Dog of the Wilderness

Cottonwood Lakes Basin, John Muir Wilderness, CA – 1971

Prior to starting that first summer as a wilderness ranger in the Cottonwood Lakes Basin, after I had all my gear purchased, there was one thing left.

That one more thing was silver-grey, extremely loving, and had a curly tail. Over the winter I bought a Norwegian elkhound puppy and named her Smokii. When I headed back to Lone Pine that June 1971, she was several months old and ready to start her life as a wilderness dog. My mom bought a dog pack which turned out to be  a double godsend. Smokii carried her own dried dog food (learned to put the food first in Ziplock bags after she crossed a stream soaking all her food). And almost everyone I met along the trail commented on her carrying a pack. What a great opener when meeting hikers, as much of the job of a wilderness ranger involved talking to and educating the backcountry user.

My first five day hike into the Cottonwood Lakes Basin was with Smokii on a leash. What a pain holding her the entire five and a half mile hike. I thought, “what the heck”, and took off her leash. She stayed with me the whole time. I never had to use a leash on her while hiking again.

Smokii’s one vice was her love of chasing marmots. The yellow-bellied marmot is like a groundhog of the mountains. They sit on rocks, chirp, and when they feel threatened, they intensify their chirping, rotate their ample bushy tails, and try to dive down into the rocks and to safety.

Smokii loved the chase. In her entire lifetime she only caught one, and then, not sure what to do with it, she let it go unharmed. It was so much fun to watch her perk up her ears when she heard a chirp, and then the folly of her trying to catch one. I would call her back by making a howl like a wolf. She would come running.

Unfortunately, one night as we were hiking under a near full moon, I saw a loping dark movement heading away from the trail we were on. Before I could stop her, Smokii had her first encounter with a porcupine.

I got my flashlight out of my daypack and turned the light on her when she returned to me. All the quills were on her chin and nose. None were in her mouth. She had only tried to sniff the porcupine not attack it. I tried to pull out a quill and she yipped then wouldn’t let me get close to try again. What could I do?

Then I remembered that a Forest Service trail crew was camped out on a section of a trail they were building not far from my base camp. We headed there.

The trail crew seemed to love having Smokii come visit them and always spoiled her in their camp. Now I needed their help. It took three of us to extract the porcupine quills. Two of us held down this fifty pound fighting little devil and wrapped a leather belt around her muzzle so she couldn’t bite. Then the trail crew foreman grabbed his pliers and one-by-one pulled out each of the quills.

When we finished we released her from both belt and our grip. She shook and then rolled on the grass rubbing her muzzle. I thought she’d hate me but she came up to me with a half curled tail acting like she’d done something wrong. I started rubbing her silky ears and scratched her back until her tail starting curling back up and wagged. I had no trouble letting the trail crew spoil her with a few snacks before we started back to our camp.

I’d always heard horror stories how dogs didn’t learn from their past encounters with skunks or porcupines. That very next night Smokii and I were hiking after dinner in the moonlight. And then I saw it. A dark shadow moving in that same loping manner. Another porcupine! Smokii saw it the same instant I did and immediately bolted towards the animal. Before I could yell or scream, “No!” Smokii suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, and trotted back to me. She never again bothered with porcupines or even with a skunk the first time one crossed our path. So I never denied her the love of marmot chasing.

I have a confession now that the statute of limitations is up and I can’t be prosecuted or lose my job. Smokii traveled with me into Sequoia Kings Canyon National Park where dogs are not allowed. She’s been up to the summit of Mt. Whitney and on a special mission west of New Army Pass into that same national park.

One of the annual Sierra Club outings was a burro pack trip by an outfitter. I ran into the wranglers and several Sierra Clubbers at Long Lake. While I was chatting, Smokii wandered over to some of the burros. She was both curious and a little nervous around them. Just when she had reached a comfort level with them, one of the burros tried to stomp it’s hoof down on her. Smokii happened to turn her head just at that moment. She jumped and avoided the pounding hoof of the light-colored burro.

Norwegian elkhounds were bred in Norway to hunt moose. So actually they could be called a moosehound. Their job was to find a moose, nip at their legs, and drive them back to the hunter without getting clipped by their hooves. A bull moose can weigh 1400 pounds. Most burros weigh 500-700 pounds. So Smokii’s breeding probably helped save her from a serious injury.

I thought that was the end of our burro story. We headed back to our camp by Cottonwood Lake 2 1/2.

The next day, about an hour before sunset, Smokii and I wandered by the Sierra Club campsite on our way back to our base camp. I noticed no burros around so I inquired with one of the burro wranglers as to where they were.

“We let them run loose to graze,” he answered. “Yesterday we noticed a big snow patch up on Army Pass which will keep them from going over the pass.”

I felt a feeling of foreboding. There was a two man trail crew that had taken shovels up that morning and dug a path through the snow to open up the trail. And now I told the wrangler this news.

“Oh no,” he said, “they’ll never stop once they get over they pass!”

I spoke up and volunteered, “Smokii and I will help you. And if you don’t mind, we could use her to chase the burros back. She has a small grudge with one of your four legged beasts.”

The wrangler, in his twenties like I was, thought that sounded like a plan.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

The sun had set and now we hiked past High Lake and started up the steep switchbacks in the near dark. Once on top of New Army Pass we lost any semblance of light. It was at this moment that the wrangler and I both realized our flashlights were back in our camps. So now it was up to Smokii. I told her to find the burros.

The white of Smokii’s curled up tail was all we could use to guide us in the starlight. But Smokii was on the scent of the donkeys. We were descending into the national park when we could hear an occasional bell. Some of the burros luckily had bells tied round their necks.

When we caught up to the burros I told Smokii to go get them. I know we anthropomorphize our animals. We credit them with human traits. But I swear that night, even in the dark, there was a big-ass smile on that elkhound as she drove them back to the national forest side. I have to admit, I had a big-ass smile on my face too, until…

The wrangler and I stopped short of the edge of the eastern edge of the cliff. We felt more than saw an even deeper darkness. The burros had found their way, but we hadn’t found our trail down the pass.

I’d only “officially” been a wilderness ranger for a couple of weeks. But I thought back to 1969, when that young girl separated from her parents on the Mt. Whitney Trail, simply sat down and waited. I had learned from her. I knew the moon would soon rise so I said, “Let’s just sit down and wait.”

In about twenty minutes the large moon lit up the granite rock. There, about fifty yards away, was our trail down. The moon also illuminated the cliff that we nearly walked off to our deaths. It would have been an even deeper darkness if we hadn’t stopped when we did.

We happily descended the trail while Smokii seemed to single out a certain light-colored burro to nip.