Rubix tried to kick all four feet up to the sky simultaneously. She wanted to run, but her paws never touched the ground with her new rubber-bottomed booties strapped on, so she looked like she was trying to fly.
We were at the parking lot of Mount Bierstadt, ready to take on our first fourteener. Never had I ever climbed a fourteener. As a native Coloradan, I resolved to finally change that, yet I needed the encouraging energy of my furry best friend to help me finish this bucket-list item.
Dogs were as susceptible as humans to dehydration, overheating and exposure so Rubix and I each had water, snacks, and layers of clothing. For Rubix, well-prepared meant a pop-up water bowl, three kinds of high-protein treats, protective booties, and a pink harness that hugged her middle instead of her collar. Even still, I knew Rubix would strain to sprint the whole seven-mile trek.
At the trailhead, we met our three other first-fourteener human friends and began our challenge. We set off up Mount Bierstadt, which welcomed us with a wide, descending path. Rubix trotted lightly, shaking one booted foot at a time like a musician warming up her fingers. She didn’t look toward our destination of the mountain peak—she had no idea we were going seven miles. Her eyes were as bright as the direct light of dry Colorado sun and looked straight ahead. She rarely looked back to me on any walks, and this trail was no different; Rubix focused only on the unending fun in front of her.
After less than a mile, we came to a creek of snowmelt. It was late summer, so we didn’t see any snow on Mount Bierstadt, but it wasn’t the tallest or only mountain in Guanella Pass. Rubix ignored the excuse for a break and ran across the steppingstones like it was a game to not get wet.
“Rubix!” I called to her. She bounded over, cocking her head at me as if to ask, “Why are you stopping?” I said, “Don’t you want to drink the cool water?” Rubix’s nose continued to point ahead like a compass, and she jumped across the stones three times before testing the water. Rubix wasn’t a water dog. She was a herding dog, an Australian Shepherd mutt, and she had a job to do: get us to the top.
Soon enough, the trail pointed upward, and we had to hike switchbacks. A few times, Rubix lingered at the corner, wondering where the trail went. She paused on her toes and stared over the rocks lining the path. But as soon as one of us turned, she barreled into the lead again without a second guess.
Rubix stole the show with every hiker we met. Her bumpy brown eyebrows arched with friendly wiggles and her tongue lolled at each one of them. Then she walked right past them, focused only on her task of up, up up!
Our group was steady and made good time following Rubix’ erect, white-tipped black tail. We would have made better time if we had been able to keep up with her energetic pace. She was definitely going more than seven miles the way she ran to the end of the leash, and then bounded back to my side like a dolphin over and over again.
Soon, the trail turned rocky with uneven and large steps. Rubix jumped up each one tirelessly, front paws ready for the next stride almost before back paws landed. The sun was high and there was no shade above the tree line; even the bushy shrubs were gone. The air was so dry that my pores felt empty. My camelback backpack was great, but I was thankful for the intentional breaks to get out the water bowl for Rubix. She slurped it up in a splashy mess as fast as she could, checking to make sure the trail wasn’t moving without her.
The afternoon thunderclouds stayed in the distance but, as we reached the ridge line, I couldn’t see our destination anymore. We were so high we were part of the horizon, and I couldn’t tell the humps from the peak. Mount Blue Sky and the surrounding thirteeners looked like the backs of dozens of dog ears.
Not long after, the trail disappeared into a boulder field. Rubix’s booties continued to help her plod over rocks of all sizes: piles of kibble-sized pebbles, rocks the size of tennis balls, rocks as big as her 50-pound self, and even boulders as big as doghouses. No one was moving as fast as Rubix as we scrambled among the rocks hoping none were wobbly. It was safer for both of us with her off-leash here so neither of us yanked at the other.
Rubix sprung from one boulder to the other, even walking effortlessly up the steep face of one as if she were a mountain goat. At the edge, Rubix would look down, measuring her next move that was two dog-heights to the next flat spot. It shook my heart into mom- mode, and I yelled, “No!” while pointing frantically to a safer route: around instead of over. Like a well-behaved child, Rubix would look down, look at me, look where I suggested, and happily backtrack to reach, hop, and run up and around.
My knees were tired. We had to be close to the end, but I didn’t know how much further due to the boulder field. The only way I knew which way to go was the pockets of people coming down. I perked up when someone said, “It’s just up there!” Rubix’s determined pace didn’t need encouragement.
The top of Mount Bierstadt wasn’t a destination with a single spot informing us “you are here”, but the mountain valleys dropping away all around us were breathtaking. Rubix didn’t understand stopping to marvel at the purple and brown mountains’ majesty and brilliant blue sky. But she did understand treat and we ate snacks of jerky bits and goldfish. I was overcome with pride as the wind flipped my hair and ruffled Rubix’s fur. We took our picture, my arm around Rubix. We had done it. 3.3 miles up to the top of a fourteener! I smiled and Rubix drooled. She tugged away as I held her close. Then, she looked me in the eye with what could only be, “Now we get to go down?”
In memory of Rubix, March 13, 2010 – June 8, 2024
Krista Gamble | K.M. Hasling 