I put my husband in charge of hike choice. It was our first full day in Yosemite, and I was full of French toast and enthusiasm.

“I think we should do this one,” he said and pointed to a squiggly line on a map.

“Okey-dokey,” I said, like a lamb being led to slaughter.

We boarded the shuttle bus and bounced along to Happy Isles trail head. (How could you possibly go wrong with something named Happy Isles?)

“First to the top of Vernal Falls,” my husband said. “Then the top of Nevada Falls.”

“Okey-dokey.” (Lamb thing again.)

Now I like to imagine myself in good shape. I run. I bike. I lift weights. In my head, I am Xena, Weekend Warrior Princess. It’s possible this is where things went off the rails.

The first hour was deceptively pleasant. There was a babbling creek. There were birds and squirrels. The air smelled sweet and non-carcinogenic. (As opposed to L.A. where the air is often yellow, which you just know can’t be good.) I bounced along the trail like a puppy on a walk. Boing-boing-boing.

Here’s the thing about water falls: They fall – presumably from a great height. It follows that to get to the top, you’ll have to climb this height. A smarter person would’ve thought of this ahead of time.

Fortunately, the National Park Service was kind enough to carve footholds (jokingly referred to as “stairs”) into the granite face of the cliff I was attempting to scale. Unfortunately, they had done it with an eight-foot-tall person in mind. Unable to get my leg up that high without toppling over backwards, I gave up and crawled to the first waterfall on hands and feet.

Husband: “Look at that.”

Me: Pant-pant-pant. “Yeah.” Pant-pant-pant. “Pretty.” Pant-pant-pant.

Husband: “Ready to keep going?”

Me: (Having given up on speech) Nods. Pants.

Somewhere along the way even the stair carvers gave in, leaving “paths” (I use the term loosely) strewn with rocks the size of beer coolers lying about for your scrambling, clutching and praying convenience. Also they were good for pressing against while trying to remember how to work my lungs.

Four hours from the start, we stood at the top of Nevada Falls. To the left, was the trail to Half Dome, a notorious 12-hour, 17-mile hike with inclines as steep as 45-degrees.

“Next year?” my husband asked, nodding in its direction.

“You bet.”

Let the training begin.