She sleeps very little

When she is not sleeping, she is hiking, a perpetual motion machine. Her baby is approaching two years old but is still not weaned so hikes include the toddler, in tow. Likewise, she has a teenage son who joins these walks as do a couple of neighborhood female friends with their kids. An orphaned foster child that she took under her wing also joins the cadre on these strolls. There is safety in numbers. Hiking is a dangerous business in the 21st century. She is the wisest and most stoic thus despite no official nomination or election, she is the recognized leader of the peripatetic band, usually setting a brisk, but measured pace, permitting the younger of the troupe to keep up.

One of her mandatory stops on these treks is a visit to her grandmother’s final resting place. The ensemble says nothing but stops to rest and grieve. For the adults, it is a moment to honor the memory of an elder. The children seem to understand the solemnness of these graveyard visits and take a break with the minimum of frolicking. The grandmother was seventy-something last year when she passed away, the victim of too many experiences. She was deeply loved and missed by all in her neighborhood, but mostly by the granddaughter.

She is a big girl, in that way genetics, pregnancy, and maturity provide extra bulk. She is more muscular than fat, and her commitment to daily walking helps to keep her fit. Despite her size, she is very nimble and light on her feet. She makes the least noise walking on the path. Occasionally, a fallen branch snaps or a clump of leaves rustle, but otherwise the group is careful to call no attention to themselves.

It is a hot and dusty day. Their destination is a swimming hole with relatively shallow water where the kids can cool down and safely play. The moms can provide a watchful eye and might even wade in as well. Her baby walks well, and its pace quickens when it finally recognizes where they are and today’s objective. Mother and child make their way to one side of the pool where the slope provides a natural slide. The baby has an ear-to-ear smile as it lowers its bottom on to the mud pond bank letting gravity do the rest. Soon all the kids are cavorting in the cool water, splashing, and spraying one another.

When the mother was younger, she feared for her safety during these trips to a wilderness pool. The big cats that roamed the hillsides have become rarer and rarer. Now her only concern is predators of a two-legged nature. Her attention turns to her children. They are the future. She is approaching her 48th year and so much has changed around her. Droughts last longer and thus waterholes are fewer and shallower. The heat, always unbearable, seems worse. The rains when they come are more torrential. The winds blow harder. The dust storms are more frequent. What to do? The problem seems so much larger than her and her sagacity incapable of fathoming the ability of a single individual to change what seems inevitable.

As she settles down with her friends at the edge of the pool and watches the children, carefree, so happy, she ponders why the hikes are getting longer each day. She does the arithmetic of calories required and calories expended using trees and grasses as her unit of measure. Someday, soon, the neighborhood will no longer sustain them, and she will need to make plans to find a new home with more resources and prosperity. But where, and will she be able to execute the diaspora, leaving behind the bones of her ancestors? This is the only home she has ever known. It is all too much a burden. She pushes the thoughts from her mind, gleefully rolls her body in the dust beside the pool, ridding her leathery skin of the unwanted critters, parasitically taking sustenance. The insects, more numerous she suspects, show little of the affection of her calf on the teat. As she watches it learning to use its trunk to douse the other children, she revels in how quickly her baby is developing, while mourning the passing of an era. It will likely be her last child.