Climbing Tiger Mountain without strategy

I had dallied for two long years. Finally, girding my ancient loins, I braved the walk. My intrepid wife led me up a rather steep path and into the Malaysian jungle. I had been assured that it would be a walk, not a climb. I am far too unfit for climbs. We rounded a bushy corner,  replying to greetings given by returning walkers, and there it was. It was, to all intents and purposes, a climb, but to my wife merely a walk. True we were walking, but uphill,  using knee power to transport our bodies upward, now I call that a climb.

I had no problem at all watching my wife's superbly shaped buttocks as she climbed, sorry walked. The problem came when I was trying to watch them and climb at the same time. Heaven on earth had to be deferred to ensure that I didn't reach actual Heaven long before I was ready.

We trudged on for some time, manoeuvring over rusty chalk and, occasionally,  marble. Green and sometimes purple ferns watched as we traversed that mountain. It was no Tiger Mountain,  though there were plenty of Chinese. All kinds of young, and not so young, uphill strollers, strolled uphill, but this strategic Tiger Mountain contained no Brian Eno, or opera.

Sunbeams lit lazy mist somewhere half way. A bird let rip with a hearty halloween trill, and scared me half to death. Leeches were conspicuous by their absence,  which was a blessing, but the humidity was relentless within that shady forest. I was out of breath. I had 'good morninged' far to many climbers,  and forgot to save some breath for myself.

I received some strange looks by fellow yet indigenous travellers. One nearly fell of the mountain as she gave a double-take. Then I remembered the legend of Jim Thompson, the American who disappeared into the Malaysian jungle, in Cameron Highlands. She must of thought I were he.

I survived. My dear, fit, wife informed me that we had only gone half way, and that next time we could go all the way. Next time, I thought, there would be a next time, head slap.