All birthdays have significance, some more than others. Big, round ones with a “0” at the end are always profound, but there’s an odd-numbered birthday that carries an inordinate amount of weight these days: 65.

I crossed the Rubicon last month, entering the never-never land of Medicare and senior citizen discounts. Nothing has changed down here in the weeds, but the view from 30,000 feet reveals the arc of my life is steadily curving over the horizon.

The formerly fearless mountaineer is living off of past memories. The erstwhile elk hunter has cut up his last wapiti. The ardent young lover has cooled off, the kids are almost out of the house, and the final season of life is beginning to unfold.