Stupid Little Rattles.

Husband and I have great ideas.

The problems come when we drag other people into them, like Husband's parents.

This picture is a summarization of the view while on the partial night hike we took them on this weekend, in a sincere attempt to show them a good time.

Our style.

When Dahrl was here in August we went on a hike at Pine Mountain a little later than expected. It ended up getting dark, we stumbled our way through the last mile via moonlight and had a great time. We've been talking about doing it again ever since.

Except Husband forgot to check the lunar calendar.

To say that Cindy-Mom and Father Stephen were troopers would underestimate it. The stumbled through an hour and a half of nothing-to-see-blackness. (Except for the little red light attached to Ryker's collar that bobbed incessantly as he ran... non stop.) They even laughed when we got lost, found out we were on a horse trail, and had to double back.

To say that Ryker was tired would overestimate it. He was fine.

To say that the suspicious little rattle that began as soon as Ryker began sniffing out a certain spot with particular interest didn't worry me, would definitely underestimate it.

I'm not overly fond of suspicious little rattles in a dark southern wilderness during a month known for snake to be mating when you can't see the ground and your dog is overly curious.

I thought, and still kind of do, that hiking in the dark is a new sensory experience. You pay attention to everything, (especially the prancing red dot that's leading the way) in a way you don't when you can see. Like the sounds of the forest in the wind, or the sudden whisper of birds taking off. The milky way coats the sky in a fog when there's no flashlight to blind your night vision. If you stop, and listen, you can hear the leaves fall.

But then I thought, meh. It's just a walk in the dark and a few lost toenails after all.