It is a killer hill. The agonies it inflicts on The Prude's calves and windpipe cannot be ascertained from
a mere photo.
No image can do justice to the never-endingness of the hill, its steady, stealthy, masochistic slope.
And The Prude couldn't get a good enough angle to show that just over THIS endless hill another, smaller, but equally mischievous hill sprouts up.
Previously on her walks, she would arrive at the bottom of the hill, put her head down and charge up, ala a Rough Rider galloping to meet her doom atop San Juan Hill.
The reasoning was thus:
The hill is high and long.
It needs to be climbed.
Get it over with.
But then The Prude saw the light.
Next came her epiphany.
There is no law that says a walker needs to bolt straight up the hill!
It isn't the Waterloo, or the Rubicon, or even the Delaware River, for Pete's sake!
It is perfectly permissible for a woman of a certain delicate age to take it easy, plinking away with her walking stick, going up the hill.
Finally, The Prude gets to see the delights she'd been missing on the way up.
She has time to read dire warning signs.
|it is difficult to tell but somewhere on this notice it mentions DEATH|
She can observe the lilies of the field.
At last she can speculate on which youthful joie de'vivre /suicidal animal/leaky radiator caused the smears on the asphalt.
Ah, the open road. Just the place for Bilbo, the Happy Wanderer, and a plodding Prude.