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Hiking: With Dog

by Alan Kesselheim

Found in: | Hiking |

"He's a dog, for crying out loud."

Believe me, I'm not one of those dog owners whose pet can do no wrong, who thinks it's cute when his 60-lb., muddy-pawed pup jumps on strangers, who assumes that everyone on a trail agrees that having dogs for company is one of the seven joys of outdoor living.

No. For most of my adult life, and of my outdoor career, dogs have been a tolerable but not particularly welcome fact of communal outdoor existence. I strike off on trails to get into my head, to let my mind wander, to achieve a comfortable pace and approach some communion with my surroundings. Almost always, dogs en route are at best an interruption, at worst a pain-in-the-ass. To be honest, that goes for my dog too.

That I have a dog at all is my kids' fault. I held them off for years, but like so many vows you make as a parent, defeat is inevitable. He's a pound puppy, an Australian Shepard/Husky mix, we think. The kids named him Beans. He's been part of the family for three years now.

Beans has his attributes. He doesn't bark. He is actually pretty cute. In the house he lies down and waits patiently for the next outing. He is smart enough to take direction. He is invariably friendly. And he loves being out.

In fact, he lives for the next walk. Doesn't matter where, what time of day, whether he has to go without food, what the weather's doing. My impression is that, for Beans, life is a sort of gray monotony of hanging out, punctuated by psychedelic spikes of joy announced when someone laces up their walking shoes.

That pure, unbridled enthusiasm notched the first chink in my armor. How do you resist such unqualified zest? We could tramp to the dump, in a downpour, through mud, and the level of joy would be the same as it is traversing a mountain ridge on a brilliant morning. Doesn't matter. Let's go. The longer the better.

Problem is, Beans operates on a different agenda than I do. His involves constant sensory exploration, a great deal of worldly interpretation via the nostrils, sniffing at sagebrush, deer tracks, turds, dog butts, filaments of scent on the breeze. Staying on the trail and maintaining a steady pace are not anywhere on the program. Giving chase also ranks high. Squirrels and chipmunks are constant quarry. Deer are completely irresistible.

Beans is the physical incarnation of the adage to live the moment. It's just that I don't have the space to heed his advice much.

So when I go on a walk for exercise, and have a schedule to keep, our styles tend to clash. It's impossible to achieve the head space I crave when I'm constantly cajoling Beans to leave off sniffing the next dog butt that trots along, or give up the quivering siege at the base of a tree, waiting for that scolding squirrel to fall from the branch.

Yes, I appreciate his joy, I understand his priorities. On a Sunday morning with nothing pressing on the horizon, I can indulge him. Most often, though, it's a compromise. In the end, I get my exercise but don't find much solace, and Beans gets out for a joyous walk, but is hamstrung by his nagging owner.

There are days when I have to walk away from that wagging nub of tail and bright-eyed look to get in a good, old-fashioned stroll, sans dog. There are other times when Beans escapes and doesn't come back for half a day. Who knows where he goes, what he does. But it must be bliss.

We have taken him along on a few extended hikes. When he sees us start to pack the car, he hops in and waits . . . for hours. Anything to not be left behind. On the trail he carries a pack full of his food, which slows him down a bit. He sleeps, curled up, outside the tent. He climbs peaks, glissades down snowfields, jumps creeks. We know when bear are around because Beans inserts himself in the hiking line and sticks very close. Sometimes, after a long day on sharp talus, he needs a couple of ibuprofen, just like me. In general, he's pretty good company.

In March, we took him to Dark Canyon, Utah. The five of us, plus Beans, picked our way down the steep, loose slope to the canyon floor and flowing stream. For three days we base-camped and explored.

I hesitate to give Beans credit for this, but our wanderings had much of the quality Beans exudes on our daily walks. We followed our noses, such as they are - stopping at pools, marveling at rock patterns, noticing the frail, newborn cottonwood leaves. Beans did his damnedest to keep up, despite his climbing and canyoneering limitations.

Up Lost and Lean-to Canyons there are pour-offs to skirt, cliffs to scale, pools to contour around. More than once Beans committed to a move that ended in a bad fall. Mostly he found a way, somehow, by doubling back, making tremendous leaps, scrambling and scratching. Several times we had to turn around because he couldn't follow. It didn't feel much like sacrifice. He would not be left behind and, I'm forced to admit, he was remarkably intrepid.

Only once, when we decided to stay in the bottom of Dark Canyon to get to the Colorado River, which entailed several naked jumps into pools that Beans wouldn't commit to, did I volunteer to take him by the alternate, high traverse. I had to tether him on a leash to keep him with me. He whined in frustration. I wasn't exactly pleased either.

We grumbled at each other all the way around, listening to the shouts of conquest and amazement and mishap from below. Beans didn't understand that our detour was for his benefit. Just another in a long string of unfathomable, limiting dictates. For me, another sacrifice of pleasure for a pet I didn't entirely want in the first place.

On our last day in Dark Canyon, we explored hard, then cooked an early dinner before using the cool twilight to climb the steep, mile-long rubble slope to the sandstone bench. There we made a dry camp, under the stars. After the constriction of deep canyons, it was as if we could suddenly breathe deep again. Beans seemed liberated, too. He struck off through the sagebrush, following scents, until we called him back.

The stars came out, thick as snow - Orion, Taurus, the Dippers. On the way to sleep we talked about school, trips to come, friends, family stories. A few shooting stars flared in the black sky, stellar match strikes.

Much later, something woke me. Scorpio was above the horizon. It was cold. Then I realized that Beans had wormed his way next to me, had curled himself into a neat, inconspicuous ball in the midst of the family bed. My first impulse was to shove him out, reassert my space, relegate him to his. He's a dog, for crying out loud. But then I shifted over until my bag was halfway off the ground sheet. Beans snuggled deeper into position and sighed, with just enough smugness to let me know he'd won one.

Writer Alan Kesselheim is the author of six critically acclaimed books, including Threading the Currents, Water and Sky, Going Inside and Silhouette on a Wide Land.