The week does not unfold as expected, but it falls in a pleasant way, nonetheless. I spend mornings writing, and after lunch and a chess game, we go out and do something together. One afternoon we pack our camera gear and go on a quest to photograph the Arrowleaf Balsamroot—a bright harbinger of spring in these parts.

My hiking husband knows where to go—he’s trekked on hills and mountains all around the area. He recognizes mountains by their shape. It’s not uncommon for him to point out peaks when we’re driving somewhere by saying: “I’ve been on the top of that”.

We take a meandering road, past hills that are the greenest they’ll be this year, to a quiet spot and an easy path that’s Linda-accessible. We pass by a man paddling his kayak to the shore, and a couple of hikers on their way out of the area we’re heading into.

“Good afternoon!”

”It’s a beautiful day for a hike.”

”Sure is.”

We turn a corner on the narrow path and Gerry points out “heart attack hill”, a place where a harbinger of another kind got our attention not so very long ago. We turn another corner and there before us the hills are awash with yellow. Quintessential Kamloops spring. We pull out our cameras and capture some images of the glory of creation in this place.

In time, we return to our car and drive a bit farther up the road.

“The last time I was on this road it was a single lane.”

”The last time I was on this road was for something to do with Brownies a hundred and twelve years ago.”

Memories. These are the gifts of being rooted in a place.

We arrive at the top, turn around, and drive back down. Meandering. Eyes scanning hither and yon, taking in the beauty of the day and enjoying the companionship of one another.

It’s a simple way to spend an afternoon. It’s pretty much perfect. I have a fleeting thought about how thankful I am that I’m here and not sequestered in a meeting room discussing a yet-to-be-made-public project with a cryptic top-secret name, like I was now and then in my pre-retirement life.

Life is sweet. We are blessed. There is always, always, something to be thankful for.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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