I can remember slogging my way down a mountain one sunshining afternoon. Had left at 10 the previous night to climb so as to go up and get most of the way down while there was ice, but by now the more level portions had turned to slush. It was a combination of postholing and slogging, very, very tiring, and on top of that it was hot.

The sun beating down on me coupled with the sun reflected off the ice and snow made for a miserable organism. If it hadn't been so damned hot I would have just stopped until dark and cold froze the stuff into something negotiable.

And, the other people with me weren't giving up. So I didn't. Later on I found they were as beat as I.

And up above I saw two people with paragliders I'd seen on the summit. Those bastards were sailing around about 6,000 or 8,000 feet above me, turning back and forth, having a grand time. And they were just sitting there. Or laying. They were far enough up I couldn't tell, and I was too tired to pull out the binoculars.

For a second hate blinded me. Then envy, then I was too busy slushing my way through that crap to care.

And it sure looked like fun. A lot of fun. I was down and out of there before they landed, but I'm sure they came down right next to the parking lot.

Arf