For the most part, the (wife-valued) litter had landed high up the slope and settled on or near the foundation pad. Unfortunately, two significant and expensive parts of the landscape lights had slid a bit farther down the hill. After several laughable attempts, I managed to toss the more easily retrieved bounty up onto the lower decking, and reluctantly started the descent further into the "yard."
I knew that there was no turning back. No, literally; there's no turning back! The slope is so steep that once you step away from grading of the house pad, there is no way to climb back up (okay, you Mt. Everest climbers, maybe you might with the expert help of a couple of Tibetan Sherpa). I carefully sidled my way down through underbrush to the resting places of my wayward lighting and stashed the precious parts under my arm to preserve the use of my hands as essential braking apparatus against the pull of gravity. With very little steerable variance, my route was straight down as I crept along the uncertain and untrod path through the dense woods in a general tangent towards the intersection of the road and my driveway.
It was no big deal, I made it just fine. A few cuts and scraps, a couple of slip-and-falls, and a fully sweat stained dress shirt, and okay, maybe I was wearing the preposterously wrong kind of shoes, but I managed to scale the mountain, ford the roadside ravine, and climb back up to that celebrated iconic symbol of Western civilization: pavement!
Did I mention my driveway drops
Yesterday I joked on social media about never doing that chore ever again and just heading down to the Walmart to buy new stuff to replace anything that happened to fall from the sanctity and protection of my mountain manse. Yes, that post was funny, and yes, the thorn cuts on my hands, arms, and legs have finally stopped bleeding, and yes, I really have no plans to EVER venture into that front yard again. But the real laugh is that in all of the diversity of my education, I have never had the opportunity to study the musculature of the human body, and me being an aging, New Jersey, flat-lander whose virile early years are no more than a well-faded memory; the consequences of attempting to scale my mountain, a challenge that even in my youth would have been ill-advised, has had a few consequences.
I have aches where I never knew I had muscles; heck, I hurt in places I didn't even know were part of my body!
Wah, wah, wah! Big crybaby right?
Remember I live on a mountainside. The main floor of my house is a full 12' story (18 steps) above the ground level where my dogs need to pee several times a day. My office where I'm writing this is upstairs; another 12' story above the main floor. Think about it, I do more stair climbing in one day than a chubby soon-to-be-June bride exercising the whole month of May. And each trip up or down these staircases hurts me in new and ever surprising ways.
Oh, in case you wondered, I am skipping the gym this week, instead I'm going to open a bottle of wine and relax in the soothing warmth of my Jacuzzi bathtub.