It took me about 3 hours to climb 3,000 feet to Kaiser's summit, and I'd already gulped down a lunch of Gatorade, crackers and jerky. I promptly lay on my back, pulled my hat over my eyes and sank into a blend of reflection, prayer and napping.

Some time passed. Eventually, I heard boots crunching on the rocks and sat up. there was a lady with a water bottle, catching her breath and taking in the view. She apologized for interrupting my solo time. I told her it was OK.

After a few minutes, I offered to refill her water bottle. She accepted and told me she'd just climbed the mountain as her 60th birthday present to herself. She said her husband was boating on Huntington Lake, and she hadn't told him where she was going in case she couldn't make it.

She wandered off a ways to take in the scenery alone, and I began to pack up my stuff. When she came back a few minutes later, she beckoned me over to her. She pointed to a delicate white flower peeking between some rocks, and said it was a mariposa lily.

"Such beauty," she said softly.

That was the moment where I hoped I'd be climbing mountains like Kaiser when I'm 60 -- not necessarily because that would mean I'm still tough enough to do it. I want to be the kind of person who finds delight in a single wildflower blooming from a pile of rocks.

Thanks, stranger. And, happy birthday.