It’s another beautiful sunshiny day in Moose Jaw and Gerry suggests a short walk. There’s still snow on the ground in places, remnants from last weeks storm, and there’s a bottleneck at the front door while decisions about footwear are made. He opts for Sorrels I slip my feet into Sketchers, refusing to don boots in April.
We walk up to the end of our street where we’re blessed to have open prairie (for now, as this area is slated for future development of a school and additional housing). I step gingerly, avoiding mud and patches of ice. We decide to walk farther out toward the Rotary Trail that winds around and through the city. It’s sketchy in spots with a combination gopher holes, snow, ice, and mud, but we make it and stand in the prairie wind while I capture a photo before turning and heading back the way we came.
I’m not exactly sure how it happens (in retrospect, I assume it was a gopher hole hidden under snow that caught me), but I find myself face-first flat on the snowy ground. Ooof. My glasses are bent, my face is covered in ice and my pride has taken a strong hit. Gerry helps me to my feet and makes a comment about wishing he would have taken a picture. Risky, to say the least. I’m silent for the duration of the walk home.
This morning my 64-year-old body is achy. Did I mention that a couple of weeks ago, when we were walking in the same field, I fell in the mud? I’m not venturing anywhere where it’s not bare and dry for the rest of my life.
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