Right before sunset the intrepid canine crew traverse a rocky trail in search of A Great View.
I follow their lead.
I’m toting a bag of water bottles, a water dish, camera, and crackers. Hey, wait a minute! Why do I get to be the pack mule?
The trail makes a gradual descent, winding through slabs of layered rocks and strange desert shrubs. We stop often for respite, seeing as Bridget is panting like a steam engine and occasionally whining, “I wanna go baaaak!”
Whatever. It’s time to learn how to be a dog.
The trail turns treacherous.
Spike jumps down from a rock about a foot high. Bridget stops and waits to be lifted down. I oblige. We timidly pass an unbarricaded, dangerous drop-off, tiptoeing as if the cliff will hear us and yank us, sending us crashing down over the sharp rocks where we will lie motionless for the buzzards to tear our flesh. Not a good idea to think bad thoughts at a time like this. Keep moving.
Bridget walks like a girl, still panting. Once past the cliff, I offer water which is refused. We round the next bend in the trail.
At last, we see the lake!
A few more turns in the trail and we settle down on a rock to gaze at A Great View. I take a few photos.
Spike sees people way down below on the other side of the lake, playing at the water’s edge, which, in his book, is a crime and must be stopped. He simultaneously barks and lunges forward toward the precipice. “Geez, Spike! Give me a heart attack, WILL YA!”
The shadows are lengthening. It’ll be sunset soon.
The crew and I drink our water. At last Bridget sits down and rests. Eventually she stops panting. I attempt to ponder the beauty before us.
Spike continues to fixate on the people no bigger than no-seeums on the opposite side of the lake. I can’t relax thinking he’s going to lunge again, rip the leash out of my fist, and plunge over the edge as Bridget and I scream in absolute horror.
Oh-kay. We’re going back.
I honestly believe I hear Bridget sigh with relief when she sees the paved road up ahead.
We made it! We’re alive!
Spike pees on a rock for the fifteenth time and we go home.
As we cross the campground, I think . . . I’ll give them their supper and they’re sure to sleep well tonight!
The plan this morning is to go grocery shopping.
We’re awake before sun-up. Out the door for a drive-by potty break and back in so I can make a cup of tea.
Then we head out again to find the perfect picnic table from which to watch the sunrise. (We have our pick . . . hardly anybody’s here!) It’s wonderfully cool and quiet. I grab a jacket out of the back of the PTV, we find our table, and I drink my tea watching nature’s picture show.
It’s going to be a beautiful day here at Santa Rosa campground.
Back at the Casita, I remove the fire alarm so I can make toast. I check the blog and emails, and do some text messaging. Suddenly the crew goes berserk. A truck with fifth wheel is backing into the site next to us. A zillion sites and they park right next to us! And they have a dog! The very idea! Hmmph!
I give them some time to set up.
I put the crew back into their black suits and we go next door to say hello. Actually our mission is to meet their big blond dog. My thinking is this will cut down on the barking. I say hello to the two men and a teenage boy, quickly explain my purpose, the crew sniffs big Jake (their aging lab), big Jake sniffs them, I toss out a “Nice ta meet ya, Good luck fishin’!” and we retreat to the Casita.
The crew doesn’t want to go inside. Can’t blame them. It’s a glorious morning. So I decide to get out the exercise pen.
To heck with groceries!
We won’t starve. This is too good a morning to waste schlepping around in a store while Bridget and Spike have conniptions in the PTV.
An elderly gentleman, probably in his eighties, walks into the view of the crew. He’s got a picker-upper gadget in his hand. I guess he’s picking up trash, although I’ve never seen any around here. Because he’s a bit stooped and walks very slowly, the crew thinks he’s . . . oh no . . . he’s creeping!
Creeping, to the crew, is a very bad thing.
Anything that creeps must be dealt with. Cats that creep. Salamanders. Sunbeams. A plastic bag tossed by the breeze. A kindly-looking gentleman in a long-sleeved plaid shirt and neat slacks, minding his own business. Doesn’t matter, he’s creeping! Got to do something about that! Which is, of course, bark and jump around. I settle them down so I can read and relax.
Eventually the gentleman comes over and we chat about the coolness of the morning and what a beautiful day it’s going to be.
As he walks away . . . “No, he’s NOT creeping, so don’t even THINK about barking.”. . . I open my kindle and start to read. The crew lie down. The sun peeks through our little tree. It’s going to be a beautiful day indeed.
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