It’s spring break but you wouldn’t know it from the weather.
Last year it was in the 70s and I didn’t feel so bad about not jetting to the
Cayman Islands or Cabo, or any of the other tropical destinations my well-to-do
students were visiting. It’s barely broken 40 this year. Everything still looks
dead, but I’ve been itching to get outside. We didn’t even really have winter
until February and March, but those two months were the longest winter I can
remember.
Forty degrees seemed almost balmy and the ice has melted
on the hill, so I bundled up, hooked the leash up to my little dog, and went to
get my glutes in gear. They’ll be sore tomorrow. It’s been months since I’ve
been on the hill. I’ll have the ibuprofen ready on my nightstand before I even
get out of bed.
Barbara, my usual hiking partner is one of the masses
fleeing the unpleasant North Shore for warmer climes, so Molly and I went
alone. It’s a thinking hill, whether Barbara’s helping me think, or when I
venture out on my own. And here's what I thought about:
See this beach? This cold, abandoned beach? From this beach I can’t see across
the lake to the other side, but I know Michigan’s over there. I’ve been to
Michigan and I can’t see Illinois from there either, but I know it’s there just
the same.
I also noticed that from the bottom of the hill I can’t see
the top, even though it takes only a few minutes to march my bones up to the
green iron gate that I touch before turning and going back down. I go up and down the hill about a dozen
times and I never can see the top from the bottom. I still know it’s there.
I know there’s another side to the lake. I know the hill
ends at the gate. I know there’s a terminal point to just about everything in
life - including life. It takes a matter of minutes to climb the hill. A few
hours to cross the lake on a boat. A few years to speed through youth. A blink
of an eye.
You see where I’m going with this, right?
What I want is at the top of the hill. I know it’s there.
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