The English-wannabe who went up a hill but came down a mountain

When Chris and I went hiking two Sundays ago, the film title "The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain" continually ran through my mind due to this conversation.
Me: "Chris! Look at this view! We're on top of a mountain!"
Chris: "A mountain? No way. Sarah, this is totally a hill."
I blame my pancake, flatbread FLAT Florida roots for the confusion. It was high, and it had a view. To me, it was a flippin mountain. The end.

Chris and I are not what true hikers would call "hikers"--we don't pack backpacks full of wilderness supplies, wear special boots and cargo shorts, or go for days and days over unmarked obstacles to reach our mountaintop (for real) goal. We would like to be, eventually, but, for now, we're the kind who randomly decide to go explore on a Sunday afternoon in t-shirts and converse sneakers.

Because we CAN, gosh darn it.

And so we did. Just, out of the blue, found ourselves at Coyote Lake Park.  It was a grand time.  I kept stopping to take pictures, much to Chris's frustration, and singing songs like "The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Music" and "The Colors of the Wind," which drove him batty.  But we had fun. We spotted two hawks, a doe, and her fawn, and just enjoyed being out in nature ....

...and, you know, sharing our plans for the zombie apocalypse ....

  And, from then on, we began discussing survival and battle plans . . . because you never really know when you might be attacked by hordes of the starving undead or greedy pirates . . . or stuff . . . Right?

While everything else was dried up, these little white flowers were blooming EVERYWHERE.
There's always something bright if you're looking for it.