When our daughter Anna was about fourteen, she attended a Black Hills retreat center as a “counselor in training.” One afternoon she invited a group of her fellow fourteen-year-old trainees to our nearby cabin (I’m fuzzy on the details – an adult staffer must have been present; we weren’t). They hiked up beloved “Rubble Rock Mountain” that rises behind our cabin.
|Anna's nephew Sam, in more recent days,|
resting near the top of Rubble Rock Mountain
|Rubble's Balancing Rock,|
no longer balanced.
(I may be exaggerating. Geologists who have studied the rock of our valley have determined its ancient age, but are uncertain as to the epochal details of its movements. Perhaps it was only balanced there since the last Ice Age, a mere 100,000-10,000 years ago.)
I grieve the loss of our Balancing Rock, but I don’t blame Anna. I don’t even blame the fourteen-year-old troglodytes because…
(Adult scout leaders, however, I don't let off so easily...)