Practicing works wonders, and hiking is pretty good, too

Well, it's time for a new post, but I can't think of a thing to say.  We did a "big" hike on saturday-- big is in quotes because it was big for me (6 miles with 1,800' elevation gain) but not for my family members, who churned through it with no problem.  It made me realize that 30 minutes on the treadmill at 5% incline 3-4 times a week is not enough to really keep you in shape, dang it.  I did well on recovery time-- every time we stopped for five minutes, I would be fine-- but I had to go so slow on the uphill parts, I was holding everyone back.  I finally just told them to leave one of the bear sprays with me and go ahead.

Which was great, because then I could dawdle and take pictures.  I thought about coming up with an internet name for our dog-- Dingbat came to mind-- but then it occurred to me that she is a dog and doesn't need internet privacy.  So the dog, who is a dingbat, is named Jazz.  The mountain goats didn't seem to mind human beings-- since they were still right there next to the trail and there were at least a couple dozen other people on the trail on Saturday-- but they did not like Jazz.  It was kind of interesting to watch, actually.  At one point dh got worried that we were going to be charged by a male who was starting to huff and stamp his hoof.  We decided it was best to just head back down and get out of his territory.

Anyway.  It was well worth it.

View to the West--The big lake in the background of this first shot is the one I drive along every time I go to UTown.   Maybe I will do a photo log of the drive sometime, because it only gets better after the lake.

This is the Climb Every Mountain shot.   Ford every stream.  Follow every... oh wait, sorry.

View to the East.  I can't remember if the ridge we were standing on is the Continental Divide, or if you're looking at it in this picture, but it's close by, anyway.

Nell and one of our goat-y friends.

And after all that about the dog, I ended up not finding a good one of her to upload.  She was a trooper-- probably put in twice as many miles as I did and didn't look nearly as tired at the end.  Although she did sleep the entire next day, while I had to get up and be at church by 9 because I was playing.

I've told you before I play the flute.  I don't play all that often anymore, which is a shame, because I love it.  But once or twice a year someone will ask me to play for something, so I pull my flute out and start to practice.  Of course if I haven't touched it in six months, it sounds awful.  Breathy, out of tune, and I have no stamina-- all my flute-playing muscles are out of shape.  And every single time, I think, shoot-- I'm too old, I can't do this anymore, I let it go too long this time.  But every single time-- and it still surprises me, every single time-- if I start practicing, and play every day for a week or ten days no matter how bad it sounds, I start to get better again.  Every. Single. Time.

So you may have discovered that I churn out these little moral lessons on a pretty regular basis.  They come into my head far faster than I can type them out, and far more often than you'd want to hear them-- sort of like Lucy and Ethel with those chocolate candies coming by on the conveyor belt.  I blame it on a childhood spent in Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, camp, and Children's Church.  I hope you know I'm halfway making fun of myself when I do it, because I just can't seem to stop-- I'm the conveyor belt, not Lucy.  You, my gentle readers, would be poor Lucy and Ethel.  Anyway.  Do what you will the practicing the flute story.