Tallulah Gorge Adventure

You learn things when you're traveling with dogs for the first time. I think that statement is a sub-category of the you-learn-things-when-traveling-with-small-children-for-the-first-time, only it's embarassing in different ways.

When I went to north Georgia for the weekend colors, I decided that it was time to get my dogs accustomed to traveling with me. There's a guy on flickr who lives in Colorado and owns a handsome German Shepherd, a female he takes *everywhere*. He loves posting these pictures of his handsome dog galloping around Eldorado Canyon or Jones Pass, romping at Engineer Pass and the ghost town of Animas Forks.

My dogs could do that. Sure they could. Petey would love it. Mollie would love it.

Well, I learned a few things, like I said. First, if I'm going to be out, they need to be on separate leashes. This would mean that the person I'm climbing the trails with could take the calm, sane dog (Petey), while I manage the slightly crazy dog (Mollie). They also need to be on harnesses, as I kept having this terrible vision of them both backing out of their collars and running along the trails of Tallulah Gorge, unencumbered by the restrictions of leashes.

The next thing I learned is that lots of people like bringing their dogs out on the trail. German Shepherds. Beagles. And something I couldn't identify, but would compare to a grizzly bear with a long tail.

The next thing I learned is that Mollie doesn't like those dogs. When she doesn't like those dogs, she barks. A lot. More than a lot. As I sat with her, holding her next to me on a convenient bench, a woman who'd been on the trail behind us approached me and said, "Is this the only dog here? From the top of the trail, I thought there had to be a pack of them."

"No, just this one," I said with a slight smile, which I hope conveyed the proper tone of, "And thanks for saying that out loud. You can leave now."

The next thing I learned is that, even when Mollie has reasonably stopped barking, and is settled down next to me, she's not completely through with the batshit crazy phase, and small children should not pet her. Particularly not near her head, which is next to her face, which is really close to her teeth. It's really not a good idea at all. Nope. You guessed it. She snapped at a little girl. Bit her, to be precise. Broke the skin. Tears. Embarrassment. Paranoia of impending lawsuits. Long story short, the pleasant outing with the kids was bigger that we could handle the first time out. Full of remorse, I didn't just lead Mollie back to the car, I carried her back to the car. Uphill. Mollie is heavy. She needs to be on a diet. I thought my lungs would explode. Another smartalecky-older-woman observed us as we trudged back to the car. "Huh, nice life," she said, indicating the dog. Mollie could have made it up the hill, I'm sure. I just didn't want her out of my sight. I got my workout that day. And this was an otherwise momentous day, because Petey, who never NEVER nevah does his business (I mean number two) while on a leash, actually was so excited by all the smells of *actual* nature that he took care of things like he'd done it all his life. He became a man (or a dog rather), on the trail. It was a shining moment. I knew it couldn't last. He was crushed when I put them both back in the car. I'm quite sure he dressed her down the rest of the trip.

Women. You could see him muttering this under his breath.

Maybe I should also get Mollie a muzzle. I think I'll be looking into some high mountain gear before I head up to Animas Forks with my animas. We're learning.

--Laura