It was definitely a matter of some gravity, but at least it wasn’t a grave matter. In that I am still alive.

My niece Elizabeth and I just went on another hike, or as I’ve come to think of it, a bone-density exam. I recently read that the number-one medical recommendation for women my age is “Don’t fall down.” And I am giving that advice all the attention I’m giving the second recommendation: “Don’t drink alcohol.” Honestly, falling down is not that big a deal for a fun-sized person such as myself. It just doesn’t take that much time to hit the ground. Yes, it took a little longer the day I fell out of the yard debris container whilst stomping down my foliage, but the end result was the same: a bit of dirty laundry, and a fervent hope there were no witnesses.

It was a gorgeous day, the temperature was perfect, there were no bugs, and the meadow flowers were in full riot on the Timberline Trail. I got the gravity ball rolling first thing when I splootled sideways in a muddy patch, with the standard result (no damage, dirty laundry). Most of the stream crossings were uneventful. At Heather Canyon, though, it was the usual search up and downstream for the easiest crossing point: some combination of slippery rocks and precariously perched logs. This time an enormous log presented itself, complete with trumpets and an angel chorus. This was no mere sturdy piece of timber. This was partially hollowed out, and pre-tromped on, such that the surface was flat, with little safety curbs built right in on both sides, and it was at least a foot across. This was a freaking highway. I could skip across this sucker. I started across, executing a sly arabesque. In my mind.

In my mind, I am Simone Biles.

There were a few flaws in my attitude.

The commodious log stopped shy of the opposite bank by a few feet. Huh. As a bridge, it was missing some significant architectural integrity. I shuffled to the very edge and peered over the rushing water.

Well, it wasn’t all that far. The problem was the landing zone was an eroded vertical bank at the same level as the log, so it required some arc to my leap, and some air time. People do that all the time. I’ve seen them. Basketball players float improbably into the stratosphere and hover at the apex for a full second before shooting the basket. Dancers perform a grand jeté and hang in the air like dandelion fluff. Human grasshoppers, all.

I, on the other hand, have no arc to my leap and no air time. I already know this about myself. I am pitiful to watch in the act of jumping. The entire mass of the earth yanks at me the second I even try. What I have always had going for me, however, is Dave. Dave has plucked me straight out of the air on many such occasions. And I’m something of a chunk. He never misses.

Flaw one: Dave wasn’t here this time. Just Elizabeth. She is in charge of keeping her Elderly Aunt Murr alive, and she ain’t any bigger’n me.

But the very experience of being plucked out of the air so many times has given me a lot more confidence about the launch. You just have to go for it. Three, two, one! I didn’t expect to land on my feet but I thought I could grab enough of the bank to crawl on. To Elizabeth’s utter astonishment—she was already scouting for a better spot—I went for the dismount.

Flaw two: I am no Simone Biles.

Even I was surprised when I got none of my body on the opposite bank. Except my face. My chin was planted on the edge and I was in glacial water up to my knees. Elizabeth dutifully called out to see if I was all right, and I was. She spent the rest of the hike regretting she had no video. Evidently the visual effect was similar to what happens to Wile E. Coyote when someone paints a tunnel on the cliff face.

Even this morning she was inquiring after my condition “post-splat.”

“You know,” she went on helpfully, “in the splattermath.”

I’m fine, thank you, you little shit. And I totally had a beer.