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.

Ethical Camping

We took Maya camping last weekend.  It was beautiful.

It was also really, really hard on her.  She was fine watching us pack and excited to be loaded in the car ("we're going hiking!" is what she thought, and we encouraged this by actually stopping at one of our usual trails, about half an hour up the road, and taking her for a fifteen minute walk.  Not only does this trick give Maya a chance to pee, it helps her settle down for the rest of the drive). 

Maya used to get car sick on every drive, but has more or less grown out of that.  Nevertheless, a seven hour drive is unusual for her.  After her fake hike, she settled down pretty well, but eventually she figured out that we were not, in fact, simply driving back home as usual.  Any change in routine causes Maya some stress, so instead of sleeping (which is what she does most of the day normally) she stayed wide awake, watching the road and barking at Easter pilgrims.

Oh yeah, it was Good Friday, which means the roads of NM were filled with people walking for religious reasons (the specifics, I'm afraid, are unknown to me).  This slowed our drive, and gave Maya something to focus her stress on.

We were headed to a particular corner of SE Utah.  It's BLM land, not heavily used (except to graze cows) but not awfully remote either.  We did find a very nice campsite, many miles from the nearest human.  The view from camp:

Maya was very excited to be somewhere so interesting.  We let her roam around for a bit, and took a long walk along the dirt road to shake the travel kinks from our legs.  I know somewhere out there is a person who finds the thought of a dog being allowed off-leash in a brand new place absolutely horrifying.  It's the same way I feel when I see people let kids pet their dogs -- "oh god, what are they thinking, don't they know the risks?!!!"  Maya has terrific recall, checks in constantly (and is reinforced for it!), never goes out of sight, and is generally a joy to have off-leash in the wilderness. One of the few things that comes easily to us!

Maya is accustomed to a certain hiking routine.  We get in the car, drive, hike in an exciting place (new or familiar, she handles both well), return to the car, and drive home.  On this trip, everything went according to plan until we got to the last step.  Instead of driving home, we set up the tent, sat on a big rock, and made dinner.

Confusion in the Maya-verse!  Technically, Maya has gone camping before, but it was a long time ago (last summer) and I think she had forgotten everything about it.  On the bright side, we were all together, but on the worrying side, we were stupidly refusing to drive home as usual.  Maya fussed, and attempted to lead me to the car to get her point across.

At least she ate her dinner, eventually, then sat on a rock scratching at her hardware and muttering to herself.

We did tether her for most of the evening, I just don't have photos because Maya always looks so distressed when tied to a tree.  Poor baby. 

Eventually we got into the tent and settled down.  Due to the long drive, Maya hadn't slept much during the day, so I hoped she'd settle in pretty easily.  She did, sort of, but there were periodic outbreaks of whining all night long.

In the morning, we went hiking.  The hike was into Grand Gulch, a very long, very beautiful, canyon filled with lots of cultural artifacts (ancient ruins, rock art, etc.).  Because of all the cultural stuff, dogs are required to be on leash in the canyon, but we were planning on it anyway because we figured we'd see lots of people.  And we did!

Maya did really well, even when passing a group of about fifteen milling backpackers -- packs, loud voices, blowing clothes, stinky people.  We'd brought cookies, and lots of water, and made sure she got plenty of both.  But it turned out to be a pretty long hike, especially on top of all that poor sleep and deep uncertainty.  Around the last two miles of the hike, I started to see signs of genuine exhaustion in Maya, including a great big reactive explosion to two hikers who surprised us near the trail head.

We were tired too, and missed the turn to our campsite and had to drive about an hour longer than we meant, and dinner was rushed, and we were all just generally not at our best.  Maya spent the evening fussing, unable to settle or relax, wrapping her tether around herself, and so on, and we were all making stupid mistakes.  It was not a pleasant evening.  Oh, and it was raining.

It rained all night and most of the next day.  We had planned a hike in a popular nearby canyon (also filled with ruins).  On the way to the trail, we drove past cows.  For the first time ever, Maya erupted at cows.  She also screamed at horses, unusual trees, a bicyclist, and several pedestrians (it was a long drive to the trail).  Maya is not normally particularly reactive in the car -- a bark or two for other dogs, and occasional casual bark for people who get very close if we are driving very slowly or parked somewhere.  This was full-blown shrieking, the kind where she hits the window and screams in furious panic at the whole world.

Maya was fried.  Overwhelmed and overwrought.  No longer able to cope with anything.  Reduced to the snarling, exposed-nerve-ending sort of dog we remembered from long ago.

I wasn't doing much better, because when she continued to scream at things my first reaction was to turn around and tell her to shut up.  Not a compassionate response, and not a smart one either -- it's not like Maya could help the way she was feeling, and I was the one who'd pushed her limits like this.

Luckily, by the time we actually arrived at our trail, common sense and kindness had resurfaced.  The trail head was full of a big group of people in hats, with blowing ponchos and umbrellas and other freaky garb.  I took one look, and told Brian we weren't doing this hike.  Instead, we drove up the road, parked at a random pull-off, and just road walked for a couple of hours.  No people, no dogs, no wildlife, just us and Maya (and her leashed, to prevent further exhaustion or stupidity). 

We did practice 'posing for cookies' a little bit, but mostly we just walked gently through the misty desert.  It was relaxing, and when we finished, we got back in the car and drove home.  I took off Maya's harness, gave her my jacket for a pillow, and enjoyed the soft snoring sounds emanating from the back seat.

I am left wondering, as I have been often during the past few weeks, about the ethical responsibilities of owning a dog like Maya.  Because she is prone to such stress (and because stress can cause her to become dangerous), it sometimes seems unfair to expose her to much at all.  And yet we do, all the time, because there is a certain kind of life we want to lead. 

But when do we overstep?  Do I say that Maya had a good time camping because (a) she did, some of the time, and (b) I just think dogs 'ought' to like camping?  Or do I say she had a bad time camping, because by the end, the accumulated stress pushed her completely over the edge?  I've been telling people that Maya had a "mostly good" time, because it's what I prefer to think, but I wonder whether she'd say the same.  On the one hand, there were interesting things to sniff and she got to spend a lot of quality time with her favorite people.  On the other hand, we caused our dog a lot of distress in the name of having fun.

There are other things I've been thinking about in this vein, of course, but it comes down to fairness.  Dogs are expected to handle a lot, but a dog like Maya simply can't.  Which means it isn't fair to expect her to, and isn't fair to be angry when she fails to cope (or even fair to put her into a situation where she isn't likely to deal well).  But it also isn't fair to us to sacrifice important things -- travel, camping, hiking -- in order to keep our dog's life perfectly placid and stress-free.  A life like that would be boring and frustrating for all three of us, and certainly wouldn't help Maye develop better coping skills.

Somewhere, there's a perfect balance.  One where we cause Maya stress, but it's manageable and we make sure she learns to handle it well, and she eventually can cope with a lot more.  One where we all get to enjoy our favorite things, together, without massive melt-downs.  Most of the time, we do a decent job of finding this balance, and once in a while, we don't quite get it right.  As dog owners, we try hard but are certainly far from perfect.

We're going camping again this weekend, but for just one night and with a little more foresight.  Eventually, Maya will learn to take most of it in stride, I think, and derive even more enjoyment from her sniffing, bird watching, cow poop eating, and other important doggy activities.  I could wish dog ownership was a little easier, but I do like the moments when we get it right and can share something great with our girl. 

Maya makes a landscape look more beautiful.