By Solana Kline
Finally, the cool and still of July sunsetting, especially at 10,000 feet, some rogue nerves rumble around my guts. A healthy dose of excited and scary keeps us humble as humans.
The dinosaur theory, I call it—my observational and completely unscientifically tested hypothesis of contemporary human existence: if dinosaurs still existed, humans would be much more kind, grateful, and would never, ever forget to tell their dogs or humanoids that they love them before they left the house because there would be a 4/10 chance they would get eaten or stepped on by a dinosaur 20 times their size on their commute to work.
Nerves shake us loose from the everyday. They spark the physiological shifts that allow us to be brave and grateful, to experience new adventures, to become beautiful versions of ourselves. They also cause us to dive headfirst into the strange, where no matter how well-prepared you are, dinosaurs stomp your perfect vision of the Fourth of July holiday in the high country….
This particular Fourth of July, me, Betty (aka Snuggess), and Mickey (aka Mingleberries) are backpacking up into the quiet of the San Juan Mountains for four days of burying our toes in the cool grasses and feeling 12,000-foot winds in our hairs. The plan was simple: shove a bunch of warm and tasty goods into packs, strap them on, and hit the trail after the July 3 dinner bell.
Betts carries the lightest gear, like their doggie raincoats. Micks totes the mid-weight goods: dog food, bowls, emergency kit. And I trudge the six-mile, 2,000-feet elevation gain with all the water, tent, and just-in-case gear.
Our first foray into pack backpack adventures was up Humphrey’s Peak in Flagstaff, midsummer, where there’s no flowing water to purify, so I lugged it all with us. It was exhausting. I think we all came to the consensus that it wasn’t enjoyable enough to do again. But now, here we were: everyone with their packs all loaded up, just before sunset, ready to hit the trail.
The dogs, not yet accustomed to their new girth, provided some levity on the ascent, pinballing off each other as they galloped down the trail. I was busy convincing myself how great my calves would look after all this. But really, in this high country, there’s a whole helluvalot to be distracted by.
It’s Springtime here. There’s a particular shade of green that emerges only at sunset in monsoon season high country. A green that’s been waiting all year, or perhaps a lifetime, to shine. Maybe it’s the way the sun sets, particular fractals of light reverberating in and with the vibrancy of life. It becomes impossible not to dance with the humming energy of the skunk cabbage, taller than me this time of year.
Betty ventures off-piste into the skunk cabbages, I trace her whereabouts by the rattling topknots of the cabbage field. Children of the Corn in the high country I chuckle to myself.
Micks barrels past me, nose to the ground, huffing in the evening wildflower show. Upward and onward we go, over roots and granite, over crick and mossy slicks.
Thick dusk rolls in around us. The deep of the firs has us all a bit bristled with a tender ear out for mountain lion and bear. We all breathe a bit easier as we reach the tree line and step into the sunset once again.
Perfect timing. We will scout a tent site with the perfectly oriented mountaintop view to have coffee with in the morning. We ramble off into the greenery, and the doggoes hound off around the little butte I’m fixing to set up camp on.
I unfasten my pack, get ready for the relief of tossing it on the ground. And then, as per usual when we aren’t paying attention as pack leaders, the dogs rustle a fiasco.
Mickey howls and screams from behind the butte. I can’t see him. Worst nightmare when you’re wrestling sixty extra pounds and just can’t get to them fast enough.
I sprint as best I can, lofting over the strewn boulders and knee-deep foliage. Logic says it’s a mama bear and her cubs. I pull my bear spray as I’m running, screaming as loud as I can to scare them off.
Cresting the butte, I finally see Mickey hightailing it outta dodge, blood dripping down his face and arms. Betty is charging full-frontal towards the hillside, fierce warrior.
Their foe finally comes into focus, trapped between Betty’s front legs: a huge adult marmot, seething, frothing, and pissed as all get out.
I chase in between him and Betty, snapping Betts out of her squirrel-high. The marmot trundles back into the safety of his rock lodge, where he maintains safety-scout lookout position at the opening, chirping his warning.
I shoo the dogs down to the trail to assess the damage. It’s almost full dark now, and it’s tough to tell who and what is bleeding. I bust out the saline, which squirts clean through Mickey’s lip and out the bottom of his chin. Crap, a gnarly marmot bite.
Mickey is always into the skunks and porcupines. Doggie curiosity is the mother of misfortune out in the prickly and defensive spring wilderness.
Jeesh, now what? Do we descend tonight in the dark? I’ll call an emergency vet.
I feel around for my phone in my pack’s zipper pocket. Nothing. Increasingly urgent, I check all my pockets. Nothing. My phone fell out when I ran across the hillside, or after I’d grabbed the dogs and ran a few hundred meters down the trail. It’s too dark to find it now.
Exhausted, I didn’t even have the energy to let the explicatives fly. I was worried for Mickey, and for the poor marmot friend. Executive decision: we descend now, get down to the rig.
The pups are coming down from their adrenaline high, all tuckered out. I carry their packs the last half of the descent. I sing Johnny Cash and Bonnie Raitt, jogging wide awake, running high on thoughts of a wildcat fresh on our heels.
We’ve never been so grateful to see our rig, except maybe after the two-month doggie-moto trip! I think maybe we’ve sworn off dogpacking for good this time… well… at least until next time….
Happy trails and happy tails!
~ Solana, Dr. Sausage, Dr. Wiggles ~
P.S. After a solid round of antibiotics and professional cleaning, Micks healed up great. I biked up to find my phone the next morning. After two hours of searching, I discovered that a trail angel must’ve set my phone, along with someone’s windbreaker, on a rock. I hooted and hollered to the heavens in gratitude! Mr. Marmot friend was out guarding his rock hut again that morning: I sent him telepathic apologies and hopefully he remains unscathed!
