The Goat and the Death Pool

We started out by sleeping in. So we didn’t have to take the bus to Copper Mountain, which would’ve taken 2 hours, we agreed to split an uber with Rushmore and Watercolors.

Except all the uber drivers slept in too and we couldn’t get a ride, so eventually we rode the bus to 1st Bank and then walked under the freeway and started hitching. We got a hitch, surprisingly quickly, by a nice woman named Sonya who just couldn’t figure out why four women were hitching together with such a strange assortment of gear.

We were slackpacking. Leaving most of our stuff at the hostel, we took only the essentials for the day and set out NOBO to make the miles from Copper Mountain northbound backwards to Breckenridge.

We had a nice visit with her, and she dropped us off at Copper Mountain gondola where we immediately started hiking the wrong way. We were used to hiking SOBO (southbound), so our maps were all turned around and upside down and anyway Anji sorted it all out and we were finally on our way.

We hiked a couple of miles and around a construction site and dashed across a highway and finally back up into the hills where we belonged. And then the hills became mountains. Then the mountains became places where trees refused to go.

And still we climbed. Straight up sometimes, roundabout up some other times. But up and up all the time. Little marmots saying “MEEEP” a lot. Me taking pictures of their little butts as they wobbled away while I say “MEEP” to them a lot and they don’t care because everyone says that to them.

We saw the views of Copper Mountain and the jagged mountains beyond, ripping open the sky, and the freeway we started from way way down below with the little tiny ant cars cruising all around looking all organized.

We reached the top. The tippy tippy top. 12,507 feet. And I could still breathe! Joy of joys! We rejoiced by taking a few selfies with the horsetail rain clouds behind us, peeing behind a rock, doing a quick screenshot of our elevation, and getting the hell out of there before the storm started.

The trail down was slip slip slippery, and it laughed at us a lot. It was built for mountain bikers, not our shoes. It laughed and we slipped and it threw rocks under our feet and laughed as we tripped. The trail narrowed until it pinched our shoes and the trail thought that was really funny and our frustration grew with the pain of every step.

And then there he was.

A mountain goat, I pointed.

He walked down the trail toward us. We walked down the trail towards him. He wouldn’t move…so we did. We went to the low side of the steep hill and made ourselves small. He walked right by us. Slowly, and with purpose, this magical being gave me strength and hope. It was a sign just for us, the goat lovers of this world, that everything will be okay.

I held my breath, what little I had, wishing the moment would never end.

But end it did, and we wandered around in awe of the world and the power of the universe and the gorgeous-ness of Mother Nature and wondered how we were so fortunate to have that experience.

We saw other people, but no one else saw the old goat. He was just for us.

And as the trail laughed and slipped us and tripped us until well after dark, we wouldn’t be daunted. We were overwhelmed with gratitude.

We got to the road well after dark. The hostel was calling us to make sure we were okay since we hadn’t shown up. Watercolors and Rushmore sent us a message on Facebook to see if we were okay, and the bus system said it would get us home at midnight.

We called an uber.

And we were so tired I forgot to take my steroids, and my feet were so swollen they felt like chunks of wood. And the owner of the hostel was all worried and said they’d started a Death Pool on us.

And I was filled with exhaustion.

And Gratitude.