This afternoon, we were about to head up Mount Trosa, when a pair of very bright trousers hove into view. They were near the summit and were being worn by an old chap who was struggling to finish the climb. He had a pair of walking poles and a determination to match. He made it to the top as the girls and I waited at the base camp hot dog stand.
We were waiting for him to head back down so we could continue our walk up the hill. But the poor old chap was having an extended rest. I turned to the dogs and told them we’d be taking the walking track instead.
We met two people as we walked. One rather grim faced woman who grunted a begrudged hello, and a man who gushed over Emma. Neither of them had dogs, so I didn’t put the girls on their lead. The woman looked like she’d have preferred it, but the man was more than happy to try and pat Emma. Not that she let him.
When we returned home, the car was back at the house. Mirinda had been at uni today so I was surprised she was home so early.
I went round to the glass room and unlocked the door. The house was incredibly quiet. The dogs went for a drink of water while I waited at the door, wondering where my wife was. The dogs rejoined me. I shut the door and decided to check the car. Which was empty.
My worry was that she hadn’t taken her keys with her and was now, holed up somewhere. Ignoring the shed, I headed for the stuga.
I didn’t want to take my boots off so I sent the girls in to find her. They just stared back at me from behind the squirrel. There was no Mirinda there.
Heading for the deck, I fished my keys out but, surprisingly, the main door was unlocked. I opened it and sat in the faffing area lugging off my boots. The girls went straight for the bedroom door, sniffing around it and looking back at me as if to say, “We found her!“
Eventually, I quietly opened the bedroom door. There, in the gloom of the shaded room, I could see her hair spread out on the pillow; she was fast asleep. I quickly hushed the girls back out to let her rest.
While she’s feeling a lot better, she’s still not 100%, so sleep is obviously the best thing for her.
As I sat with a coffee on the sofa, I wondered whether the old chap with the flouro trousers had made it home. Or was he still standing, like stout Cortez, having conquered the mountain, but frozen in place. I guess I’ll never know.
And here’s the only photo I took today. It’s the hot dog stand.
Obviously, it’s not open yet. We’ll need some snow first.
