“Are those better for climbing?” I ask.
“Not really, they offer no ankle or foot support on top, and they really don’t grip the terrain better than my hiking boots.” She took a swig of her water and continued, “they were a Christmas gift from my boyfriend, so I felt obligated to wear them. You know how it goes.”
I nodded. I told her about the gauntlet thrown down by my family. I confided in her that I was going to make it up the mountain even if I had to do it with bloody stumps.
“You go girl,” she laughed and encouraged me.
With that, Curious Georgia left to find the man in the yellow hat or get to the bottom of the mountain, probably the latter.
I continued my assent and found I was having to rest more often, drink more water and wondered if a St. Bernard would bring me some alcohol if I passed out. My next rest period, I watched a family climbing with their dog. The dog looked happy to be on the mountain. Too happy. I knew there was a reason I liked cats. As I was pondering my next step, my cell phone beeped. I had a message: a picture of the boys at the summit of the mountain, standing by the decorated Christmas tree. The caption for the picture: “Wish you were here (LOL).” Which started some texts back and forth.
“Show offs!” I texted back.
“Where are you?”
“In the bushes with Big Foot having a romantic moment.” It could have been the wind, but I think I’d made them laugh.
They text back that they were on their way down.
I was a little over half way up. I saw the boys waiting on a little plateau.