Coming Soon

After extensive testing on Uncompahagre Peak and around the American West, I’m willing to wholeheartedly recommend Joanna the dog, although I’m still not sure what this piece of equipment is supposed to do. Joanna the dog (custom pricing- Humane Society) had no packaging and no instruction manual. My best hypothesis is that it is a device designed to terrorize small mammals. It also functions as an alarm system for imaginary intruders, a dishwasher that makes plates sparkle yet be more unsanitary, and can decorate outdoor areas with fecal matter.

            Joanna saw the car door open and immediately tries to bolt. I am exasperated. The slender two-year-old collie mix alternated between expressions of defiance and submissiveness. Every time she reached a safe distance, she smiled her stupid doggy smile as if to taunt and charm me in the same moment. She is afraid of car rides, probably just to make my life difficult. I go to pick her up and she lies down, one last futile gesture of defiance. I placed her on her bed in my car and her disposition immediately improved. After an afternoon packing lackadaisically, Joanna and I headed out for the San Juans at 4PM from Colorado Springs, virtually guaranteeing that we will arrive in the middle of the night. Summer nights in the Rocky mountains feel a lot like winters elsewhere. I was disappointed that I won’t get to drive in during daylight, but we were climbing Uncompahagre Peak, the highest peak in the San Juan mountain range, come hell or high water. It’s not a difficult hike, but the snow was still thick in places and Joanna was a complete wild card.

            I pull into the town of Lake City as the sun sets, arriving downtown on the one paved road. It’s a far cry from Aspen, but it’s hardly depressing. Lake City looked like a fun place to tear around on an ATV, and that’s good in my book. I stop for gas and caffeine at a gas station (caffeine was a huge mistake) and ask for directions. The cashier, a cheery brunette who looked like she was still in high school, had no idea where the trailhead was.

“You looking for Uncompahagre?” asked a bearded young man in a camouflage one-piece. His young son is outfitted in matching attire. He pronounces it Un-Com-Pag-Re.

I replied yes, embarrassed that I had butchered the pronunciation.

“I’m going up there right now. You can follow me.”

“Are you climbing it?” I ask.

“No. Snow’s too thick. I don’t think my son can make it up.”

I went out into the dirt parking lot and get in my car. A few minutes later, I loose his silver Tacoma. I decide to keep going rather than turn back for instructions. The signs say that this dirt road goes all the way to Ouray. I wind up a dark dirt road that seems far longer than the five miles that I was supposed to go to the trailhead. Right as I am about to turn around, I see a sign. Nelly Creek trailhead. Uncompahagre peak, that way. Five miles. My headlights illuminated a trail that is far too steep for my Subaru. Remembering the time I took a Honda Civic up to the trailhead for Gray’s and Torrey’s peak. I put my car in first gear and punch it.

            After about a mile of with a terrified Joanna bopping up and down in the back, the trail drops off. It resumes on the other side of a river, which is running downhill on a steep slope, given strength by unusually late snowmelt. On my side of the river was a wasted trip, and by extension, a wasted summer. On the other side was the only thing I’ve ever wanted: summits and views and the ability to look down on the San Juans. My car is an SUV, but it’s no Jeep. After about five seconds of contemplation, I flip the switch present in all young men, the one that overrides all logic and sense. Joanna is lying down, having given up on balancing. I engage the clutch and put the car into first gear. Still on solid ground, I angled the car upstream so that I can fight the current if I start getting pulled along. I hesitated. I forgot to put on Free Bird. I slam the gas pedal, hoping not to slow down and get caught by the water.

            When I first met Joanna, she jumped right into my lap and tried to lick my face. We were in one of the introduction rooms at the Humane Society in Colorado Springs. My girlfriend, my friend Brooke, and I had lined up outside right as it opened for adoptions at 11am. I had come to look at a German Shepherd mix named Ruger. Volunteers in yellow vests led us into the wing of the building with adoptable dogs. There was a row of dogs in kennels. Most were barking loudly. It sounded like some avant-garde composer’s vision of an anti-symphony, or a scene from The Inferno as written by Lassie. The first thing I noticed about Joanna was that she was whimpering. I stared at her. She was pitch black, except for her feet and belly, and her enlarged chest was evidence that she had just given birth. Her white feet made it look like she was wearing socks. Joanna stared right at me and cried. I read the information sheet located next to her.

Jo Anna.

48 Pounds.

2 years old.

 Spayed.

 Very intelligent and trainable.

 She was not on the list of dogs I was going to look at today, and since so many dogs get adopted, meeting with Joanna meant that I might miss out on Ruger or other dogs. Joanna stares at me. I go to a nearby volunteer, a young man with a military haircut.

“I want to meet Joanna.”

The first thing we notice when we take Joanna home is that she is afraid of the stairs.

            I hoot and holler. We made it across. I’m pretty sure Joanna is oblivious to what just happened. The second river crossing was a piece of cake. After about 20 minutes, we parked at the trailhead. After an embarrassing amount of screwing up, I set up my tent while Joanna sniffs things absentmindedly and stares at me. I grilled a pound of bison meat and ate almost all of it. Joanna is kind enough to finish the rest. She kept her distance from me, enjoying my presence but afraid to go back in the car. The reflection of my headlamp on her eyes makes her look possessed. At 11:40, I set my alarm for 6:15 and turned in. I was in my sleeping bag and Joanna was on her doggy bed. She was resistant to my attempt to use her as a pillow, which was selfish considering that she is luxuriously upholstered. I tried to sleep but failed. As I was drifting off as one in the morning, Joanna started barking frantically.

            If your dog is barking at something at 1PM at your house, it is probably trivial bullshit. If your dog is barking at 1AM in bear country with nobody else around and no cell service, it is probably not the mailman. Holding her jaws shut, I nervously listen for animals. Hearing nothing, I nevertheless deferred to Joanna’s superior senses of smell and hearing and decide to assume that something is out there. I did not sleep a wink.

            Finally, at 4 AM, I went to pee and decide that since I wasn’t sleeping, I might as well climb a mountain. I could see the faintest light approaching from the east, and I like to need a headlamp when I start my climbs. I cooked the worst Huevos Rancheros that anyone has ever cooked (the fact that Joanna decided that she wanted the first bite did not help matters), hastily pack the car (which Joanna will still not approach), and head out on the trail.

            I walked uphill through a thinning forest of pine trees. The increasingly small and sparse trees were a sign I was near treeline. Alpenglow started to illuminate a peak that I thought was Uncompahagre. I had hoped it was because there was not that much snow, and the climb looked doable. The trail turns left after about a half mile. The rising sun lets me see the real peak. It rose from thousand foot cliffs on three sides. The hikeable side is covered in patches of snow, like a giant had dipped a brush into a huge paint bucket and flung it at the peak. It was flanked by two smaller, steeper mountains, and a large basin stood between me and the peak. I was happy I was wearing snow pants. We ascended through an alpine meadow. I was tired but enthusiastic.

             I love summits. I love the slow reward of ascending and watching an entire region slowly come into view. I love being teased with various parts of a panorama for hours of struggle, and with the final couple of steps watching an entire world unfold in front of you. Hikes are the closest things to a religious pilgrimage I will ever embark upon. Some people go to Mecca or Jerusalem. I drink summit beers, and I’m getting to this summit.  

            The first snowfield I was able to traverse around. Joanna followed my lead. We don’t hit another for at least a half a mile. By this point the sun had brought everything into clear view. We were in a green alpine meadow, which would have been idyllic for the fact that it was a muddy morass. Where it was not muddy, it was icy. The beautiful flowers had clearly been placed there by a god with a sense of irony. The same deity had also sent me a companion to taunt me with my own shortcomings. Joannna would sprint ahead through anything and turn around periodically to look at me like she had somewhere to go. You don’t have anywhere to go, I thought. You’re a dog.  

            There was no going around the second snowfield. The snow had been weathered by the wind to create an appearance of a frozen wave. It was frozen solid and extremely slippery. I looked like a drunken person in tennis shoes trying to hike in an ice rink. Joanna, who had never been on snow before, sprints up and waits for me. By the time I reached the top, I was so far away from where I was supposed to be that I had lost the trail completely. I look for a cairn, and  find one on a ridgeline about a couple hundred yards south. A straight shot seems like the best answer.

            I am worried about the time. The snowfields might slow me down to the point where bad weather could roll in and turn me around. I do my best three stooges impression up the snow until I hit the ridgeline. Now I have a new problem.

            A dog chasing a squirrel is the closest thing to a being of pure energy that the laws of physics will allow. An owner watching a dog chase a squirrel in an area surrounded by cliffs that drop hundreds of feet in every direction is as close to a being of pure nervousness as a living being can be. Here is the transcript.

PATRICK: JOANNA!

(JOANNA keeps chasing a fat marmot like it tasted like candy and was filled with winning lottery tickets)
PATRICK: JOANNA!

(JOANNA does more dog stiff)

PATRICK: JOANNA!

(JOANNA licks her butthole)

(JOANNA runs back, pretending to have just heard PATRICK calling her. JOANNA looks happy.)

Joanna looses interest and returns. We were near the ridgeline. After about five minutes, we reach it, and the world reveals more of itself. An entire section of the San Juan range pops out, still holding a ton of snow and rising dramatically from the south. Even better, the wind has swept the ridgeline, keeping the trail free of snow. The ridge took us just under the final ascent, a steep section surrounded by fall and die areas. This would have been no problem if my dog weren’t trying to catch animals like they were tennis balls, and those animals weren’t precipitously close to cliffs. I put Joanna on a leash and start climbing. The ground was so frozen at this time that I had to put spikes on my hiking boots to keep from slipping and falling. Joanna has factory issue spikes on her paws so she was of course fine.

            One final steep snowfield stood between be and the summit. I made it up on my hands and knees. I hike the final few hundred feet. I can see everything.