Last weekend was the first clear lovely weekend we’ve had in what seems like forever. It can’t really be that long since we had fantastic weather during our lockdown into May, but I’m tired of being cold.  I jumped onto Carrie and Irmana’s planned hiking day Sunday, and we headed up to Mt Herbert, the highest point on the Banks Peninsula. I’ve approached it from the Kaituna Valley once and Orton Bradley park another time, but this is the first time I’d started at Diamond Harbor.

The trail is a straight forward track up through sheep pasture to the summit.  Every year it is closed for lambing August-October, right about when the weather is getting warmer and we’re wanting to plan such a hike, so we squeaked it in just before the closure this time.  It really is a better track to do on a clear winter day anyway….there’s no water and no shelter, so it would be a scorcher in the summer.

We ambled along, chit-chatting about home renovations, flannel sheets, the size of the closets, and children, stopping once or twice for Irmana to stretch her back which has been bothering her. My knee started to niggle and I made a mental note to book a physio appointment.

Last week was the first time someone referred to me (in my hearing) as “middle-aged.”  I thought I didn’t deserve that term until I turn 40, but I have to admit that the wrinkles around my eyes and propensity to retire early to bed under an electric blanket all point to the same direction.  And, if I admit it, so do our conversation topics.

I remember when other people talked about cranky joints and the pleasure of taking a kid-less outing to the grocery store. I listened to them, smiling, comfortably bemused, wondering what it was like to get old.  Ha.

I guess if I am to be uncharacteristically optimistic, “middle-aged” means there’s still half of life left to live.  Here we are, approaching it with a smile.