In praise of two impressive hill-climbing companions

One dog is 10½ years old, clearly past her athletic prime and prone to stiff joints and occasional muscle strains when she forgets her age and behaves like the frolicking, high-energy puppy she was when we first started roaming the hills east of Anchorage. The other is a small, late middle-aged dog who’s more rotund than svelte, and gets around on stubby legs.

Yet for all of their limitations, both Denali and Guido remain impressive hill-climbing canines who seem to love getting high into the mountains whatever the season, whatever the weather.

I should know. We three—often accompanied by Guido’s “mom” and my sweetheart, Jan—continue to regularly explore high ridges in the Chugach Front Range throughout the year.

I was reminded yet again of the two dogs’ enthusiasm, toughness, and just plain grit on a recent November ascent of 4,308-foot McHugh Peak, a prominent Front Range mountain.

The three of us started at the ridiculously tiny parking lot that’s a designated Chugach State Park access point in the upper reaches of Bear Valley (that minuscule parking area a story in itself) and gradually worked our way uphill to the roughly north-south spine (what some call McHugh’s northwest shoulder) that’s my favorite route to reach the peak’s summit ridge.

Though it offers dramatic, sweeping views along the entirety of its length, the undulating spine is frequently blasted by winds.

On that particular day, we were greeted by a gentle breeze while ascending the initial thousand-foot-high slope that leads to the N-S ridge, with some parts of the hillside scoured to bare ground by recent winds, other areas deeply drifted with soft, sugary snow, a post-holing challenge for both human and dogs, especially Guido with his little legs.

In the distance, however, I saw what looked to be faint sunlit clouds around the tops of North and South Yuyanq’ Ch’ex (or “Heaven’s Breath”), possibly—likely—plumes of snow being blown off the peaks by high winds.

Upon topping out on the spine, we got the first hints of the fierce winds that would accompany us for most of our remaining stay on McHugh. Buffeted by those initial gusts, I wasn’t sure how far we’d go, but decided to give it a try. The one thing in our favor was that the air was warm, with temperatures in the low 30s to start and later rising into the mid- or even upper 30s.

The dogs too initially looked unsure. But once I shouted, “Okay, let’s go!” Denali surged ahead.

Guido meanwhile was content to stay beside me, as he usually does, in the hope that by staying close he’s more likely to get tossed an occasional biscuit treat. I’ve come to believe that snacks are one of Guido’s primary hill-climbing motivations. Walking beside me, he may also use my body as something of a windshield.

We slowly worked our way along the ridge, which we had all to ourselves except for a few rock ptarmigans, occasional ravens who’d fly in to check us out, and, remarkably, a spider crawling slowly across the snow.

In places the terrain largely blocked the southwest winds, elsewhere we walked straight into the windstorm, the gusts increasing in their intensity as we moved higher.

Now and then when the wind eased, Guido would run ahead and join Denali, the two of them romping together. At times they chased each other with such enthusiasm I shouted, “Slow down, take it easy,” worried Denali would push herself too hard.

The last mile was the hardest. Besides the roaring winds, the soft snow had grown moist with the warming temperatures. Besides being punchy, it was now sticking to the dog’s fur, especially Denali’s fine outer hair, and forming “snowballs,” some of them reaching baseball size along her back legs and underbelly. Every so often we’d stop and I’d remove the snowballs. She didn’t like me pulling on her fur—I tried to be gentle—but eventually decided that my removal of the balls was better than lugging them around.

We made our way up the final rubbly slope, trying to stay on the wind-scoured ground but inevitably having to cross soft, wet, snow-drifted areas. A workout, for sure. We reached the summit ridge—some three miles and more than 2,000 feet elevation gain from the trailhead—in about 2½ hours, a pretty darn good time considering the conditions.

We didn’t stay on top for long, given the winds, but found a largely protected spot for a brief “picnic” (hot tea and chocolate croissant for me, chew sticks for the dogs, and a shared peanut butter and huckleberry jam sandwich for us all), then headed down.

The wind was now largely at our backs, but the snow continued to soften and ball up on the dogs’ long outer hairs, requiring periodic “repairs.” The wind gradually eased during our descent and there were times when the air was calm and warm enough that I simply stood and soaked in the beauty of the bright, blue-sky day and glorious surroundings. For much of the descent I removed outer layers, wool hat, and mittens, it was that pleasant.

The dogs waited patiently during my celebratory stops, which usually meant another treat.

About halfway down the mountain we finally spotted some other people, still a considerable distance down the spine, the first we’d seen in 3½ hours on McHugh. To have the mountain to ourselves for so much of the climb was another of the day’s delights for me and deepened my appreciation of Denali and Guido’s good and faithful company.

Though I’ve encountered harsher conditions on McHugh, I don’t believe I’ve ever reached the summit ridge in such challenging circumstances. Both dogs easily kept pace with me the entire way; in fact (as suggested above), they frequently outpaced me and had to wait for their 70-something human companion to catch up. Denali in particular roamed the flanks of the mountain, but never strayed too far and always returned to check on my progress. And each dog reached the summit ridge far ahead of me, even Guido with his tiny steps.

There’s no question we were all “pooped out” by the time we reached the car. But it was the sort of exhaustion that’s accompanied by the contentment of completing a difficult yet satisfying challenge. And, for the dogs, the knowledge that dinner was now only a short drive away.

One dog is 10½ years old, clearly past her athletic prime and prone to stiff joints and occasional muscle strains when she forgets her age and behaves like the frolicking,high-energy puppy she was when we first started roaming the hills east of Anchorage. The other is a small, late middle-aged dog who’s more rotund than svelte, and gets around on stubby legs. Yet for all of their limitations, both Denali and Guido remain impressive hill-climbing canines who seem to love getting high into the mountains whatever the season,whatever the weather. I should know. We three—often accompanied by Guido’s “mom” and my sweetheart, Jan—continue to regularly explore high ridges in the Chugach Front Range throughout the year. I was reminded yet again of the two dogs’ enthusiasm, toughness, and just plain grit on a recent November ascent of 4,308-foot McHugh Peak, a prominent Front Range mountain. The three of us started at the ridiculously tiny parking lot that’s a designated Chugach State Park access point in the upper reaches of Bear Valley (that miniscule parking area a story in itself) and gradually worked our way uphill to the roughly north-south spine (what some call McHugh’s northwest shoulder) that’s my favorite route to reach the peak’s summit ridge. Though it offers dramatic, sweeping views along the entirety of its length, the undulating spine is frequently blasted by winds. On that particular day we were greeted by a gentle breeze while ascending the initial thousand-foot-high slope that leads to the N-S ridge, with some parts of the hillside scoured to bare ground by recent winds, other areas deeply drifted with soft, sugary snow, a post-holing challenge for both human and dogs, especially Guido with his little legs. In the distance, however, I saw what looked to be faint sunlit clouds around the tops of North and South Yuyanq’ Ch’ex (or “Heaven’s Breath”), possibly—likely—plumes of snow being blown off the peaks by high winds. Upon topping out on the spine, we got the first hints of the fierce winds that would accompany us for most of our remaining stay on McHugh. Buffeted by those initial gusts,I wasn’t sure how far we’d go, but decided to give it a try. The one thing in our favor was that the air was warm, with temperatures in the low 30s to start and later rising into the mid- or even upper 30s.The dogs too initially looked unsure. But once I shouted, “Okay, let’s go!” Denali surged ahead. Guido meanwhile was content to stay beside me, as he usually does, in the hope that staying close he’s more likely to get tossed an occasional biscuit treat. I’ve come to believe that snacks are one of Guido’s primary hill-climbing motivations. Walking beside me, he may also use my body as something of a windshield. We slowly worked our way along the ridge, which we had all to ourselves except for a few rock ptarmigan, occasional ravens who’d fly in to check us out and, remarkably,a spider crawling slowly across the snow. In places the terrain largely blocked the southwest winds, elsewhere we walked straight into the windstorm, the gusts increasing in their intensity as we moved higher. Now and then when the wind eased, Guido would run ahead and join Denali, the two of them romping together. At times they chased each other with such enthusiasm I shouted, “Slow down, take it easy,” worried Denali would push herself too hard.

The last mile was the hardest. Besides the roaring winds, the soft snow had grown moist with the warming temperatures. Besides being punchy, it was now sticking to the dog’s fur, especially Denali’s fine outer hair, and forming “snowballs,” some of them reaching baseball size along her back legs and underbelly. Every so often we’d stop and I’d remove the snowballs. She didn’t like me pulling on her fur—I tried to be gentle—but eventually decided that my removal of the balls was better than lugging them around. We made our way up the final rubbly slope, trying to stay on wind-scoured ground but inevitably having to cross soft, wet, snow-drifted areas. A workout, for sure. We reached the summit ridge—some three miles and more than 2,000 feet elevation gain from the trailhead—in about 2½ hours, a pretty darn good time considering the conditions. We didn’t stay on top for long, given the winds, but found a largely protected spot for a brief “picnic” (hot tea and chocolate croissant for me, chew sticks for the dogs, and a shared peanut butter and huckleberry jam sandwich for us all), then headed down. The wind was now largely at our backs, but the snow continued to soften and ball up on the dogs’ long outer hairs, requiring periodic “repairs.” The wind gradually eased during our descent and there were times when the air was calm and warm enough that I simply stood and soaked in the beauty of the bright, blue-sky day and glorious surroundings. For much of the descent I removed outer layers, wool hat, and mittens, it was that pleasant. The dogs waited patiently during my celebratory stops, which usually meant another treat. About halfway down the mountain we finally spotted some other people, still a considerable distance down the spine, the first we’d seen in 3½ hours on McHugh. To have the mountain to ourselves for so much of the climb was another of the day’s delights for me and deepened my appreciation of Denali and Guido’s good and faithful company. Though I’ve encountered harsher conditions on McHugh, I don’t believe I’ve ever reached the summit ridge in such challenging circumstances. Both dogs easily kept pace with me the entire way; in fact (as suggested above), they frequently outpaced me and had to wait for their 70-something human companion to catch up. Denali in particular roamed the flanks of the mountain, but never strayed too far and always returned to check on my progress. And each dog reached the summit ridge far ahead of me, even Guido with his tiny steps. There’s no question we were all “pooped out” by the time we reached the car. But it was the sort of exhaustion that’s accompanied by the contentment of completing a difficult yet satisfying challenge. And, for the dogs, the knowledge that dinner was now only a short drive away.

Anchorage nature writer and wildlife/wildlands advocate Bill Sherwonit is a widelypublished essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including “AnimalStories: Encounters with Alaska’s Wildlife ” and “Living with Wildness: An AlaskanOdyssey.” Readers wishing to send comments or questions directly to Bill may do so atakgriz@hotmail.com.