Maya's first backpacking trip

We took Maya backpacking last weekend.  To give you some perspective, backpacking is one of the things I've dreamed about doing with my dog since before we had a dog.  We love backpacking, we do a lot of it (in a good year), and I am pretty sure that part of the reason we chose to adopt Maya was that she seemed like a good, sturdy, correctly-sized dog for backpacking.

(Two other reasons: I wanted a dog who really represented dogs in my area and Maya is as typical of a "New Mexico Brown Dog" as you can get; and Maya reminded me a little bit of a baby elk I once found under a bush).

It took almost two years for us to take Maya backpacking.  Because it turned out that she wasn't really prepared for life on the trail (or life with humans, or life in general), and then the next spring, I broke my ankle and couldn't do any hiking at all.  In any case, we had almost two years to work on some foundation skills, which was probably to our benefit.

So we planned a really tiny, easy trip.  It was in a place we've been before, where the trails are flat and easy, where there is plenty of water, and where we were sure we could find a sufficiently isolated campsite.

This is Maya at the trail head.  She was much too excited to pose for pictures.

The plan was to hike about four or five miles and then find a campsite.  We packed generously -- lots of spare socks and extra gear.  Maya carried her own food, towel, water bowl, and the toilet paper.  I read varying reports on what dogs should carry, everything from 10-30% of their own body weight.  We figured about 5-6 lbs would be plenty for Maya's first hike under pack this year.  Certainly, I don't think it bothered her.

The first issue we encountered was fallen trees.  We had forgotten that, so early in the year, trail crews would not have cleared winter dead-fall yet.  Trees blocked the trail at every turn.  Some we leaped over (well, Maya leaped, I climbed).  Some we traversed around.  A few, I had to crawl underneath, due to steep surroundings.

More troublesomely, everything was deep in mud.  Clambering over a fallen tree is all very well, but when your first footstep on the other side slides into a quagmire, problems arise.  Brian gouged his hand early on, and hiked on while bleeding.  I had my good ankle slide into a hole, which produced some worrying sensations but no lasting damage.  Then Brian did some ankle-straining slipping and sliding as well.  Maya had no issues.

The mud only got worse, and began to be supplemented by melting piles of snow.  We passed a few people (two of them in camouflage -- a particular concern in the Maya-verse) and Maya did nothing more than wiggle her eyebrows and look interested.  That distracted me sufficiently from noticing that the trail was turning into a cold swamp.

The swamp went from cold to frozen.  After a couple of miles, we were trying to hike around snow drifts instead of fallen trees (okay, often snow drifts AND fallen trees).  There was ice.  The trail headed into a ravine, and then the snow got serious.

(heading into the ravine)

I don't necessarily mind hiking in snow, but I dislike it during the spring.  Most of the snow was soft and wet, and that means post-holing.

For those unfamiliar with the experience, post-holing is when you are crossing frozen snow, balancing on the top crust, and then your leg, quite suddenly, drops into the snow.  If you are wearing a backpack, this happens more often and sometimes with startling speed.  Depending on the depth of the snow, you can drop just a few inches, or all the way up to your hip, so that your crotch is suddenly resting on frigid snow. This produces some interesting conversations, such as:

"Do you think this is one of those trips we're going to look back on and curse ourselves for not turning around sooner?"

"I don't know, I think...weeeHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

The snow got deeper, my toes froze, a certain amount of ungraceful floundering occurred.  Maya thought it was all great fun, even when she was the one doing the floundering. 

Finally, we exited the ravine.  I won't say we shed tears of joy, but it was a near thing.  We sat on a rock in the sunshine, allowing feeling to return to our toes, and pretended we really hadn't thought the whole thing was that big a deal anyway.  Maya lay in the sunshine and looked happy, which is something I always appreciate.

Then we hiked on, up a hill, and to the most perfect campsite.  Dry, warm, soft, and with a view.  We set up the tent, unpacked, basked.

Part of our strategy to help Maya acclimate to camping had been to practice some of the skills at home.  Relaxing on a tether, relaxing while the tent was set up, etc..  She has been doing well, but we still decided not to tether her this time.  Having a leashed dog attached to one of us slowed camp preparation slightly, but it was worth it for overall contentment.  And Maya was truly content.

Brian cooked dinner, I provided companionship for Maya.  It may not seem like an equal division of duties, but things like this mean the world for Maya's peace of mind.

This photo is especially for Clarese.

 

Dinner was hot, if not particularly gourmet, and welcome.  Maya ate every bite of her dinner too -- another indicator that her stress levels were low.  I washed the dishes (Brian taking over Maya-sitting), we tidied up our camp, and we went for an evening walk.  Because there was nobody else around, we let Maya off-leash for some frolicking time.

And did she ever frolic.

If you are ever wondering if your dog is having a good time, a sustained twenty minute burst of the high-speed zoomies is by far the best reassurance I have found.  Maya tucked her butt and zoomed.  Her face laughed, her body kicked and leaped, and she played the silly dog game of pretending to crash into me (but not really making contact).  She was joyful.

We walked around through the woods, which were full of snow drifts and interesting poop.  Maya took a break from her zoomies to sniff, chase after some squirrel-noises, and explore.  Every so often, she'd run over to us and beam a huge, ear-to-ear grin..."Can you believe how great this place is?!?"

Then she found a snow drift to conquer.

Countdown to explosion in 3...2...1...

Wooohooooooo!

 

Nothing like mid-May snow zoomies to finish off a day in good spirits.

Bedtime was complicated by the fact that Maya didn't want to lie under her blanket (really, a big down jacket that covers her perfectly).  I knew it was going to be a cold night -- the giant piles of snow that surrounded our tent were one clue -- and wanted her covered.  She knew that she was plenty warm right now, thanks, and didn't need to be covered.  She won.

Sometime after midnight, I was awoken by Maya standing over me, making sad grumbly noises.  Yes, it was cold.  I unzipped my sleeping bag, made a nest for her beside me, and gestured her to lie down.  Still grumbling, she complied, and I wrapped her up in my sleeping bag and arms.  She lay stiffly, I think resenting the arm lying over her, and then after a minute, as the warmth of my body penetrated, let out a huge groan of relief and melted into a happy dog puddle.  We snored together until shortly before dawn, when Maya stood up to stretch and let a blast of sub-freezing air into the bag, simultaneously waking and paralyzing me.  Still a few kinks to work out in the camping department.

Once the sun rose, I thawed enough to move.  We attended to our morning tasks, then walked up the valley.  It had been our plan to spend two nights camped here, with a long day hike in between, but then, it had also been our plan to have a very easy trek into camp.  The snow levels, mud, and fallen trees had dented our enthusiasm slightly, and when we found more of the same ahead, we decided to go for a long ramble across the ridge top instead.

 Legs warmed up, we returned to camp, packed up, and headed back toward our car.

The hike was the same as the day before, except in reverse.  Snow, mud, trees.  Despite it being a Saturday, we saw only one other hiker.  Maya saw him too, except that when she spotted him, he was mostly hidden by an embankment (and wearing camouflage besides...why so many people in camo?).  She let out a long growl.  Not her menacing growl, but her higher-pitched "WTF is that?!?!" growl.  I walked her up a little hillock so she could get a better view.  Once she could clearly see the silhouette of a person, the growl vanished, her face relaxed into a goofy grin, and she pressed her forehead briefly against my leg.  Ha ha, just a person.  I played a few rounds of LAT with her, with lots of cookies, and we hiked on peacefully.

By Saturday evening, we were home again.  Maya walked directly from the front door to the couch, climbed up, and fell so fast asleep that I had to shake her awake for dinner.  A short trip, maybe, but definitely taxing for her.  And thus ended Maya's first backpacking trip.

But not her last, I think.