Barb's molehill is my tick-infested, carcass-ridden mountain of death

I full-board blame my friend Barb for this one. It was another "Apple Fritter Sunday" where upon Brad and I found ourselves back at our favorite spot. Some time ago, I had penned a post about an exhilarating but precarious hike at this same locale. Apparently, Barb had read all of the cereal boxes in her house and had nothing left, literature-wise, so had to make do with my sad, little blog. As a result, she was ready, the next day to offer some advice. "Amy," my race-running, snow-skiing, wave-balancing, beautiful friend said, "There is a much easier trial that runs all the way up to the dam on the left side of the creek." I nodded in response to her helpful suggestion, already making the necessary mental calculations to convert Barb's definition of "easier" to a more realistic model. In other words, I was certain that a tow rope and helicopter rescue would need to be employed for me to successfully traverse this path. 

That being said, it was a beautiful morning and I was experiencing what could only be described as "a fritter high." Brad and I walked over to the somewhat rickety steps that led to the trail. My husband quirked an eyebrow at me. "Are you sure?" How dare he doubt me! He waited patiently for the fifteen minutes it took me to crawl up fifteen steps before we began to ascend the pleasant, shady slope leading up to the dam. Brad tried to hurry me past a murky little bog alongside the trail but a flash of brown slowed my steps and I gasped at the prone body of a baby fawn. Tears flooded my eyes as I envisioned its sad struggle and the confusion and helplessness of its poor mother. "Think of it as a La Brea tar pit situation," my husband said in an attempt to soothe me but instead succeeded in making me NEVER to want to visit the La Brea tar pits. We sat and rested (for a startled second) by the eviscerated remains of a large crayfish, skirted what we tried to convince our screaming minds was a pile of dog poo until we finally reached our destination. 

It was time to take the obligatory picture. Brad snarling ("The sun was in my eyes," he protested.) and me ALWAYS looking at the wrong place on the cell phone. "Hang on a second," my husband said casually. TOO casually. He plucked something off my neck. "What was that?" I asked (Never ask.) "Just a tick," my-born-in-the-mid-west-and-used-to-ticks spouse said. The words were barely out of his mouth before I was screaming and sprinting back down the trail, high-stepping like a marching band drum majorette. And cursing Barb the entire time. 

What did I learn from this experience (besides NOT ever listening to Barb?)? Well...first of all, I'm never stepping outside again unless I'm in one of those huge human hamster balls. I also need to start carrying a wildlife-ready defibrillator kit in my car. And a shovel so as to provide a dignified burial. Well...so BRAD could provide a dignified burial. More significantly, I learned that, should I decide to accept advice or suggestions from others, they should share a similar physical fitness philosophy to mine. It will be awhile before I am brave enough to face the great outdoors. It will be even longer before I'm willing to accept advice from my friend Barb.