I nearly didn’t make it up the mountain.

Even though it’s been unseasonably warm around here, there were still patches of ice along the trail, especially between the rocks of the scree field. I cussed and clambered and grumbled at J and threatened to quit a half-dozen times.

He laughed at me, then apologized when he realized just how scared I was.

Walking on ice.

Walking on rocks, walking up hills, is scary enough for this mouse. But there’s something about ice. Floridian to my core, I am certain that ice will get me. I’ll slip and shatter my new little camera and waste three years’ worth of orthodontia all in a go. When we first moved to New England, our very first winter, it was weeks before I’d complete the little trail to the waterfall behind our house, before I could believe that I wouldn’t somehow fall into the river on a walk with Bonnie and drown/freeze/die of sorrow.

Being brave is the hardest for me. I’m glad that I have J to coach me through, to love me right up a mountain, grumbling all the way.