Today I experienced a gentle mountain shower.

The clouds gather overhead. The two hikers who had passed us going up earlier hurry down the mountain. They lack rain gear but not husband-dear. He packed his army green poncho. We keep our upward trek. The skies rumble. Not to worry. The military issue poncho is big enough for both of us.  Two more hikers with wide brimmed hats and hiking sticks scurry pass us headed down. Rain drops begin to hit my head. The plan, we snuggle underneath the huge poncho and stay dry.  The air is cooler. The sky darkens. The decision to pull out the rain-gear on a mountain hike is strictly husband-dear's domain and so is the direction we travel on the path.  We turn and head down.

Husband-dear's green army poncho visited in this mountain forest in another life-time. Over the years  holes have been sewn up carefully. Tight, close stitches form intermittent patches on this ancient green rain poncho. This poncho has moved with us throughout our three-decade marriage from house to house. Sometimes it lives in the closet and sometimes in the garage.  Husband-dear is committed to his green rubber army poncho and has never accepted to buy its replacement.  It is indeed large enough for both of us to stand romantically  close. An idea I find very appealing on this mountain trail hike. Quickly, we pull out the rolled up poncho from his backpack.

Instead of the intimate embrace I had envisioned while waiting out the mountain shower, I take my place behind his backpack and try to find the rhythm of husband dear's pace.  We extend our arms and hold the rubber sheet above our heads. I walk behind the man I have lived with for 30+ years and cannot seem to match my steps to his.  Thankful no one I know can see us, I fold shut the hole where a person would stick their head out.  I feel like the rump of the zebra in an elementary school performance.

The path becomes muddy and slippery. The smell of musty rubber, car oil and cat pee fill my nostrils. I try to make the romantic connection. Husband-dear and I switch places.  Now he is the rump and I am in the lead. However Husband-dear cannot see his feet since he has stuck his head out the head hole and I am holding the rubber green over my head obstructing the path from his line of sight. Husband-dear's size 11's step on my heels. The rain is coming down harder.

I have a polar fleece sweat shirt on and decide to venture out from the safety of the rubber cover. I walk ahead of husband dear  treading carefully in the narrow rut-like path. The grass is thigh high on either side. I can walk faster without the cover of the rain gear.  We must cross the creek one more time.  Earlier further up on the trail, our path crossed the stream there was a bridge made of 4x4 beams and a handrail built by the forestry department many years ago. This time the stream and path intersect with randomly strewn, fallen logs which form the bridge.  The logs have long lost their bark. They are traction-less and slick. My left foot slips into the icy creek water.

The path is losing altitude quickly and I descend on steps formed by roots  that traverse the path. My hair has lost its curl and streams down over my eyes. I turn to check on husband -dear. He is at the root steps. His size 11's slip in the mud . Earlier on the hike up, along a steep-stretch of the path, Husband dear instructed me on how to fall. Just sit. And so he does. He sits down  on his blue-jean rump  right in the muddy, wet path. His sage green eyes  which match the forest around us, fill up  with surprise. 
 I laugh for ten  minutes.  By then,  the rain stops.