When the sun came out on a gorgeous afternoon at the lake yesterday, we went hiking, which is what one does up there after the summer equipment has been stored and the water temperature becomes unbearably cold. We picked a mountain we've done before, a mild one that takes maybe ninety minutes to climb. Halfway up, huffing and puffing (though I'm in good physical shape), I had an epiphany.

I hate climbing. I love walking. But I hate climbing.

Trudging up that hill, I kept trying to remember details of the climbing I'd done as a child, but the memories that came back were of the peanut-butter-and-jelly crackers we ate up on top. Guess that tells you were my priorities lay.

I remember recent hikes more clearly. Yes, indeed, I hated the climb, but loved the summit -- which is probably why next time my husband suggests we go hiking, I'll nod and lace on my boots. But I'll know the truth and be prepared.

Actually, once I admitted yesterday how much I hated hiking, I climbed better. I like to think that honesty is good for the soul, but who knows? Maybe I just got my second wind.