Since Mom was already off balance, my jig pulled her off the one leg she was standing on and she kicked the packpack of the lady crouched down to take a picture, and shouted a bad word, and then told the lady it was my fault that she'd ruined their picture.
My fan club stopped so that they could all take the exact same picture of each other smiling in front of the waterfall, and because Mom didn't want them to all ask to borrow my chicken hat, or feel silly for not being as handsome as me, we continued up the mountain leaving the waterfall behind us.
"Are spiders very good at planning ahead?" I asked. "No, I guess not," Mom said. "Nor are they good at learning from their mistakes. The Eency Weency Spider didn't learn anything from his experience, he just climbed up the spout again."
I turned and saw a man climbing the rocks with a walking packpack beside him. What the... I thought as I saw who was under the packpack: It was a tiny little Boston Terrier barely the size of the packpack he was carrying.
Even though the trail was the same, we were very different. Mom had just claimed her independence and was still recovering from her revolutionary war when we were on this trail last year.
It takes a lot of brain space to keep track of all the ways that you've been unlucky, and while you're busy doing that there's no time to notice all the things you can do to make your situation better. If Mom were a clever human she would have realize that the rocks were had been walking on were perfect for building Karens to point the way, and that The Witch had lots of ways to keep track of our path so that we could find it again. But the heebie jeebies had made Mom stupid
Once Mom had put on my traditional powdered wig for the photos, I ran back up the stairs where I knew she wouldn't follow to show the other hikers that I was a good guest and knew all about local customs. They were very surprised to meet a furry-ner who was so sensitive to their culture and had brought a powdered wig all his own to the top of a mountain for a traditional Washington picture.
Suddenly we heard a noise above our heads, and saw a rock the size of a dog’s head fall down the mountain. It didn’t fall right into open air, but whacked into the mountain several times on its way down, and every time it did it knocked more rocks into the abyss with it. Mom froze in place and watched it fall, and when we couldn’t see it anymore she listened to it fall. It fell and fell for what seemed like an impossibly long time until we couldn’t tell if it had stopped falling or if we had just stopped hearing it.
I didn’t remember Dirty Harry starring any Muppets but, it must because the first couple of miles of the trail were dressed in that nappy moss that Muppet fur is made of. The trail looked soft and gentle, but without the moss softening all of the rocks, and logs, and trees, and stumps, the trail might have looked much more rugged and hard like Clint Eastwood usually does.