Life unleashed in the wilderness

The Sierra Nevada are a rugged mountain range in California and Nevada of granite spires, high-altitude meadows, tumbling creeks, and ice cold lakes. In other words, it’s wilderness paradise, especially for backpackers like myself who like unplugging from society and roughing it for a few days.

When you camp with family and friends, mountain life is more idyllic. Your camping group can share the necessity of chores. One person can gather firewood. Another can construct a firepit using local granite boulders. A third can light the fire and feed the flames until they’re a comfortable blaze. A fourth can prepare pots and pans and food for cooking.

Camping solo is a different story.

There are benefits to going solo. Having no one else to rely on brings to the forefront that internal sparks of awareness, determination, and responsibility that is ingrained in humans.

There are also setbacks to camping solo. You are far from civilization. If you run into trouble – for instance, suffering an injury or an allergic reaction, getting caught in bad weather, coming across a wild animal – you’re on your own. It doesn’t have to be as dramatic as the story of climber Aron Ralston, who found himself trapped alone in a canyon for six days and had to cut off his hand to to save his life. Sometimes, a sprained ankle is enough to put one’s life in danger if you’re out of cell phone range and miles from the nearest road.

It’s for these reasons that even when I camp solo, I’m not quite alone. I always bring a dog. During my lifetime, I’ve gone solo backpacking into the Sierra Nevada a dozen times, but also took along my golden retriever Sarah. A dog may be a loving and trusting pet in civilization, but in the wilderness a dog’s status is elevated to that of a partner.

A dog’s keen sense of hearing and sight has saved my butt a few times. Once, I was walking with Sarah along the bank of a river swollen with snowmelt. It was late afternoon. The surrounding mountain peaks glimmered with white snow, but down in the valley where Sarah and I were, the air was warm and the landscape thick with majestic pine trees and meadows vibrant with wildflowers. Our afternoon hike was suddenly halted by a jumble of rotted trees the river had strewn along the riverbank like corpses. There was no way to circumvent the trees. We would have to climb over them. Just as I started to walk forward, Sarah suddenly stopped, perked her ears, and growled.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A growling dog in the wilderness commands attention. “What is it, Sarah?” I had asked.

She didn’t move. Her growling mingled with the roar of rushing water. I scanned the fallen trees in front of us, looking for movement or shapes that might signal an animal, but didn’t see anything. Carefully, slowly, I started to walk forward. Suddenly I heard a rattlesnake’s rattle. The rattle elicited a furious bark from Sarah, and I had to grab her collar to prevent her from rushing forward. Even when I pinpointed the location of the sound – from inside a patch of knee-high grass poking out from underneath the tree closest to us – I still couldn’t see the snake. I picked up a handful of smooth river stones and tossed them in the grass. Sure enough, a rattle snake slithered out and plunged deeper into the tangle of trees.

My dull human’s hearing would have never heard the snake’s rattle over the din of the river. My eyes wouldn’t have picked out the snake in the grass. At least, I wouldn’t have heard or seen this fearsome predator until it was too late, and I was writhing in pain from a snakebite miles from civilization. But Sarah knew it was there and warned me just in time. We quickly returned the way we came and left the snake undisturbed in its rotted timber shelter.

Instances of danger are easy to remember, but a dog also earns mad wilderness props performing more mundane tasks during backcountry camping. Take nighttime for instance. A human can barely distinguish a bear from a bush in the dark, but a dog certainly can. That’s a lot of protection. Just knowing I have a dog at camp lets me sleep better at night. Sarah’s body warmth has always been a bonus on cold nights inside my tent. At least her warmth compensates for her tendency to snore.

There’s also an inherent joy watching a dog in the wilderness. Their legacy as former wolves bursts forward and can clearly be seen in the shining of their eyes as they chase squirrels, doggy-paddle into lakes, and roll around in the dirt.

Lastly, dogs love to patrol around a campsite. It’s their way of telling wilderness critters to stay away. Tree squirrels are less likely to scavenge food and bears are less likely to amble into camp if there’s a dog around.

“This is my territory. And my human’s territory. Back off!” Sarah projects with her constant patrols and sniffing about.

I don’t believe the saying “dogs are a man’s best friend” originated from fetching a stick or going on walks in the park. It’s my theory this familiar saying entered humanity’s consciousness centuries ago when dogs protected our lives as we farmed in isolated villages surrounded by wilderness, or walked lonely country roads with everything from bears and cougars to robbers waiting to strike.

Back country mountain climbing is always an adventure. Doing it is “life unleashed” personified. Or should I say “dogified?”

The end.