I can't walk on rocks let alone on water.

I enter Boiling River Springs upright: white hair,  white top.

Then I become a crab.

Then I'm a mollusk on my back.  Erica, at left, is coming to save me.

Erica walks me out.

I am a cautious old lady.  Acquaintances of mine, in their seventies, have fallen off bikes and died and have fallen down the stairs and died. So, I've  given up bike riding and I hold onto the railing when going down stairs.

Why would I think that I could walk in a rocky river bed?  I wasn't thinking.  As soon as I was in the river, I thought what the hell are you doing here?  This is much worse than descending a staircase or riding a bike.  

Honestly, sometimes I forget I'm old.  I want to be thirty-nine like Erica.

We did find our way to the hot water and sit in the mud for awhile as little children showed off for us by splashing in our faces.  I am always pleasant to children, but really, I wanted to bite one of those silly girls in the arm.

This week at the Mary Oliver Book Club, a woman ten years my senior, told about going down a zipline high in the sky this last month. 

I don't need to do anything from a great height.

I want to die in my bed with my sons in the room, texting each other.

I'm glad I walked up the Virgin River in my forties.

The most dangerous thing I do now is drive a teeny-tiny car, which makes me feel young at heart.