Mount Rubidoux is a hill which marks the boundary between Riverside, the city where I live, and Rubidoux (roo-bi-doe), it's less reputable neighbor. At just over thirteen hundred feet, the hill is quite sizable, but is by no means the mountain its name might conjure up in the imagination of one who has never seen it.
My grandmother's house sits right at the foot of this hill, with the third tier of her back yard backing the trail that climbs it. As a child, I went up and down that hill more times than I could hope to count. Some of my earliest, and haziest, memories take place there. I can remember walking up with my dad, right after he and my mom divorced. I remember climbing into the tower on the Fourth of July, with cousins who were some of my closest friends before time and distance inevitably weakened the bonds between us. I remember, too, slipping and sliding down the side of the mountain behind my older and more courageous brothers, as they ran straight down, occasionally glancing back to see whether I was still alive, and threatening to leave me behind...
This Monday, Memorial Day, finding myself at home with nothing to do, I became increasingly restless. After trying for some time to find some diversion, I resolved to go for a walk up the hill that's such a familiar part of my life. I could find no one else to accompany me, so I was alone on this particular trek, which isn't all that unusual. I climbed the hill, Found my favorite rock (one shaped kind of like a chair) overlooking the city airport, and watched the planes take off for a while, then began my descent.
When I was about halfway down, I passed a fairly sizable crowd of people walking up. By chance, I caught the eye of a woman of about 65. She was somewhat withered, but still spry, and as she looked up at me, she said, "You'll make it," and smiled.
I probably smiled back, but I was too shocked to know for sure. What was she talking about? Hadn't I already made it? I was on my way down. She was the one with hard work ahead of her, not me. Did I really look so worn out, even after resting for half an hour, that there was some concern as to whether I'd make it to the bottom all right?
Or was she talking to herself? Old people do that all the time, and crazy people too, for that matter (or so I hear). Was her encouraging remark one aimed at herself and simply projected onto me? I'm certain at this point that I'll never know, but as I reflect upon the experience, I must admit that at some point I thought of her as some kind of soothsayer, telling me that I would make it, not only down the mountain, but in some larger pursuit. I'm still hoping she was right.
