; this was back in the ol' days, before Pensy Pinky, before
tennis balls.
Eddie, I think it was Eddie, punched a shot in my direction.  I leaped; I had to leap because
the fence was over 2 feet tall!
The ball was snared in the webbing of my glove, a game saving catch!
Literally.  I mean, if the ball had gone into the garden, the game would have been over.
We didn't have another Spaldeen.
Truth, be told, it might have been a life saving catch.  If the ball had gone into the garden,
and I tried to retrieve, that mean old man might have.................
But, I caught the ball, it didn't go in the garden, and I didn't have to retrieve it.
The rest is history, a blessed history.

P.S.  He probably wasn't mean, he was probably just lonely.