Down a Cliff Under Fragments of Cloud

Posted on April 20, 2010 in Dogs Hiking Weather

I noted the first spots on the rocks in the road as we neared the dead tree and picnic table about one and a half miles in. As I sat down to feed Drake his dinner, I noticed streaks of rain on the tabletop. He wolfed his kibble quickly. I took a couple of sucks from my [[Camelbak]], dressed him in his yellow winter jacket, and motioned him towards home.

The first fist of the storm hit a few minutes later. Then it sucked in its breath, let us proceed under the illusion that we would see nothing heavy, and then slugged us hard with a downpour. Drake wanted to go faster, but I kept calling him back and treating him with biscuits.

Just past a spot where the downhill split — the right fork heading toward Harding Canyon and the left toward Modjeska Canyon where the truck was parked — Drake fell behind. We had only ten minutes before we’d be back in the shelter of the truck. I looked back and didn’t see him right away. Then I noticed the back of his yellow jacket sticking out of the perpendicular grass and moving precipitously down a near-cliff. The blue hood had fallen over his head so that he couldn’t raise his ears or enjoy any peripheral vision. The only sense that was unimpaired was his sense of smell. I called to him. His head thrashed about, his senses trying to locate me.

I moved toward the spot where he had gone over the side, calling him as I approached. He dashed back and forth, trying to find a place to climb up. I attempted to direct him to an easy path, but he either couldn’t make sense of my directions or didn’t want to obey. Finally, he just halted and stared as fragments of cloud pelted his plantive face. He wasn’t going back the way he came.

Grumbling, I dug my heels into the rain-softened earth and joined him. He moved to one side. Once I was down there, it was clear that I wasn’t going back up, either. “This way,” I directed, and stomped down the steep slope. Earlier rains had slackened the thirst of many a seed. Grasses, flowers, and brambles festooned the hillside. I didn’t worry about tumbling head over heels because of the softness of the earth. At the bottom of the first incline, we came to a three foot deep ravine that was the only way past a place where three slopes met. A broken yucca crossed it. First I had to cross and then I had to cross again. There was nowhere to go, so I followed the bottom of the gully which was paved with the variety of slick conglomerate that underlay much of the surrounding country.

With both hands, I steadied myself for the passage down the active rivulet. The intensity of the rain picked up. I nearly fell on my ass. My pants absorbed the water that was all around me. More water ran off my blue windbreaker. I cursed my dog, but made sure he was close behind me. When I could, I jumped out of the ravine and onto a flat patch where I fought grass and bramble to make a way to a lower segment of the fire road. At one point, where the rivulet crossed my path again, I grabbed Drake and threw him ahead of me.

It occurred to me, as I looked for a better place to descend, that the best routes were on my right. I forced myself in this direction, breaking vines with my bare hands when I had to. A nest of foxtails lay right next to a short stone face. I made a momentary nest here because the cliff kept the grass dry. It was then I noticed that I had lost Drake’s bag with his biscuits, food bowl, [[frisbee]], ball, and waste bags.

“Goddammit,” I groaned as I looked back on bushwhack I’d cut. The black bag could not be seen.

A few raisins restored my energy and we made it the rest of the way to the fire road. Drake was soaked. The rain had creased his hair so that he looked like he’d been roughly combed. When we got in the car, he shook off his winter jacket. I drove him home and, when we got there, denied him all the usual pleasures of blissfully sniffing the familiar grass and leaves of the shared garden.

What made him do it? Had he gone to the edge and just slipped? Was he testing me? Or had he decided to hell with the road, he was going to take a short cut? A journey which would have taken a few minutes if we had stuck to the established trail ended up eating up about forty five minutes. All the energy I had depended on the walk to give me had been wrested away.

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UPDATE (4/23/2010): Went back to the place where Drake went over the edge. About eight feet down, I recovered the lost butt pack. It was easy to climb back up. Drake followed all the way.