The most common way to count the distance of a hike is in miles.
But I hiked with my five-year-old, so we counted in dogs.
We met the first furry friend at the campsite. Maxie was an enormous German shepherd. Her head must have weighed more than my girl. Yet, Maxie nuzzled her gently. “Oh, she’s friendly,” said the man, “except with other dogs.”
When we started hiking, my daughter took a tumble around the first bend and scraped her knee. I picked her up and carried her a bit, but a Corgi coming down the trail lifted her spirits. His name was Blueberry, which my daughter wondered if that was a reference to his favorite food. Blueberry pulled his leash and left before we could inquire about the true origins of his name.
We met a dog named Ophelia whose walker was quick to point out was NOT named after the Lumineers’s song, but rather the one by The Band. He and I expressed admiration for the late, great Robbie Robertson. Then, it was my daughter who pulled me ahead by the hand.
We met a group of college guys with a shaggy dog named Whiskey. My daughter was puzzled: “Whiskey? What’s that?” Probably a reference to someone else’s favorite, but that was a conversation for another day …
For Maxie came down the trail in the opposite direction and the big dog didn’t like Whiskey! She barked to shake the leaves from the trees, so we all hustled ahead.
My daughter and I saw the summit ahead, but the trail had become steep and rocky. Already tired, we decided to go back down. I admit I was a little disappointed that we had turned around.
Earlier that week, I’d started Ross Gay’s “Book of (More) Delights” in which he and his beloved start off on a hike for his birthday. They, too, decided to turn around. Gay reflects: “I was pleased, delighted even, at having not reached the summit. … Maybe it’s a small and weird gesture of hope, leaving something in the tank for tomorrow. … Maybe not finishing is a prayer for tomorrow?” I would tiptoe toward an answer by sharing this:
On our way back down, my daughter stopped to pet Winston, a French bulldog with the breed’s characteristic mashed-up face. He was clomping along snorting like a steam engine. My daughter found Winston’s favorite spot behind his ears. He plopped down on his rear, one leg stuck out to the side like a kickstand, and grinned to beat the band.
Who’s to say this wonderful moment wasn’t another kind of mountaintop experience?
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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