It's all fun and squirrel chases until....

I did something stupid yesterday. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I do something mildly stupid every single day, those little idiocies I usually shrug off with a chuckle and a shake of my head. At home, when no one’s watching, I am the classic absent-minded professor, walking around with my head in the clouds, pouring boiling water into my bowl of cereal instead of into my tea mug because I’m distracted by life or composing a poem in my head or simply not awake yet.

Generally speaking, however, I don’t consciously choose to do something that might lead to harm for myself or my dog. Especially not my dog. Yesterday I did. If either one of us had come to harm, I would have had a hard time forgiving myself. There was a moment in time during which that thought occurred to me, and I reversed direction in time to keep us both safe. Whew.

Here’s how the drama played out:

I was excited to hike a new trail. As I was getting ready to head out in the morning, however, my son called, and I ended up leaving a half an hour or so later.

All was good, though. We found the trailhead, and as soon as we determined no one else was on the trail, I unhooked Maudie's leash and she was off chasing lizard after lizard after lizard (plus one bunny and one field mouse that was right under her nose). As always, she didn’t catch a thing.

Down the trail we went until we found the wash with a trickle of water running through. Maudie trotted along happily, splashing in and out of the water, sniffing everywhere, running ahead, coming back to me, living her best life. We walked about a mile and a half until we came to a drop off. We could have gone around it, but I looked at the time and the sun and determined it would be wise to head back, since we were already out later than I had anticipated.

So I turned back. Which was when we got lost. And then I got us more lost because I tried to cut over through the brush to an intersecting trail I thought for sure must be there. Critical rule of hiking: NEVER cut trail. No matter how tired you are, how lost you are. Never, ever leave an established trail.

We had walked east from the trailhead, then connected with the wash and turned south. The problem was, I hadn’t stopped to mark that connection in some way. On the way out, I had seen Maudie dash ahead, and as I stepped through some foliage, I laughed to see her already pushing her snoot into the gently flowing water. (She's always the first to find it.) We were in a deep canyon, and I was fascinated by the burrowing owl nests built into the vertical clay earth. Normally when we turn direction or step from one trail to another, I stop and look behind me, either noting a landmark or creating one by stacking rocks so that we can find our way back.

[Side note here: Maudie will always know the way back to the car. Also, Maudie will never leave my side. If I say, “We’re going this way,” she says, “Whatever you say, Mom. I’m with you no matter what.” And boy howdy, she means it.]

As I recall yesterday’s events, I believe what happened was this: On our way back, I expected to easily find the connecting trail, so I was paying more attention to Maudie’s silly antics and less attention than I should have to where we needed to take that path through the woods that led us up and out of the canyon. Then suddenly, Maudie was off like a shot, barking and yelping as I chased after her. She disappeared into a thickly wooded area, and my heart pounded as I shouted out the command that brings her to my side. I heard a rustle, held my breath, and there she was, panting but unscathed. Whatever she chased was bigger than her; she wasn’t chasing for fun. Whether it was a coyote, a bobcat, or whatever, I will never know, but I clipped on her leash and hurried up the wash to get away from the area, thus passing that all-important connecting trail.

I didn’t realize for at least a quarter of a mile that I had gone too far. Or had I? We turned and walked back. I still did not see the way out. Did I not go far enough? We turned around again and walked farther back along the trail—until a downed tree stopped us. That’s when I knew for sure I’d missed the connection. So once again we turned around, and once again we walked all the way back... as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the temperature inched from the 60's into the 70's.

And then I saw a path… or I thought it was a path. A coyote trail, perhaps. But maybe if we followed it….

I pushed through brush as I left the trail, tromping across dead leaves and branches—an absolutely stupid and dangerous thing to do when it’s rattlesnake season. Maudie, trooper that she is, plunged along beside me, undeterred by our having to bushwhack.

That’s when I found myself up against the canyon wall. My eyes followed the narrow coyote path up the side that wall and over. I looked at Maudie.

“We can do this,” I said.

Did I mention the canyon walls were composed of clay and shale? All around on the ground were large chunks of composite that had broken off and fallen into piles as rain and wind had deepened the canyon. Undeterred, I found a handhold and pulled myself up onto a narrow shelf. Maudie tried to follow, leaping up and falling back. I waited for her to try again, then grabbed her collar and hoisted her up beside me. Now if we could just…. But no. After twenty minutes of scrambling and near rock climbing, every handhold crumbling like a soft cookie in my hand, I stopped. Turned around. Leaned against the canyon wall. Took a breath.

And that was the moment—the moment I looked down and saw that we were 30 feet above the canyon floor, my feet barely braced on loose soil—when I realized how stupid I had been. What if I fell? At the very least, I’d be very, very dirty, dust in my eyes and—more critical—in my broken lungs. And if I were injured? What then? No one knew where I was. No one was expecting me later. How long would I have to wait for rescue? And what of Maudie? The sun was moving toward its zenith. I never intended to stay out this long. I’d brought a bottle of water for her and one for me, but we had consumed most of our water already.

With a sigh and a quiet apology to my dog, I slowly angled down into a sitting position and slid my way back down, getting covered with dirt in the process but making it safely back to the canyon floor, where I stood with shaking legs, petting my dog and apologizing again. We would walk south again as long as it took to find that narrow opening. A quarter mile later, we did.

Before we left the wash, I made Maudie lie down in the water, and I splashed her belly and chest with water. The temperature was in the mid-70’s by then, but we would have no shade for the long walk uphill back to the car. She tolerated the attention well, as if this were some new crazy game we were playing. Twenty minutes later—after six or ten more lizard chases on her part—we were back in the car and headed home.

When I say this dog would go anywhere with me, I really mean it. She trusts me to be a good leader, and I take that trust seriously. Yesterday I made a rash decision that could have resulted in dire consequences. I am determined not to be that stupid again, for her sake, and for mine.

Before I leave you with this honest confession (and a sweet photo of my ride-or-die companion), a note to the scolds out there: Please suppress your admonishments. Yes, I know the first rule of hiking is "always hike with a friend." I do. I hike with Miss Maudie. If I had to arrange hiking dates with my human friends, I would rarely get to hike. For the sake of my mental health, I'm willing to take the risk, but keep in mind that 99% of the time, I abide by the other rules--only hike on established and well-used trails, don't hike at night unless in a group, and always hike with more water and supplies than you need. I'm on it. I promise. Now good night.

Home safe, tired girl