No Dead Dogs Today

I work hard. Long hours and intense effort define my work style. My To-Do list is separated into multiple columns and pages. My desk is covered in paper and books and folders and "tasks". I sit for long periods of time, doing this hard work, week after week.

Unless of course, it is a near perfect day outside. Then I play hooky.

This particular afternoon, the mountains are covered in foliage, close to peak, and the clear blue sky holds a bright autumn sun. It is futile to resist and easy to rationalize my afternoon escape. So, I decide to take a hike - specifically to the top of Mt. Pisgah.

Mt Pisgah and her sister Mt Hor, flank Lake Willoughby, a deep, blue water lake hugged by near vertical cliffs. The effect is nothing short of stunning; a beautiful calling card left behind by an ancient glacier. Not even the motley collection of summer camps ringing the shoreline can mar the beauty.

The tiny lot holds four other cars, so I park at the end and with enthusiasm, walk briskly toward the mountain. Blowing past the shrubby parking lot and stepping lightly over the buckled walkways bridging the small wetland at the base, I set out to summit in less than an hour. As I approach the trailhead, a large yellow sign with faded lettering reads, "Please Keep Your Dog Leashed. Numerous Dogs Have Died". I pause for a breath, taking in the weight of the warning.

The summit of Mt. Pisgah is 2751' up a well marked trail that saunters and ascends at a pleasant angle. On occasion, the trail opens up for a view of the lake and across to Mt. Hor. The canopy covering the trail provides ample shelter to aggressive, frantic mosquitoes. I pick up my pace, if only to outrun the hungry,  buzzing bugs.

As I move upwards, my breath becomes shorter and the sweat begins to drip. My mind begins to clear and open up as I focus on my feet, the path and my breathing. It feels good to think of nothing. Yet, eventually "nothing" turns into something as stories begin to form in my head and I notice the color, texture and sound around me. It's a pleasant way to pass the time as I continue to climb toward the top.

Halfway up, an outcrop of rock opens up through the trees. It's an invitation to stop and peek. I walk cautiously to the edge, shifting my feet and resisting the urge to take a running leap towards the blue lake in the far distance. I am reminded of the sign below and imagine more than one dog running mindlessly over that edge, too excited to realize the trail gave way to nothing more than air - and a 500 plus foot drop to the road below. I take a picture.

After 40 minutes, I hit the peak. It's a bit anti-climatic after the climbing, sweating and views, but I am pleased. I head back down, intent on food and the promise of a hot shower. I stop to click a photo of the sky and some trees, but the lens cannot do justice, so I delete the images.

At the base again, a young man with a dog that looks like my own dog, but with a red bandanna and a decidedly nervous disposition, jogs toward me and stops to say hello. As I chat with the man and scratch Chuck's doppelganger behind the ears, noting the leather leash, I gently probe to check the latch is secure and the collar isn't too loose.

With a smile from the man and some whining from the dog, the two head up. I wave good-bye, glad to know there will be no dead dogs today.