Vistas

    Among summer's most delicious moments are mountain hikes.
     This week, I was blessed by the company of four young guys who offered to climb to the ridiculously named Poo Poo Point.
    Eight miles, up and back.
    It turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year. 87-degrees. For the Pacific Northwest, that's scorching.
    I used to run this same hike after completing my weekly word-quota for the Raleigh Harmon books. It was a badge of sorts. But time is proving it marches with even greater determination: Now the boys left me in their dust.
     Left me with my thoughts.
     I wish I could say some brilliant insights hit me. The paltry truth is cliches came, unbidden yet with the stubbornness of stupidity.
     How the deep forest reminds me of growth, eternity. How climbing a mountain is like meeting life's challenges.
    Nothing revelatory, I know.
    But when we reached the top, I took this photo.
     Years from now, I hope these guys understand its greater meaning.
     Each one of them is on the cusp of manhood.
    And just past their feet, the mountainside disappears as though sliced by a guillotine. Most summer days, hang-gliders are launching themselves from that spot, flying into thin air, giving a whoop, and trusting God as if they were nothing more, and nothing less, than birds.