Hill climbing with Denali: déjà vu on McHugh

The year was 2013, my first with Denali. About a month after she entered my life, my 1-year-old pup and I headed up McHugh Peak, our second hill climb together and our most ambitious outing yet.

At the time I was steadfastly keeping a “Denali Diary,” so the events of that June 16 adventure are documented in considerable detail. But even without looking at my entry for that day, a few memories come immediately and vividly to mind when I recall that ascent of McHugh, the first of many we’ve done over the years on what’s become one of my—our—favorite mountains.

The memories begin with this: once freed from her leash, Denali ranged far and wide across McHugh’s alpine flanks, spurred to race ever-farther distances by the high-pitched calls of ground squirrels, those squirrels safely diving into their tunneled homes before my excited puppy could get close, and she refusing to give up the chase.

Denali once roamed far enough away that I lost track of her and worried she might descend the slopes dropping from the rocky spine we were traversing.

To pull some details from my diary, “Finally she responds to my loud, echoing calls—and is one tired puppy when she returns, lying exhausted in a snow field. Still, she makes it to the top in good shape and stays closer in her tired condition.”

On our descent, Denali again rushed ahead. This time—a detail I’d forgotten—she somehow injured her right front leg. A close inspection didn’t reveal any obvious injury, so I assumed she had simply strained a muscle. “She walks with a slight limp,” I would recount in my diary, “though seems to forget—or ignore—any pain when again chasing a squirrel call and/or running to meet other dogs.”

After one such chase Denali looked so beat that I decided we needed a rest stop. Which leads to another vivid memory: once sprawled on the ground, my pup showed no inclination to move when I advised her, “Okay girl, time to go.” Instead she closed her eyes as if to nap.

Here I’ll pull more details from my diary: “Feeling sorry for my worn-out puppy, I pick her up and carry her a while, finally putting her back down on an uphill section of trail. She moves slowly but steadily for a while, then again poops out. So I carry her again. But she is suddenly revitalized when we meet a group of dogs (an encounter I’d forgotten). At some point, several dogs begin romping and running and chasing each other across the tundra, Denali included. You’d never guess she injured a leg!”

Not long after the frolicking ended, Denali “crashed” once more and showed no desire to continue. I again picked up my “exhausted, beat puppy” and carried her down most of the last, long slope to the trailhead.

No question, she’d pushed herself too far, too hard. But as a friend commented later, it was my responsibility to make sure she didn’t overdo it. I should have put her back on leash once it was clear she couldn’t resist “giving chase” when opportunities presented themselves, even in her tired, aching condition.

Back home I gave her “rimadyl for puppies” (a pain and anti-inflammatory medicine). “She still has a great appetite and gobbles up her dinner,” I wrote that night. Finishing my journal entry I noted, “It’s now nearly 9:30 and she has spent most of the evening asleep. Hoping the leg strain/pull is nothing serious.“

To my great relief, the injury did turn out to be minor. A few days of R&R and she was back to her usual energetic, rascally, fully fit self and within a week we headed back into the hills east of Anchorage.

Nine summers later, I’ve been thinking about that first ascent of McHugh Peak with Denali because of a recent experience that was strikingly similar in some ways. At times it felt, as NY Yankee great Yogi Berra might say, like “Déjà vu all over again.”

One key difference, of course, is that Denali is now an old-timer, like her human companion. At 10, she still has the enthusiasm of a puppy, but not the stamina. And her body has many miles on it.

We have to pace ourselves more now—which means I have to be even more certain that my aging “pup” doesn’t push things too hard. That in turn means fewer trips into the mountains and, as a rule, shorter outings. But now and then we still get up high on favorite peaks and McHugh recently seemed doable after several days of shorter, less strenuous walks.

This time we were joined by Jan and her dog, Guido, another rascally sort.

We hadn’t climbed McHugh in months and were drawn there by a sunny, blue-sky August day, breaking a long string of gray, wet ones. It was a perfect day to get up into the Chugach Front Range, with temperatures ranging from the fifties into the sixties, and only a light breeze moving through the mountains.

Moving at a steady pace, we reached McHugh’s summit ridge in good shape.

Denali roamed across the landscape, as she still tends to do, but not nearly as far. And she largely seemed to ignore the calls of ground squirrels, or at least didn’t charge back-and-forth across the tundra. It was almost as if she were pacing herself.

After a rest and picnic break, Jan and I decided to follow the summit ridge to the east. That meant side-hilling across boulder-strewn slopes and a loss of elevation, followed by more uphill climbing. The glorious view made the extra effort worthwhile and everyone—dogs and humans—still seemed to be doing well.

Then, on a downhill stretch through grassy meadows, a squirrel squeaked—and Denali and Guido went racing toward it, my dog running harder than I’d seen all day, perhaps pushed along by Guido’s equally enthusiastic pursuit.

Not long after, Denali showed the first signs of what I call a “hitch” in her stride. Not exactly a limp, but no longer did her body move in a fluid way, suggesting she’d hurt herself, if only slightly.

She also began to slow down.

Images of our 2013 descent flashed through my mind. I hoped I wouldn’t have to carry her; only 28 pounds as a 1-year-old pup, she now weighs 40 pounds or so. And I’m not as strong as I used to be.

A short time later, another squirrel chattered. And the two danged dogs again charged across the tundra. Not far, but far enough for Denali to show a more pronounced limp afterward. I yelled at her but really was more miffed at myself for not putting her on leash. When I did so then, Denali dragged behind me as if reluctant to move at my pace.

After a while I took her off leash because she seemed more willing to proceed on her own terms. She can be a stubborn gal.

When our path took us near a hemlock bush, Denali headed toward it. Noticeably panting, she lowered her body into its shade and placed her head on the tundra. The message was clear: she needed to rest.

I went to Denali’s side, squatted beside her and offered some words of encouragement while stroking her fur. I also offered water, but she refused to drink. Looking up, I then shouted to Jan, “We need to stop a while.”

I worried that Denali might not be able to continue on her own, feared that she might collapse if pushed too hard, realized I might have to carry her a ways after all.

After sitting beside her for several minutes, I decided to see if she was willing to move or needed more time. I stood and took a few steps down the trail, then turned to her and asked, “Ready to go?”

Denali hesitated as if considering her options, then stood and began walking again, slowly but steadily, with what seemed to me a stronger, more determined stride. She still had a hitch, but not as pronounced.

We took our time and as we moved closer to the trailhead and the car, Denali seemed get her “second wind” and she picked up her pace, perhaps because she knew we’d soon be done, and the sooner the better.

Once at the car, she jumped into the back—I’d been thinking I’d have to lift her—and then dozed on the drive home. She got a Rimadyl with her meal, which she gobbled down, and she slept most of the evening.

The next day Denali seemed to have largely recovered from the hill climb, though she seemed a bit “low energy” and had a barely noticeable hitch in her stride when we took an easy walk along the Coastal Trail.

I’ve been thinking about McHugh Peak in the days since then. I can’t say for sure we’ll reach the mountain’s summit ridge on future hill climbs, though I’d bet we do. But of one thing I’m sure: Denali and I will continue walking McHugh’s slopes as long as we are able, we love that mountain too much to stay away.

Anchorage nature writer Bill Sherwonit is a widely published essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including “Living with Wildness: An Alaskan Odyssey” and “Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaska’s Wildlife.” Readers wishing to send comments or questions directly to Bill may do so at akgriz@hotmail.com.