Went on a little hike today, up where we have hiked a lot, at the end of our road.
I have hiked it with my husband, and with some other friends. I have hiked it with my daughter and my daughter and her then boyfriend. Most of the times I have hiked it has been with my son.
Someone has made some major improvements. There are new trails that wind around the creek. You can see so many wonderful waterfalls. There are new bridges that span the creek that give you a great new perspective on the hike.
The trail itself is still rocky, washed as it is when the rains come. I have never been up there when it is raining hard, but I imagine the trail becomes like a stream bed in places. You have to watch your feet, and take your time in places. For me it means taking my time coming down more than anything else.
We hiked up to the “split-rock”. A huge boulder that sits to the right of the trail. My son has used it to practice on for years. He could make the half mile trek to it in a few minutes. Meeting with his buddies to try out holds in the crack he would go every time he had a chance when he was in town.
I had not been there since his death. Now with the leaves down it looks a bit cold and abandoned. Anytime the weather is good, folks go hike up and climb on the rock. I didn’t climb or touch it. My husband did. But I just sat and looked and thought how strange and familiar it was. Just a big rock.
This last picture I took while sitting on the rock on the left of the trail going up. Yes indeed, it looks just like a broken heart. I had to sit and look at it for a bit. It doesn’t look like that from the trail, just from there sitting on the rock where I had sat so many times watching him. He with his feet stuffed into those tiny rock climbing shoes, chalk bag and crash pad. I don’t think it was trying to mock me.
I don’t think rocks do anything but erode. But I have to say it was a rather poignant reminder.